Free Sticky Beak by Morris Gleitzman Page B

I ever have before.
    Hand movements might be hard to understand sometimes, but when they’re that big and that fast everyone knows you’re shouting.
    â€˜It’s not fair!’ I yelled. ‘You’re having a baby, why can’t I have a cocky?’
    Dad opened his mouth to answer but I hadn’t finished.
    â€˜Why do you need a baby anyway?’ I shouted. ‘You’ve got me. What’s wrong with me?’
    Through my tears I saw Dad close his mouth.
    â€˜That’s why you’re having one, isn’t it?’ I yelled, banging my elbow on the fireplace. ‘It’s because there’s something wrong with me. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
    Dad and Ms Dunning were staring at me, stunned, so I thumped my fist down on the table to jolt them out of it.
    The Jelly Custard Surprise wobbled.
    I grabbed it and lifted it above my head and braced my legs to hurl it against the kitchen dresser as hard as I could.
    But I didn’t.
    Because as Dad and Ms Dunning raised their hands in front of their faces I saw two things.
    The blood on Dad’s hands was coming from several small cuts on his palms and fingers.
    And gripped in Ms Dunning’s hands were several splinters of wood with bits of sleepy bunny on them.
    Even as I pushed past Dad and Ms Dunning I knew what I’d find in the nursery. When I got in there it was even worse than I’d imagined.
    The floor was littered with splintered pieces of bashful koala.
    Torn shreds of playful dolphin were strewn over what was left of the baby’s cot.
    Frayed ribbons of friendly possum hung from the curtain rail.
    The light shade was a tattered wreck with barely a scrap of goanna left that you’d recognise as being happy-go-lucky.
    â€˜That vicious cheese-brain tore the place apart,’ shouted Dad furiously behind me, ‘I tried to grab the brute but it pecked my hands and flew off.’
    â€˜It was in a frenzy,’ said Ms Dunning.
    â€˜You’ve had it cooped up somewhere around here, haven’t you?’ demanded Dad.
    I thrust the Jelly Custard Surprise at Dad and ran out of the house.
    Dad shouted at me but as I ran down the verandah steps I heard Ms Dunning telling him to let me go.
    I didn’t care.
    All I wanted was to find Sticky.
    I went to the old shed but the cage was empty and a panel of chook-wire fencing was hanging loose. I kicked it and said some rude things in my head about people who spend so much money on baby things that they haven’t got enough left over to buy decent cocky-proof tying wire.
    Then I went looking for Sticky.
    That was hours ago.
    I’ve been all through the orchard and all round the creek and up the tree where I first found him and halfway into town.
    I couldn’t call his name of course so I had to make do with rattling some seed in his tin.
    Pretty hopeless, because anyone can rattle seed in a tin.
    Darryn Peck or Dad or Mr Cosgrove, with an apple or a gun or a noose made from a tape measure behind their back.
    No wonder I couldn’t find him.
    He’s probably migrated to Indonesia or Sulawesi or somewhere.
    So I’ve just been sitting here, in his cage, looking at the remains of the pictures I drew him.
    I really loved that cocky, even though he chewed everything up.
    I haven’t felt this lonely since Erin died. She was my best friend at the special school I used to go to and she was crook a lot but it was still a terrible shock when she died.
    I felt pretty bad then too, but at least then I had a dad who really loved me.

 
    I thought I’d managed to sneak into bed without being spotted but Dad came in.
    I kept my head under the pillow but I knew it was him because he flicks his belt buckle with his thumbnail when he’s nervous.
    Or angry.
    He stood there for ages without saying anything.
    I guessed he wasn’t angry any more. When Dad’s angry you always know about it. At least he and Sticky had one thing in