Chapter 1

The new science project

 

 

Gordon Jones is a weirdo and a retard. You name it, and he’s it. He’s also supposed to be a brain. He’s also my twin brother.

Fortunately, we are in different classes, otherwise I would be into twinacide.

“Guess what!” My best friend Barbie said one Monday after school.

She’s in Gordon’s class and can’t wait to tell me what is going on all the time.

“I don’t want to know.”

“He’s got this new science project going, and old Nutcase is egging him on.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“He’s going to do his science project on plant intelligence. He’s got this weird cactus.”

“Yeah. He got it at the church fete for twenty cents. It looks just like him.”

Gordon has bright pink cheeks, soft limp hair that flops over his face like Cousin It and horn-rimmed glasses.  The cactus was bright pink, with soft floppy fuzz all over it and miniature horn-rimmed glasses across the top.  It looked exactly like Gordon.

“He said he’d been reading this book about how plants can think and have feelings, and he is going to prove the cactus is sensitive, sentient and able to reason, for his project,” Barbie explained.

So that’s how it all started…

 

 

That evening, I was tucked away quietly in my bedroom doing homework.  Gordon burst in and pulled the plug on my tape deck.

“Out of my bedroom,” I screamed as I shoved the plug back in.

“My Fred finds rock music upsetting,” he yelled back as he flicked off the switch.

“Who’s Fred?”

“My cactus!”

I picked up my heaviest textbook and thumped him on the head.

“Dad,” he yelled. “Jenny is stuffing up my science project through pure meanness.”

Dad stuck his head in the door.  Gordon came out with this garbage about his cactus Fred only liking classical music and the thudding of The Wee Wonders all over the house was upsetting him.

“I’ve got Fred all wired up to the meter and I can tell he hates that noise,” he finished.

“Um,” said Dad.  “Jenny, everyone has to make a few sacrifices for the sake of a controlled scientific experiment and science.  Beethoven, Brahms and Bach are requested listening for the next four weeks.  Use your earplugs.”

“I can’t concentrate on thinking unless music vibrates properly,” I explained.  “It’ll be your fault if I flunk. I hate Brahms, Beethoven and Bach. Why is it me that has to make sacrifices?”

Beethoven, Bach and Brahms flooded relentlessly through the house night after night.  One afternoon I got home first. I put on the Wee Wonders full blast and relaxed at the kitchen table with milk and chocolate cake.

Gordon stomped in and switched off The Wee Wonders.  He was carrying his cactus and glaring at me.

“If you weren’t my sister I’d be able to get somewhere,” he spat.  “You’ve upset poor Fred again.”

“And being your sister is enough temptation to leave home,” I yelled.  “Don’t you reckon anyone is entitled to have any rights about this dump except you?”

“Fred’s upset,” Gordon repeated. “Have a look.”

I had a look.  Under the soft hair-like covering the cactus had deepened to dark purple.  I watched the colour fade back to its normal pink, even as Gordon’s high colour faded.

“How do you know it isn’t because he’s pleased?  He might love the Wee Wonders?”

“He brightens when he’s pleased, and darkens when he’s cross and unhappy.  Also, those raised bumps grow spines.  He hates The Wee Wonders.”

I studied the cactus closer, and saw tiny spines retracting back into the raised lumps.  For a few seconds I suddenly understood Gordon’s fascination with his weird project.  Just then, Mum’s car turned into the driveway. I fled to homework and more important concerns.

So from then on Gordon took Fred to school every day.  This was another embarrassment. All the other kids referred to the cactus as Fred Junior or Gordon’s baby bear.  Gordon ignored their taunts and jeers like he usually does and carried the pot plant everywhere.

“Why don’t you leave the glasses off your cactus?” I suggested one day.  “The plant wouldn’t look so stupid or attract so much unfavourable attention without the silly glasses.  Plants don’t have eyes.”

“They have sensory organs,” Gordon defended.  “Anyway, Fred likes the glasses.”

“Garbage.”

“It’s not garbage.  I tested Fred’s likes and dislikes on the meter.  He loves wearing glasses.”

“More garbage.”

“Mr. Nuisake doesn’t think it’s garbage.”

“He’s a nutcake,” I jeered.

Every night I listened to the low murmur of Gordon’s voice.  He talked to the cactus, hour after hour until he drifted off to sleep.   Dad and Mum seemed to think it was all quite normal, having a son talking to his pot plant.

I was starting to worry.