Sticky Beak by Morris Gleitzman

common.
    Dad still didn’t say anything.
    For a moment I thought he was pausing for effect like he usually does before announcing a big surprise, but he wasn’t.
    When he finally spoke it wasn’t ‘We’re having the baby adopted’, it was ‘Tonto, are you awake?’
    I didn’t move.
    He went out.
    In the old days, before his head was full of new ways to fold nappies, he’d have asked at least twice.
    Then Ms Dunning came in.
    I knew it was her because when she sat down the bed springs sagged violently. They’re fine with one person on them but not three.
    I kept my head under the pillow.
    She didn’t ask if I was awake, but that was probably because she’s a teacher. Teachers always assume you’ll be awake once they start talking.
    â€˜Ro,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Dad wasn’t sure if you should know this, but I think you should.’
    She paused.
    I held my breath.
    Teachers must do training in how to grab your attention without using loud music or explosive devices.
    â€˜But first, Ro,’ Ms Dunning said, ‘we’re not trying to replace you. We’d never do that.’
    I stuck my hands out from under the sheet and made the sign me and Dad invented for a defective apple.
    Ms Dunning put her hands over mine.
    â€˜You’re not defective,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a speech problem you handle like a champ and if the baby’s born with a similar speech problem I know it’ll handle it like a champ too.’
    That got me out from under the pillow.
    I rolled over and stared at Ms Dunning.
    A similar speech problem?
    The baby?
    For a sec I thought Ms Dunning was having another vague spell and had got her words mixed up, but then I saw from the expression on her face that she hadn’t.
    â€˜It’s possible,’ she said. ‘The doctors have never told you this, but they reckon they know why you were born mute.’
    I stared at her even harder.
    I’d asked the doctors that a million times and each time they’d said I was a Medical Mystery and given me a lolly.
    â€˜They reckon,’ continued Ms Dunning, ‘it’s because of some genetic problem that’s been in either your dad’s family or your mum’s family for generations. They don’t know which.’
    My brain was going like a GT Falcon with twin injectors.
    If it was Dad’s that would explain why he’d never told me.
    If I was him I’d be too embarrassed to yak on about something like that as well.
    â€˜If it’s a problem on Dad’s side,’ Ms Dunning went on, ‘then the baby could be born mute too.’
    We looked at each other for a while.
    I didn’t know what to say.
    Ms Dunning looked pretty sad.
    She leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We decided to tell you because we want you to feel better,’ she murmured. Then she went out.
    I’ve been lying here for a long time, staring into the darkness.
    I’ve been thinking how, if the baby’s born mute, I can help it.
    Teach it sign language.
    Show it how to write really fast so it can get its order in to the school tuck shop before all the devon and chutney sandwiches are gone.
    Demonstrate what you have to do with your nose when you’re cheering your best friend up with a look.
    I’ve also been thinking what great parents I’ve got.
    Well, good parents.
    Well, their hearts are in the right place.
    Even though I brandished a Jelly Custard Surprise at them in the kitchen and my pet cocky murdered all their sleepy bunnies, they still want me to feel better.
    I know I should feel better, but I don’t.
    Because even dads with hearts in the right place are only human.
    And if that baby talks, what chance have I got?

 
    It’s a funny thing, the human brain.
    I don’t mean to look at, though I saw one in a jar once in a museum and it did look a bit weird, like scrambled eggs