Sticky Beak by Morris Gleitzman Page A

when you don’t wash the mushroom juice out of the pan first.
    I mean the way it works.
    When I woke up this morning I decided I’d spend the day helping Dad and Ms Dunning clean up the baby’s room.
    While I was getting dressed I had the thought that if we pulled the old shed apart and sanded the wood we could probably build some pretty good baby furniture out of it.
    While I was tying my left shoe I remembered my softball bat. We could sell that and use the money to buy blue and pink paint.
    Then, while I was tying my right shoe, I forgot about all those things totally and completely.
    Because I started thinking about Darryn Peck.
    I was sitting on the bed bending over, so perhaps the blood sloshing around in my head made my brain short-circuit or something.
    Or perhaps I was just trying to take my mind off Sticky.
    Anyway once I started thinking about him I couldn’t stop.
    I thought about how Darryn and me are in the same boat.
    I thought about the poodle.
    I thought about how much easier it’d be to compete with two kilos of curly fluff and a squeaky bark than with a kid who’ll probably be singing opera by the age of three.
    I thought about how I wished I could swap places with Darryn, and what I’d do if I was in his shoes, and how he’d probably never think of doing the same because he’s not real bright.
    Then I thought about him crying and my guts felt strange and I don’t think it was because I hadn’t had any dinner.
    Dad and Ms Dunning were still asleep.
    I wrote them a note, left it on the kitchen table, grabbed a couple of cold apple fritters from the fridge and slipped out of the house.
    On my way into town I thought about how weird the human brain is.
    There I was, on what was possibly my last morning ever as a single kid, walking away from possibly my last ever morning cuddle with Dad without some noisy brat yodelling in our ears and dribbling on his shirt.
    Just to save Darryn Peck from a life of misery.
    It was still early when I reached town and the main street was almost deserted. Just a couple of shopkeepers hosing the footpath and Mr Shapiro polishing his new van.
    He called me over.
    I hesitated, wondering if he was going to hand me a bill for burnt-out dry-cleaning machines, but he smiled and beckoned.
    â€˜Good on you, love,’ he said, and gave me two dollars.
    I spent it in the newsagents on a new notepad and pen because getting through to Darryn Peck can involve a lot of writing. Particularly when he’s still ropeable about being ambushed with a camera and sprung with tears in his eyes.
    When I got to Darryn’s place I rang the bell and stood there holding up the first note.
    â€˜Don’t do anything violent,’ it said, ‘until you’ve read this note. I’m here to help you avoid a life of misery. There will be no charge for this service.’
    Darryn opened the door in his pyjamas.
    He stared at me, ignoring the note completely, and took a menacing step towards me.
    â€˜You can’t have him,’ he said.
    I took a step back, wondering what he was talking about.
    Then I heard a distant voice and I knew.
    â€˜Go suck a turnip,’ said the voice.
    I pushed past Darryn and ran through the house, past a startled Mr and Mrs Peck who were at the kitchen table shampooing the poodle.
    I burst out of the back door and there in the corner of the yard was a big cage and sitting on a branch in one corner calling me a big fat wobbly bottom was Sticky.
    Darryn ran past me and into the cage and grabbed Sticky off his perch and held him tightly.
    â€˜He’s mine,’ said Darryn fiercely.
    â€˜You dumped him,’ I scribbled on my pad, just as fiercely.
    â€˜Darryn,’ shouted his father from the back door, ‘if you’re letting that bird out keep it away from Amelia.’
    Darryn’s face sagged.
    â€˜I only dumped him for them,’ he said, nodding towards the kitchen. ‘I reckoned things