Space Oddity Page 2

  I suppose I can’t really blame my dad for an allergic reaction, but ever since then he always seems to find a new way to embarrass me.

  Like on school sports day, when he took part in the dad’s sack race and got himself disqualified for cheating. As soon as the whistle went to start the race, Dad started bouncing – his bounding leaps taking him the length of the track in six seconds flat, whilst the rest of the dads were still tangled up in their sacks near the start line. Dad bounced so far he actually ended up in the school car park, but by the time he got back to the field our head teacher had given first prize to Amba’s dad instead. Mr Ronson reckoned my dad must’ve been hiding a pogo stick inside his sack to be able to jump like that and told him he should be ashamed of himself for cheating in front of the children. After that, I made sure I came last in the obstacle race. I didn’t want anyone to think I was a cheat as well.

  Then there was the time Dad joined the PTA and was put in charge of sorting out the toy stall for the summer fete. There was a huge pile of donations in the school hall and Dad was supposed to go through these to get rid of any broken toys and games. However, when I turned up with the rest of the Key Stage Two volunteers to bring out the trestle tables, we discovered my dad had spent the whole morning building a giant spaceship out of Lego.

  It looked like some kind of intergalactic Kinder Surprise, the dome of the egg-shaped spaceship more than two metres tall. There must’ve been a million Lego bricks in that thing. I don’t even know where Dad got them all from, let alone how he had time to build it in the time it took for the bouncy castle to inflate.

  At first my friends were really impressed, but when Dad tried to move his model spaceship outside, it started to roll out of control, taking out the soft drinks stall, the chocolate tombola and the second-hand uniform stand, before it bounced off the bouncy castle and exploded in a shower of Lego bricks. The St John Ambulance treated six teachers for minor injuries and then everyone blamed me when the summer fete was cancelled.

  I thought this school concert was my chance to put all the teasing behind me at last. I never felt like I fitted in, but since I started at Gym Stars at least I feel like I’m good at something. I remember the ‘ooohhs’ and ‘aaahhs’ from the audience as I raced through my routine, every twist, roll and somersault I made a perfect ten.

  Then Dad had to jump on stage and ruin it all again.

  I WANT A DIVORCE

  I look down at my plate and see the message spelt out in lines of Alphabetti spaghetti across the toast.

  JAKE

  I AM SORRY

  ABOUT THE SCHOOL CONCERT

  CAN YOU FORGIVE ME

  DAD

  This isn’t lunch – it’s a letter of apology.

  Dad sits down next to Mum at the kitchen table, his blue-green eyes glancing hopefully in my direction as he waits for my reply. When I say my dad has got blue-green eyes, that’s exactly what I mean. His left eye is blue and his right eye is green. Just another thing that makes kids stop and stare and tell me my dad is seriously weird.

  ‘Yum,’ says Mum, picking up her knife and fork. ‘My favourite. Again.’

  She’s joking, but I don’t feel like laughing. And I don’t feel like eating lunch any more either.

  Getting up from the table, I push the plate away. ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say as I turn towards the door.

  ‘Jake—’ Dad begins, but I’ve slammed the door behind me before he can say another word.

  I race up the stairs to my room, two steps at a time. I’m not talking to Dad. I haven’t said a word to him since the school concert. My bedroom door is wide open so I slam this behind me too, letting the sound of my anger thud through the house.

  I don’t want to let this feeling go. The anger is like an energy inside me, but as I flop down on to my bed I just feel so tired of it all.

  I remember the chants echoing round the hall, Dad waving in triumph to the audience whilst I was left dumped on my backside, sitting there forgotten on the floor.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  I ignore it.

  I’m still not talking to him.

  Then the handle turns and Mum pops her head round the door.

  ‘Jake,’ she says. ‘Are you OK?’

  Sitting up on my bed, I shake my head.

  ‘I want a divorce,’ I tell her.

  Mum laughs. ‘What do you mean?’ she asks. ‘Jake, you’re only ten years old. You’ve not even got a girlfriend yet, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  I blush. I haven’t got a girlfriend. Well, I have got a friend who’s a girl – Amba – but that’s totally different and anyway that’s not what I meant.

  ‘I want a divorce from Dad,’ I explain. ‘I looked it up on the internet. It’s a thing you can do. Divorce your parents. But I don’t mean you. Just Dad.’

  Mum’s stopped laughing now. Quietly closing the door behind her, she sits down next to me on the bed. Brushing her dark fringe out of her eyes, Mum peers at me in concern.

  ‘Surely things can’t be that bad.’

  I look at Mum in disbelief.

  ‘Dad jumped on stage with a bin on his head and ruined my school concert. Everything he does is completely embarrassing and we’re still eating Alphabetti spaghetti every day of the week.’ I feel the anger inside me start to fizz again. ‘How can you say things aren’t that bad?’

  Mum frowns, a worried look creasing the lines around her eyes. Her mouth opens then closes then opens again. It looks like she’s about to say something, but can’t seem to find the right words.

  ‘Your dad’s different, Jake,’ she says finally. ‘Yes, some of the things he does can seem a little odd, but he’s got good hearts – I mean, heart. Just one.’

  I look at Mum suspiciously. She’s supposed to be the normal parent, but sometimes she sounds almost as strange as Dad.

  ‘He knows he let you down last night,’ Mum continues. ‘He just got a bit overexcited when he saw you dressed up like Luke Skywalker. It reminded him of all those games you used to play together when you were younger. I used to watch the two of you in the back garden, fighting for hours with those toy lightsabers. Your dad just thought it would be fun to join in again. He didn’t realize you’d be so angry with him.’

  I want to stay angry at Dad, but as I close my eyes for a second the good memories come flooding back. I remember how we used to curl up on the sofa together with a bucket of popcorn for our Star Wars movie marathons. Then when the film ended we’d race out into the back garden for a lightsaber duel, Dad laughing as he tried to show me some Jedi Knight moves. And when it got dark we’d sit on the back step together, chatting as we stared at the stars. That’s when Dad told me that one day he’d take me to a galaxy far, far away. He was joking, of course, but back then I used to think my dad could do anything.

  Mum puts her arm around my shoulders as I open my eyes again.

  ‘Give him the chance to show you that he’s sorry, Jake,’ she says, giving me a gentle hug. ‘That’s all your dad wants – the chance to make it up to you.’

  I don’t know what to say, so in the end I just nod my head.

  ‘That’s great,’ Mum says with a smile. ‘I know some father-son bonding time will do the trick. And I’ve thought of the perfect trip.’

  Uh-oh.

  ARE WE THERE YET?

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  ‘Dad, you’re the one who’s driving!’ I finally snap, driven mad by his latest lame attempt to make me laugh. ‘I don’t even know where we’re going.’

  As the window wipers swish, I slump down in my car seat, unable to believe that I ever agreed to this trip in the first place. Mum said this weekend away would give me and Dad the perfect chance to reconnect, but when I tried to find out where we were going she told me it was a big surprise.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mu
m said when she saw the worried look on my face. ‘You’re going to love it, Jake.’

  So when we set off in the car this morning I kept my eyes fixed on the road signs to try and pick up some clues about our final destination. Maybe Dad was taking me to the theme park at the Pleasure Beach or perhaps he’d got us tickets for the big match. But when we turned off the main road to drive down this bumpy track through the trees, I started to get a bad feeling about this whole trip.

  THUMP!

  ‘Sorry,’ Dad says, gripping the steering wheel tightly as the car bounces forward again. ‘You used to think that joke was funny, Jake. But we are nearly there. Look!’

  Up ahead, there’s a brown sign pointing left with a picture of a tree and a tent.

  THE GETAWAY EXPERIENCE

  MIDDLEWICH FOREST

  ACRES OF SPACE TO EXPLORE

  ‘This is it!’ Dad says as he swings the car left. ‘What do you think?’

  Parking up, Dad jumps out of the car and I have to follow him, shaking my head in horror at what I can see.

  Surrounded by trees, I can see a massive field. But it’s what’s in this field that fills me with dread. I can see tents – tents of all shapes and sizes. Dome tents, cone-shaped tents, safari tents and tepees. There’s even a huge tent that looks a flying saucer, slap bang in the middle of the field, its green canvas roof festooned with fairy lights.

  ‘It’s a campsite,’ I say.

  And I hate camping.

  ‘No,’ Dad says as my gaze roams across the field, looking for a way out. ‘This isn’t a campsite – this is a luxurious escape from the stresses of modern-day life. A place to build dens, climb trees and cook on a campfire under the stars. And from abseiling to zorbing, there’s an A to Z of adventure to be found at the Getaway Experience.’

  I glance across at him suspiciously. ‘Are you reading this off a leaflet?’

  ‘No,’ Dad says, quickly tucking his hands behind his back.

  Raising an eyebrow, I hold my hand out. ‘Let me see.’

  Reluctantly, like he’s been caught cheating, Dad pulls a leaflet out from behind his back.

  ‘OK, maybe I was a little,’ he admits. ‘But take a look, Jake. This place sounds amazing.’

  Located in the beautiful woodland of Middlewich Forest, the Getaway Experience puts the ‘glam’ into camping! Our stylish tents and lodges provide a cosy home from home with luxurious beds, log burners, en-suite bathrooms and free Wi-Fi.

  I glance up from the leaflet, now seeing the tents in a new light as the sun finally comes out. Maybe Dad’s right. If it’s got free Wi-Fi, this place might be OK after all.

  ‘So which is our tent then?’ I ask as Dad lifts the car boot open. ‘I hope I get my own room.’

  ‘Erm, not exactly,’ Dad replies as he rummages around in the boot. ‘I’m afraid all the on-site tents and caravans were fully booked, but I’ve pulled a few strings and managed to find a place we can stay.’

  He pulls a black canvas bag out of the boot. It’s flat and round and I can see the words POP-UP TENT written on the side. Dad grins as he tosses this to me.

  ‘This is going to be so much more fun.’

  WORST TRIP EVER

  ‘Tent assemble!’

  I’m standing in the pouring rain, listening to the sound of Dad arguing with the tent pegs. The bright yellow fabric of the flysheet flaps in the wind – our only chance of staying dry tonight is in danger of flying away.

  Dad always does this when things don’t work – starts talking at stuff like he thinks it’s going to listen to him. The instructions said this pop-up tent would only take two seconds to assemble. Open bag, unpack and watch your smart tent spring to life! But whoever wrote the instructions hadn’t met my dad. When he tipped the bag open, the tent just seemed to fall to pieces and Dad’s spent the last ten minutes shouting at the bits. I don’t think he realizes this smart tent isn’t voice-activated.

  ‘It’s no use,’ Dad says, scrambling to hold on to the canvas. ‘It looks like we’re going to have to assemble this ourselves. Grab hold of that pole, Jake.’

  I look down at the tangle of poles, ropes and pegs scattered on the ground.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That one,’ Dad says, letting go of the flysheet for a moment to point down at one of the poles.

  Bad idea.

  In an instant, the bright yellow canvas is whipped away by the wind.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ I shout, scrambling to grab hold of the flysheet as it flaps just out of reach. Behind me, I hear Dad groan in despair.

  We started to pitch our tent at the very edge of the field, out of sight of all the fancy tents and caravans. But as the wind gusts again, its bright yellow fabric is whirled away into the trees. I chase after it, dodging past branches as I dive into the woods.

  ‘Wait for me!’ Dad shouts.

  For a second, the flysheet snags on a tree branch, but as I reach out to grab it the wind whips the tent away again. It soars upwards and onwards, out of sight, and my heart sinks into my squelching trainers.

  I trudge on through the gloom of the forest. Trees, trees and more boring trees – this is turning into the worst trip ever. At least it isn’t raining any more under the cover of the leaves and maybe, if the tent’s gone missing, we can just get back in the car and go home.

  Then I spot a flash of yellow in a gap through the trees. Hurrying forward, the trees start to open out and I see the flysheet in the middle of a clearing. The wind’s died down now, leaving the bright yellow canvas draped in a tent-like shape. At first I think that the tent must have popped itself up at last, but as the canvas gently flaps I catch a glimpse of something metallic underneath. It looks like it’s caught on something.

  Reaching the centre of the clearing, I pull back the flysheet and then gasp in surprise as I see what’s underneath.

  It’s a UFO.

  A flying saucer.

  Actually, it looks more like an intergalactic iron – the black metallic form of the spaceship curving in a triangular shape. And where the handle should be, there’s a dome-like cockpit instead, made out of the same impenetrable black metal.

  Then I see the notice fixed to the side of this spaceship and breathe out a sigh of relief.

  PLEASE DO NOT CLIMB, SIT ON OR DEFACE THE UFO SCULPTURE. THIS IS A WORK OF ART.

  FOLLOW THE FLYING SAUCER TRAIL TO FIND OUT MORE.

  Still holding the bright yellow flysheet, I take a step back, trying to work out why anyone has left a sculpture of a flying saucer in the middle of the woods. Looking around I spot a post with an arrow pointing the way to the trail but, before I can investigate this, I hear the sound of my dad calling from the trees.

  ‘Jake!’

  I turn round to see him enter the clearing. With a shocked expression on his face, Dad looks from the flysheet to the flying saucer and then back again. Beneath the shade of the leaves, it almost looks like he’s turning green . . .

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I quickly say, worried that he’s about to be sick. ‘It’s just a sculpture – not some kind of alien invader.’

  ‘I knew that,’ Dad replies defensively, the green tinge slowly fading from his cheeks. ‘I was just a bit surprised, that’s all. Not that there’s anything wrong with an alien invader . . .’

  Dad’s voice trails into silence as he stares at the sculpture, his blue-green gaze glinting with a faraway look. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else, but then the eerie sound of a siren suddenly echoes through the trees.

  ‘Come on,’ Dad says with a shake of his head, grabbing hold of the flysheet and motioning for me to follow him. ‘It’s starting.’

  WELCOME, DADVENTURERS!

  On the bright side, the sound of the siren wasn’t announcing a visit from the intergalactic emergency services.

  It’s much, much worse than that.

  ‘Welcome, Dadventurers!’

  Brandishing the crimson-red klaxon that has brought us all here, the outdoor instructor gr
eets us with a fresh-faced smile.

  ‘And welcome, Kidsplorers too. My name’s Flip Foxley and I’m here to show you the ropes on this Dads and Kids’ Adventure Weekend.’

  Sitting down next to my dad, I sneak a look at the rest of the campers now gathered on the wooden benches under the roof of this giant tent. When Mum said we’d get some father-son bonding time on this trip, I didn’t think it was going to be with a load of other dads and kids too. There are tall dads, short dads, bald dads and bearded dads, each one sitting in a pair with their own ‘kidsplorer’. I recognize some of my friends from school, Amba giving me a sneaky wave whilst her dad’s gaze stays fixed on his mobile phone. Damon’s here too, his dad nudging him to attention as Flip Foxley continues to speak.

  ‘Now, modern life can be filled with distractions: smartphones, games consoles, TV box sets and viral videos,’ Flip says, his confident manner daring anyone to disagree. ‘But here at the Getaway Experience, you’ll put all these distractions to one side and focus instead on making memories that will last a lifetime.’

  With a click of his fingers, Flip holds out his hand for Amba’s dad’s phone.

  Mr Flixton hands this over with a grumbling apology. ‘Sorry, I was just checking my work email.’

  ‘All work and no play makes for a dull dad,’ Flip says with a cheeky grin as he pockets the mobile phone. He turns towards Amba and fires a question straight at her. ‘Do you want a dad who checks emails or climbs trees?’

  ‘Climbs trees!’ Amba grins.

  ‘And is your dad snoring boring?’ Flip asks, spinning round to face Damon. ‘Or is he brave enough to go zorbing?’

  ‘Zorbing!’ Damon shouts.

  Flip dances round the yurt, firing out his questions like a laser blaster. Build a campfire or fix the boiler? Sleep under the stars or clean the car? Every question he asks sends the excitement levels rising even higher until Flip’s standing right in front of me.