Getting through breakfast was the least of my worries today,
because as I stood there slumped against the door wondering what on earth I was
to do next, Dad bellows from downstairs, “Matty, get your gear ready mate, we
need to leave for rugby in about 15 minutes!”. Ahhhh, my rugby game, are you
serious, could this possibly be the worst timing ever! Meanwhile Missa and
Vicky are engrossed in a discussion on the interplanetary relationships between
Neptune and Pluto. She’s 5!
I’m also sure that Vicky’s growing in front of my eyes, not
only is she eloquently using language only ever heard at NASA or the Pentagon,
but her facial features are starting to change also. Mum and Dad love the
childlike chubbiness Vicky still has, whereas I’m just a gangly, awkward mess
of arms and legs. Vicky still speaks with a slight lisp, which always delights
Nanna and Pop, but drives me insane, especially when she’s standing over my
face, like last night, demanding me to rescue her from monsters under the bed,
and I feel like I’m underneath a sun shower. Maybe it’s just the light and my
hearing, maybe this crazy alien in my sister’s room has tampered with my brain somehow.
I don’t know. But now I have 10 minutes to get myself changed and downstairs
with my stuff ready for another punishing reminder that I’m the stinkest rugby
player to ever put on a pair of budget Warehouse rugby boots. I’m convinced,
the only reason I’m being forced to play rugby is so Mum and Dad can pretend
that I’m not totally useless.
I whispered imploringly into Vicky’s ear, “keep this thing
quiet and out of sight of anyone until I get home….are you listening to me
Sis?!” Vicky nodded with an air of maturity that was becoming scaringly
obvious. I told her to keep the curtains
closed and Missa covered with something because the strange lights illuminating
from his body could be seen from outside and just to tell Mum she was playing
huts in her room and it was a secret game (which yet again, Mum thought was so
cute, that she wouldn’t disturb her. Sick!). I thought about faking a sore
stomach or migraine headache to get out of rugby, but Mum and Dad had heard all
this before and unless I needed a quick flight in the Westpac Helicopter to
Starship for emergency surgery, I didn’t stand a chance.
Rugby was yet again, uneventful for me. Jamie Tito got
player of the day for some outstanding tackle which saved the game. I nearly
got knocked out by this enormous hooker who just seemed to come out of nowhere
as I ran down the sideline with my only touch of the ball, only to meet his
solid mass and spill the ball into the air and out over the sideline. There was
Dad shaking his head with disappointment or remorse, I’m not sure and quite
frankly I didn’t care. I just wanted to be home and sorting out a plan of
attack for this blue, blobby mess.
When I got home, I tried to speed upstairs to Vicky’s room
before the onset of game questions began, and just as I was at the top of the
stairs, Mum trumpets “Hey Matty, how did your game go?”. “Yeah, nah, good Mum”
I call back. “How about Jake, did he have a good game?”. Jake’s my best mate,
we’ve been friends since kindergarten, and to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t
even noticed if he was there or not, I was so preoccupied! “Um….yep, going for
a wash now” and I took off before she could name every player in my team, which
was typical of our after match ritual, and a further reminder that I suck at
rugby, oh no, I mean everything.
I chucked my gear into my room and pried Vicky’s door open
gently, only to discover, what should have been a dim, shadowy room with a
familiar small human and a creature of unusual origins, was instead an empty
space challenging even the intellectual prowess of Sherlock Holmes. A slimy blue trail containing tiny flecks of
a strange glittery substance, lead from under the bed across the room and out
the OPEN WINDOW! On Vicky’s bed, fluttering under a makeshift paperweight was a
note written with surprising penmanship. The note read…
