Random Book of Oneshots

Ankle Biter

Ankle biter - 

a term used in Australia referring to small children

"How... How COULD YOU!" He cries, bright blue eyes swelling with unshed tears and a small pout settling on his pale, freckled face. We go outside for hours at a time nearly every day, yet he still can't seem to darken his skin in the slightest. Well, he does. Except rather than gaining a nice tan, he turns into a bright red fire truck.

"You. Promised! PINKY PROMISED!" Simon shot to his feet and stumbles over to the door, harshly slamming it shut behind him making the pictures from his trip to The Big Pineapple shake in their frames. Even though I didn't go, the stories he told made me feel as if I was being dragged along with the rest of the family. I can only imagine the rambling and excitement they had to put up with.

Shaking my head, I sigh. I tend to do that a lot lately, whether it be with or without Simon around. Standing up, I pull on my dubbed 'hole-y' jumper, already knowing where Simon ran off to. Babysitting a seven-year-old can be a challenge, especially since he can be such a handful, but he's a great kid. Damn little ankle biter. Known him all his life. Him and his family. So, when the opportunity to look after him arose, I was down for the job. Plus, a little bit of money can help me for next year's VCE life. That and a few outings with the gang.

His house is normal-sized (big enough for a family of five that is) and has a large back yard that is slowly being overtaken by petunias and snapdragons. His older sisters, Annie and Peggy began taking a liking to plants after watching a Venus flytrap devour a fly. But their mum refused to plant those, so petunias and snapdragons it was. And if I am correct, they tried to plant a fly trap anyway, but the heat waves of Australia took it out rather quickly. However, even though the hottest season is upon us, it's still jumper weather outside. For now.

Sighing again, I open the door that Simon had previously tried to take off its hinges and left it open. We'll be back in there in a few minutes, plus I think it needs time to air out since it's been a while when we last left it. Looking back in, I see the crusty spoons and hardening microwave mac and cheese bowls we probably should have cleaned up earlier. Oh well. I'll leave it up to the dishwasher to scour off the pasta, if you can even call it that.

Making my way down the brightly, sun-lit hallway and to the backyard, I pass the living room. For a house with three kids its rather clean, but that's only this room I suppose. Peggy and Annie's room, I know from personal experience is just horrific. Calling it a pigsty is just being nice. Just by glancing at their bedroom door, I can still see the remanets of last week's experiment. Damn pranksters they are, every Halloween taking their costumes a few points higher. And with that putting everyone's health a point lower.

Two words. The Shining.

Coming up to the flimsy flyscreen door, I kick it open and stand out on the porch, taking in a deep breath of cool air and petrol from the recently mowed lawn. Another 20 dollars in my pocket.

"Ohhhhhh WHERE could Simon BE?" Chuckling to myself, I dramatically walk over to the darkest corner of the yard, which also happens to be Simon's hiding place. The flowers he's surrounded by wiggle and his mop of mousy brown hair pops up, then darts back down once he sees me come closer. Smirking, I think back to the countless times this has happened before. This means two things.

One. He's trying to get comfortable as he thinks he might be sitting on the dirt for a fair few minutes. Pff, as if.

Or two. He's about to try and do a runner for the old rusted shed that sits underneath the itchy bomb tree that just won't go away, no matter what the family does. Like burning it with firecrackers on New Year's Eve. Courtesy of the twins. Just thinking about standing on one of the exploded bulbs make my feet ich. I sigh again but smile when I realise which path Simon has decided to choose. Let the fun begin.

The flowers rustle again except harder this time, moving slightly to reveal Simons crouched position, like a lion waiting to pounce, or in this case, an antelope ready to run. Option two commences.

I take a few steps back, and out jumps Simon. He starts to sprint at me, little legs moving as fast as they can. But I'm quicker. He gets closer.

Three meters.

Two meters.

One meter.

None.

And just as he's about to run past me, I scoop him up and throw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His bony knees and elbows kick and dig into my stomach, back and sides.

"LET ME GO!" I smack his bum.

"No shouting."

"YOU PROMISED!" I smack his bum again.

"I know."

"AND YOU BROKE IT!" Another smack.

"How about another game?"

Simon stops struggling and goes limp on my shoulder. He may look light but he sure is getting heavier. Better get him to lay off the sweets. Grunting, I hitch him up to make sure he doesn't fall and start walking back inside, trying not to trip on the clumps of grass I left behind from the mower.

"...but you broke the pinkie promise. You said I could win! This means we can't be friends anymore and I get to cut off your pinkie!"

"How about no for the pinkie, and I'll give you a 30-second head start next game."

"...A minute?" I laugh and tickle his side.

"Sure."

"AND I GET MARIO!" A deafening screech.

Another smack.