Was he caught in some sort of nightmare? “Fine. Bring me a tea towel.”
“Nan’s going to say, not one of the good ones,” Scarlett said.
“Oh, for—” Zane opened the door of the cage, reached in, and grabbed the dead rat. Was it the most pleasant thing he’d ever done? No. On the other hand, being in the middle of a rugby scrum wasn’t for the squeamish, either. “Shut the cage door again,” he instructed Scarlett. “And go get me a tea towel.I don’t care what kind it is. If it’s Nan’s favorite embroidered whatever-it-is, I’ll make it up to her.”
“You’re not supposed to handle dead animals,” Scarlett said. “They can have rabies. And Georgia’s probably going to get in trouble for killing one of the class rats.”
“First,” Zane said, “there’s no rabies in En Zed. Second, it’s not like she threw the rat out the window. It died. Animals die. Third, how would a rat in a cage get rabies?”
“Idon’t know,” Scarlett said. “I’m just saying. Or another disease. Also, Georgia lets them out sometimes when you’re gone. If a bat flew in the window?—”
“Tea towel,” Zane said. “Now.”
Two minutes later, he left the bedroom for the kitchen. Of course, everybody was in there, as his grandmother was fixing cocoa. He marched purposefully to the rubbish, dropped the tea towel into the plastic bin bag, tied the top, washed his hands, and took the bag out to the wheelie bin.
He wasn’t quite in time. Lester Brooks was out walking his Labradoodle, whose name, unfortunately, was Mr. Bojangles, and the dog practically pulled Lester’s arm out of its socket in its eagerness to get to Zane. Worst-trained dog in Auckland. Zane fixed him with his best hard-man stare and said,“Down.”
Mr. Bojangles dropped to the ground. Briefly. Then he jumped up again. Of course he did, since Lester wasn’t even holding the lead tightly, the silly git. On the thought, Mr. Bojangles pulled free and came for Zane again—or possibly the rat—with Lester saying, “Here, boy.Here!Get back here, you. Right now. Bad dog!” Slow learner, Lester.
Zane handled the problem by kneeing the dog hard in the chest as he lunged for the rubbish bag. Definitelygoing for the rat, so Zane grabbed the dog’s lead and yanked it. Mr. Bojangles started to wheeze. Lester said, “Now, see here?—”
Zane handed the lead back to him and said, “I’ve got a dead rat in the bag. Hold your dog.” He barked it out, possibly,because Lester’s mouth opened and closed. But he held the dog.
Rubbish bag disposed of, Zane headed for the house. Lester said, “Do we have rats now, then? You should tell the Council.”
“No,” Zane said. “Pet rat.”
“Oh,” Lester said. “Not sure why anybody would want rats.”
“I didn’t,” Zane said.
“Pity about last night,” Lester decided he should say.
“Yeh,” Zane said. He did not want to have this conversation.
“Kicking for territory,” Lester said. “Kicking the ball away so you don’t have it anymore, more like.”
“Yeh, cheers,” Zane said, and headed for the door.
A rugby player in New Zealand, especially an All Black, was meant to be a good citizen. Friendly. Tolerant of interruption. Kind to animals.
Oh, well.
Skylar Fairburn was making pancakes. It was the last day of the school holidays, and the kids loved them. She’d only eat two. Or possibly three. Max. She’d put oats and buttermilk in them, so that was healthy, surely. Oats were a whole grain. And yes, she was also cooking crispy bacon, but you couldn’t really eat pancakes without bacon. She’d meal prep today, anyway. Beans, greens, and grains, that was the idea.Nota pie from the school canteen, no matter how much she’d feel like she deserved it by lunchtime tomorrow. She’d begun a new strength training program at the first of the year and, improbably, kept at it over the ensuing months, and it seemed to be working, if by “working,” one meant, “I’m often sore allover.” She was enjoying the soreness, in a masochistic sort of way.
Oh. Pancakes. She flipped them. Finlay said, “You’re meant to turn them before they get that brown.”
“Possibly,” she said. “Or you can crisp them up for better flavor. Lay the table, would you, please?” Snowball leaped up onto the benchtop, and she swatted him off again. “Cats are on the floor,” she informed Snowball. “You walk in the litter box with those paws. No, thank you.” Not that the cat would listen. Snowball gave her an accusing look and meowed in protesting fashion, and Skylar said, “I may be harsh, butyou’rethe spawn of Satan.”
“Granddad turns them faster than that,” Finlay said. “He’s probably been making pancakes heaps longer than you. I’m just saying, in case it’s helpful.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Table.”
George piped up from said table, “If you didn’t have to go back to work, Mum, you could make pancakes every day, and we could go to the beach after school and have ice cream after, and you could read to us instead of doing your planning, and play Sneaky Snacky Squirrel with me. You wouldn’t be tired, either, so that would be better.”
“How exactly would we live if Mum didn’t work?” Finlay asked. “We’d have to liveatthe beach, because we’d be homeless.”
“We could live in a tent,” Olive said. “Or I read a book about a boy who ran away from home and made a house for himself in a big hollow tree, and caught fish to eat and collected edible plants from the bush.”
