‘But that’s terrible!’ I say. ‘Think how he’ll feel. That’s even worse than admitting it was a hoax. After all they’ve been through! No – we’ve got to get them that money.’
‘What do you propose? Rob a bank?’
‘No – we’ll wash cars, mow lawns, pool all our pocket-money – and then we’ll invest it in a high-interest bank account. We’ll have the money in no time.’
‘We?’ says Danny.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You made the call.’
‘You helped me.’
‘But it was your idea.’
‘You didn’t say no.’
Danny hits himself on the head with his open palm. ‘Do you have any idea how many cars we’ll have to wash to earn that much money?!’
The phone rings.
I pick it up.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi, could I speak to Andy Griffiths?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, Andy. Chris Robbins from Triple B FM here.’
My stomach drops. He must have found out I’ve been impersonating him! Marvin Bonwick must have rung him back to check if the call was legit! When he found out it was a trick he would have guessed it was me.
‘Who is it?’ says Danny.
I put my hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Chris Robbins! He must know! What do I do?’
‘Talk to him,’ says Danny. ‘He can’t prove anything.’
‘Andy?’ says Chris. ‘Are you still there?’
Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m here.’
‘Thought we’d lost you for a minute.’
‘Just a bit surprised,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well,’ says Chris, ‘I’ve just pulled your name out of the barrel to play Beat the Bomb – but if you’d rather not . . .’
‘Are you kidding?’ I shout. ‘Of course I want to!’
It’s like a dream. What are the odds of something like this happening? A million to one? Nah – more like a squillion to one.
‘Well, stand by,’ says Chris. ‘We’re about to go to air. I’ll just play a couple of ads and a station ID and then you’re on. Oh, and by the way, Andy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Turn your radio off. We will be transmitting on a ten-second delay and it can get a little confusing.’
Through the earpiece of the telephone I hear a jingle for Cheapies carpet-cleaning service. Talk about deja vu. If Danny wasn’t right next to me I’d swear it was him playing another prank.
Then the Triple B station ID starts. Comets and meteorites again. ‘Triple B – taking you back to the sixties and seventies . . .’
Then Chris starts speaking.
‘Good afternoon. Chris Robbins with you on Triple B, and to play Beat the Bomb this hour we have Andy Griffiths on the line. How are you doin’, Andy?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘Great! What are you up to this afternoon?’
I wonder what he would say if I told him I was impersonating him and making prank Beat the Bomb phone calls. But I decide against it. I need the cash.
‘Nothing much, you know.’
‘Fantastic! Ready to play Beat the Bomb?’
‘I sure am.’
‘All right – now, you know the rules, Andy?’
‘Yes,’ I say, but he explains them anyway.
‘Okay. Clock’s ticking,’ says Chris.
‘Twenty dollars,’ says the voice from outer space.
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
I’d be happy with twenty. Maybe I should stop it right now. Those bombs can go off pretty fast sometimes.
‘Twenty-five dollars.’
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
‘One hundred and forty-eight dollars.’
I want to stop, but I can’t. It’s like I’m frozen. If I can just keep my nerve . . .
‘Two hundred and ninety dollars.’
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
‘Four hundred and sixty-six dollars.’
The ticking is deafening. Any minute now the bomb is going to explode and I’ll be splattered all over the room. But still I can’t speak.
‘Five hundred and two dollars.’
I can’t stand it anymore.
‘Stop!’ I yell.
‘Andy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know what you’ve just done?’
‘Yes,’ I say in a dream.
‘You have just won five hundred and two dollars! What do you think about that?’
I can’t speak.
Danny’s jumping up and down.
‘How much?’ he’s saying. ‘How much?!’
‘Five hundred and two,’ I say.
Danny hoots.
‘Hey, Andy,’ says Chris. ‘What are you going to do with all that money?’
A vision of a pile of Mars bars as high as Mount Kosciusko fills my head. It merges into a tower of CDs and a stereo system loud enough to blow my ears off. And then it dissolves into a blinding vision of flashing lights and beeps and explosions as I imagine spending an entire weekend in Timezone. But then I think of Marvin. And his mum.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe I’ll give it to a friend.’
Danny raises his eyebrows.
‘Well, good on ya, Andy,’ says Chris. ‘Now, if you can stay on the line while we confirm your details, we’ve got something special coming up. Do you like John Farnham, Andy?’
I can’t stand him, but I’ll say anything for five hundred and two bucks.
‘Like him? I love him!’ I lie.
‘Well, this is for you mate,’ he says over the start of ‘You’re the Voice’. ‘This is Triple B FM where – like Andy Griffiths – we make your dreams, and your friends’ dreams, come true. Good on ya, Andy!’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say.
My head is spinning. I’m trying to work out if I’m the most fantastically lucky person or the biggest loser in the world. I mean, having to pretend I like John Farnham is bad enough, but having one of his songs dedicated to me is much, much worse.
‘Are you going to give that money to me?’ says Danny. He’s practically drooling all over the carpet.
‘No,’ I say. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You said you were going to give it to a friend.’
‘Yes, but not you,’ I say.
‘Then who?’
‘Marvin.’
His jaw drops.
You’re kidding!’
‘No,’ I say.
‘All of it?’
‘No, not all of it. After I pay Marvin what we owe him there will be two dollars left over. We can go halves in that if you like.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ says Danny, staring at the carpet. You’re a real pal.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ I say. ‘What are friends for?’
ell, I finally did it.
I’ve been thinking about it for ages and I kept putting it off, but this morning I finally did it.
I got a tattoo.
It’s a skull with two eagle wings curving up over the top. The skull has these evil green eyes and a sort of long, thin red moustache that arcs upwards next to the wings. And running across the bottom of the skull is a small ribbon-shaped banner. And inside the banner are the words BORN TO DIE.
Didn’t cost much either. Normally, it would have cost $2.95, but I got it on special at Target for ninety-five cents.
And the best thing about it is that it didn’t even hurt.
I just removed the protective sheet and pressed the sticky side firmly onto my skin. Then I wet the top of it with a sponge, waited for thirty seconds and peeled off the backing.
Yeah, so it’s not real – but it’s so realistic you’d never know the difference. And the amazing thing is, it makes me feel different. Bigger. Tougher. Bolder. Nobody’s going to want to kick sand in my face and steal my girlfriend when they see I’ve got such a wicked-looking tat. Not that I have a girlfriend right at the moment, but as so
on as they see my tattoo I bet every girl in school will want to go out with me – even the teachers.
The packet says it will last for days – almost forever. It also says I’ll be able to shock my friends and family. But it’s not my friends and family I’m interested in shocking. It’s my enemies: Steve Lik and Robert Leech.
Steve Lik lives at the bottom of the hill. He’s a few years older than me, but we used to muck around a bit together on the weekends. Until he started hanging around with Robert Leech.
Robert Leech is a wiry-haired geek who lives over on the other side of the hill.
He’s got a face like a rat, with a really thin pointy nose and beady brown eyes. He thinks he’s really good because he rides a fifteen-speed racer and smokes rallies. He doesn’t like me much. Well, to be truthful, he hates my guts. I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much. Being born I suppose. Robert Leech is just that sort of guy.
Lately, him and Lik have taken to waiting for me at the bottom of the hill outside Lik’s place and they won’t let me pass until I tell them the password. Today is no exception. I turn the corner into my street and they’re both there, like they’ve been waiting for me. Leech is sitting in the middle of the footpath. He’s got his jaws rigid and his lips tight as he blows a series of smoke rings. Lik is leaning against his letterbox with a yellow bucket in his hand. I could try crossing the road, but I know they’d just come after me. I pretend to ignore them.
‘Well, well, well,’ says Leech, in between smoke rings. ‘If it isn’t our old mate Andy.’
Lik smirks.
‘Do you mind if I just go past?’ I say, moving to step around him. But Leech’s hand shoots out and grabs my ankle.
‘Not so fast,’ he says. ‘Say please.’
‘Please,’ I say, looking straight ahead.
‘Say “pretty please”,’ he says. ‘“With sugar on top”.’
‘Pretty please with sugar on top,’ I say.
‘Say “pretty please with sugar on top, Sir!”’
I know from experience that this can go on for a long time. But today I don’t have to put up with this crap, because I’ve got a tattoo. I casually roll up the sleeves of my windcheater. The tattoo is still there on my right forearm. The skull’s eyes seem to be flashing.
‘Look, I don’t want any trouble,’ I say. ‘Just let me past . . . or else.’
Leech laughs. ‘Or else what?’ He is too busy blowing smoke rings to notice my tattoo. But I can see that Lik has seen it. He’s already backing off.
‘Come on, Leechy. That’ll do.’
Leech stops laughing. ‘Huh?’
Lik steps across to him and whispers in his ear.
Leech jumps up from the footpath, his eyes fixed on my forearm. He takes a couple of steps backwards.
‘Can I pass now?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, of c-course,’ says Leech. ‘We were just kidding around. Just a bit of fun, you know.’
‘Fun? That’s what you call fun?’
Leech and Lik are standing there frozen, like a couple of stunned rabbits. I’m not sure whether they’re scared of the tattoo or just the way it makes me act, but I don’t really care. I flex the muscles in my forearm – which is a hard thing to do really, because I don’t have that many. But my skull doesn’t mind. It ripples and seems to grin in response, like it’s enjoying it. I guess I should be scared, but I feel strangely calm. Like I can do whatever the hell I want. Why not pull out all the stops and teach them a lesson they’ll never forget?
Lik is still holding the yellow bucket.
‘What’s in the bucket?’ I say.
‘Slugs,’ says Lik.
‘How come?’ I ask, knowing full well that they get their jollies out of inventing new and horrible ways for slugs to die.
‘Um, er, well, my dad asked me to. They’ve been eating his rose bushes.’
‘Don’t give me that crap,’ I say. ‘Let ’em go.’
Lik looks at Leech. Leech nods. Lik tips the bucket, and about twenty fat grey slugs fall into the shrubbery.
I watch them helplessly trying to untangle themselves from one another and shake my head.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘maybe it’s just me, but I don’t find that very funny.’
Lik and Leech are both silent.
‘And another thing I don’t find very funny is you two hassling me every time I walk past. It’s got to stop.’
‘Sorry,’ says Lik. ‘We were just mucking around. How about a milkshake to make up for it?’
I should leave it here and just keep walking up the hill, but I’m enjoying my newfound power too much. I remember the cool milkshakes that Lik used to make for me back in the days when we were friends. Two heaped teaspoons of malt, eggs, ice-cream and about half a bottle of chocolate syrup. Hardly any room for the milk. Beautiful.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ says Lik. ‘I’ll go get you one, won’t be a sec.’
‘No, not takeaway,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll drink it inside, if that’s okay with you. Sun’s kind of hot today.’
Leech and Lik look at each other.
‘Yeah, Andy,’ says Lik. ‘Of course. Come in.’
We start walking up the drive. I’m so cool I can’t believe it.
Inside, I pick the best seat in the loungeroom and plonk my feet up on the coffee table. There’s a pile of magazines on top of the table, so I push them all off onto the carpet with my feet.
‘I think I’ll just wait here while you make my milkshake,’ I say.
‘Sure, fine,’ says Lik.
I grab the remote and turn on the television. I turn up the sound full-blast so that it’s distorting.
Lik pokes his head around the door.
‘Hey, Andy!’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Can you turn that down a bit?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I like it loud.’
Lik just stands there like he’s not sure whether to rip the remote out of my hand and shove it down my throat or just leave it.
‘Wanna make something of it?’ I say.
‘No,’ he says, ‘of course not. You’re the guest. What flavour milkshake do you want?’
‘Chocolate, of course,’ I say.
‘Coming up,’ he says and goes back into the kitchen.
I start flicking through the channels on the remote. ‘Playschool’ on Channel Two. The presenters are pretending to be kookaburras. They’re singing a song.
‘Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree, merry merry king of the bush is he . . . ’
I know exactly how that kookaburra feels. I’m the king and Lik and Leech are my subjects. They will do anything I tell them to. I watch a bit more of ‘Playschool’, then turn it off.
‘What’s taking so long?’ I call.
‘Almost ready,’ yells Leech.
I hear the high-pitched whine of the blender. My mouth starts watering. Steve Lik’s milkshakes are really something else.
The blender stops.
‘I don’t want it in the container, either,’ I say. ‘I want it in a glass. With a straw!’
‘No worries,’ calls Lik.
Leech enters the room with the milkshake on a tray. Lik is right behind him.
Leech places the tray on top of the coffee table. The milkshake is in one of those old-fashioned glasses with ridges down the side and a crazy straw sticking out. There is a scoop of chocolate ice-cream sitting on top.
Lik picks up the glass and gives it to me. Then they both kneel down on either side of my chair and stare at me.
‘Do you mind?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Leech, his lips curling into a slight smile.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘We just want to watch you drink it,’ says Lik.
‘We just want to watch you enjoy it,’ says Leech.
There’s something about the way he says ‘enjoy’ that I don’t like.
I push my arm forward to make sure they re
member who’s boss here. I look at them, look at my tattoo and look back at them to make sure they’ve got the message.
But they just start laughing. My stomach drops.
‘Would you mind sharing the joke with me?’ I say.
‘Should we?’ says Lik.
‘Yes,’ says Leech. ‘I think we should.’
Leech pulls up his sleeve. Lik pulls up his sleeve.
On each of their arms – in almost exactly the same place as mine – is a skull with green eyes and a long red moustache.
I look at them.
They look at me.
The room is very quiet.
‘Well, drink up,’ says Lik. ‘We’re waiting.’
‘Urn,’ I say, ‘look, thanks for the milkshake and everything, but I’m not really that thirsty. I might just get going.’
I sit forward to get up, but Lik pushes me back into my seat.
‘After we’ve gone to all this trouble? Surely you’ve got a minute just to drink a milkshake. You can’t waste it.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But then I’ve really got to get going.’
‘Sure,’ says Lik. ‘Drink up.’
I guess there are worse punishments.
I put the glass up to my lips.
‘Oh, there’s just one thing,’ says Leech. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but we couldn’t find any chocolate syrup.’
I’m starting to sweat.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, trying to keep cool. ‘What did you use instead?’
‘Slugs,’ says Leech. ‘Now drink up.’
rs Wharton is stomping around the library. She’s telling kids off for talking. She’s telling kids off for leaning back on their chairs. She’s practically telling kids off for breathing. You name it, and she’s telling them off for it.
I reckon she’s wasted as a librarian. Mrs Wharton should have been the governor of a high-security prison. That’d be one prison where they wouldn’t have to worry about the prisoners talking, leaning back on their chairs or returning their library books late.
The only person Mrs Wharton has not told off so far this lesson is me. That’s because I’m working so hard. It’s pretty rare for me to work this hard, but I have a big assignment on Antarctic explorers due in on Monday. It’s worth 50 per cent of our end of year mark and I’ve only just started it.
Just Tricking! Page 6