Just Tricking!

by Andy Griffiths

  The trouble is, Danny is sitting at the desk next to mine and he keeps going on and on about how he wants to be invisible. He won’t shut up. He’s been talking about it for weeks now. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t want to risk getting kicked out of the library because I need to use the Internet.

  ‘Psst! Andy!’ says Danny.

  ‘Shhh!’ I say to him. ‘Do you want to get us kicked out?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘just tell me what you reckon. If I got a can of spray-paint and painted myself pink and painted my whole room pink and everything in it pink – do you think I’d be invisible then?’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ I whisper. ‘As long as you stayed in your room. But once you left, you’d be a bit conspicuous.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he leans over again.

  ‘Psst!’

  ‘What!?’ I say. I’m getting really impatient.

  ‘What does “conspicuous” mean?’

  ‘It means you’d stand out like a pimple on a pumpkin! Now would you shut up and do some work – and stop interrupting me!’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘But honestly, do you reckon it would work?’

  ‘For the last time, shut up!’

  I reach into my pencil case for a lolly. Well, they’re supposed to be lollies. They’re really just those little multi-coloured balls with no taste. Nobody likes them, except three-year-olds – and that’s only because they don’t know any better. I’m only eating them because they were a present from my granny. It would have been rude to throw them away.

  I crunch one between my teeth.

  Danny leans over.

  ‘What are those?’ he says.

  Suddenly I have an idea of how to get rid of him.

  Mrs Wharton is up at the loans counter checking out some books. This gives me a few minutes.

  ‘Danny, what would you say if I had a way of really making you invisible?’

  ‘How?’

  I pass him the tube of lollies.

  ‘I was waiting until your birthday to give you these, but since you want to be invisible so badly, you might as well have them now.’

  ‘What are they?’ he says.

  ‘They’re invisipills. They make you invisible.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Where’d you get them?’ he says.

  ‘I made them in science. I got the recipe off the Net.’

  Danny hits his head with his hand. ‘Oh, man! Why didn’t I think of that! Which site?’

  ‘I’d rather not say. The recipe was smuggled out of the Pentagon. Top-secret stuff. I could get into a lot of trouble if I’m caught.’

  ‘Have you tried them?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re pretty amazing. One pill will make you completely invisible for about half an hour.’

  ‘Wow! How come you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘Like I said, I was keeping it for a surprise for your birthday.’

  ‘Can I try one?’

  ‘Sure. Just one, though. They’re pretty powerful. And you’ve got to promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’ says Danny.

  ‘That after you’ve taken it you’ll go outside and let me work.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says.

  He takes a lolly from the tube.

  His eyes are wide as he puts it onto his tongue, closes his mouth and swallows.

  ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Am I invisible?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘It takes a few minutes.’

  Danny’s holding his hands out in front of him, fingers out-stretched.

  ‘Have I faded even a little bit?’ he says. ‘What do you reckon?’

  I screw up my eyes, pretending to study him.

  ‘Yes – definitely!’ I say. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Cool!’ he says.

  I glance up. Mrs Wharton has finished at the loans counter and is prowling the library again.

  ‘You’re fading fast now,’ I say. ‘I can hardly see you.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ he says. ‘I can still see me as clear as anything.’

  ‘Yeah – you’re meant to, you dork. That’s the way the pills are designed. You can see yourself, but nobody can see you. If you couldn’t see yourself, you wouldn’t know where you were and you’d get lost.’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ he says. ‘So, am I invisible yet?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m right here!’

  ‘No you’re not. Not as far as I can see. Your chair is empty.’

  ‘Can you still hear me?’

  ‘Yes. Now go outside! Remember our deal?’

  ‘Okay,’ says Danny. ‘I’m out a here.’

  Danny gets up out of his seat and walks off.

  Mrs Wharton is coming slowly towards me.

  I go back to my assignment and do my best imitation of a serious student.

  Just as she’s walking past my desk I hear the most enormous belch.

  It’s so loud it practically rocks the foundations of the library.

  For a moment I think it was Mrs Wharton. But that – of course – is ridiculous. Only Danny can do them that loud.

  I look around. Sure enough, Danny is killing himself laughing in the aisle.

  Mrs Wharton stops.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she says. ‘Was that you?’

  ‘No, Mrs Wharton,’ I say.

  ‘Then who was it, pray tell? A ghost?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Wharton. But it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. What are those?’ she says, pointing at the lollies, which Danny has thoughtfully left sitting on my desk in full view.

  ‘Um . . . lollies, Mrs Wharton.’

  ‘I presume you know the rule about eating in the library.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Wharton.’

  ‘And you know that it specifically excludes chewing gum, bubble gum and lollies?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Wharton. I’ll get rid of them.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ she says, ‘I will.’

  She holds out her hand. I pick up the tube and give it to her. Little does she realise she’s doing me a big favour.

  She walks on up the aisle without another word.

  That was close. I’m going to kill Danny after school. With any luck, he’s kept his promise and is outside by now.

  Thump!

  A book lands on the carpet next to my desk. It’s The Wonderful World of Freshwater Fish, and I have no doubt who threw it.

  Another book sails over the top of the shelves and lands on my desk. Whack! Another hits the top edge of the desk and bounces off onto the student in front of me.

  ‘Ouch!’ he yells, turning to me. ‘Quit it!’

  I shrug.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I say.

  The books keep coming. And so does Mrs Wharton.

  ‘Stand up!’ she says. ‘Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?’

  ‘Somebody is throwing books over the tops of the shelves,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She strides off and checks each of the aisles. Any moment now she’s going to see Danny and chuck him out. Good riddance I reckon.

  ‘I can’t see anybody,’ she says. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me how these books really ended up on the floor.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  Over Mrs Wharton’s shoulder I can see the A–G fiction shelf rocking back and forth. Danny’s gone crazy. The excitement of thinking he’s invisible has gone to his head. I’ve got to stop him before he goes too far.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Wharton,’ I say. ‘Back in a minute.’

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  I dash to the seriously rocking shelf to try to pull Danny away and bring him to his senses, but it’s already too late. The shelf tilts too far to the right. All the books fall onto the carpet. The force of the bookshe
lf striking the next shelf pushes it over and the combined weight of these two pushes the third shelf over. Just like a row of dominoes. Except heavier. And louder.

  There is silence. Nobody can believe what they’ve just seen.

  I turn around. Mrs Wharton is speechless. She is opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

  But Danny hasn’t finished yet.

  He’s approaching Mrs Wharton from behind, one of her prized hanging-basket ferns in his hand. The ferns that she waters so lovingly every morning before school. The ferns that if anyone so much as looks at them – let alone touches them – they cop one of Mrs Wharton’s famous glares.

  Danny’s staring straight ahead and carrying the pot plant in his raised outstretched arms, like it’s the AFL Premiership Cup.

  ‘No!’ I yell, but it’s like he’s possessed.

  He tips it upside down over Mrs Wharton’s head. Fern fronds and clumps of dirt and little white fertiliser pellets spill all over her hair, down her face and onto her yellow dress. They collect in a pile at her feet.

  Danny is just standing there laughing. Poor guy. He still thinks he’s invisible.

  Mrs Wharton wheels around.

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ she says to him.

  ‘Who?’ he says.

  ‘You!’ she says, going red in the face.

  ‘But you can’t see me,’ says Danny. ‘I’m invisible!’

  ‘Invisible? Well, we’ll see about that!’ she says.

  She reaches out, grabs his ear and twists it at least 360 degrees – and then – judging by the expression on Danny’s face – another 360 degrees after that.

  Danny drops to his knees in pain.

  ‘Oww! Oww! Let go!’ he says.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘Feeling a little more visible now?’

  I must admit I’m rather enjoying the spectacle. After all, Danny had no qualms about getting me into trouble.

  Mrs Wharton lets go of his ear.

  ‘Now,’ she says, looking from Danny to me, ‘both of you pack up your books, and get straight to the principal’s office! And consider yourselves banned from the library for the rest of the year.’

  Both of us? The rest of the year? Great. There goes my history assignment. And my English wide reading. And my social studies research. How could Danny be so dumb?

  I gather up my books. There’s no use arguing.

  Mrs Wharton escorts us to the door and slams it behind us.

  ‘Danny,’ I say, turning to face him, ‘you are a prize drongo. Did you really think . . .’

  But I don’t finish my question. Danny’s not there.

  ‘Dan? Where are you?’

  I hear a giggle and then a tremendous belch in my right ear. It’s so loud it almost ruptures my ear-drum.

  I spin around.

  ‘Danny?’

  But there’s no sign of him – no visible sign anyway – just the sound of his crazy laughter echoing down the empty corridor.

  The principal can wait. I’m going straight to sick bay.

  I’m feeling a little faint myself.

  unday afternoon.

  Jen’s Christmas cards are sitting on the table. All fifty thousand of them in three big stacks. The envelopes aren’t sealed, so I figure that means she wants me to open them and have a look.

  I open the top envelope. The card has a picture of a big jolly Santa’s face on it.

  The message on the inside reads: Dear Kerrie, wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, love Jen.

  Very original . . . not!

  The second card has exactly the same picture on it.

  And inside Jen has written exactly the same greeting: Dear Sandra, wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, love Jen.

  She has written the same thing on every card. The only bit that changes is the name of the person she’s sending it to.

  There’s only one thing to do.

  I grab some liquid paper, a black texta and set to work.

  I don’t have much time. Jen will be wanting to catch the six o’clock post.

  On the first card I draw heavy dark eyebrows over Santa’s twinkling eyes. He’s not looking quite so jolly now.

  But still, it’s not enough. I draw a scar running from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his mouth. I black out one of his front teeth and give him a black eye. And just for fun I add a couple of Frankenstein bolts to each side of his neck. That’s better. Completely psycho.

  Now for the greeting on the inside. Merry Christmas? I don’t think so. I change the M on Merry to a T, cross out the Y and add IBLE to the end. And a happy new year? Not if I replace the H on Happy with CR. Much nicer . . . A TerrIBLE Christmas and a CRappy New Year.

  I go through the rest of the cards, changing the greetings and adding eyebrows, scars, moustaches, nose-rings, eyebrow-rings, tattoos, antennae and Martian ears to the Santas. By the time I’m finished, no two Santas are alike. The only thing they have in common is that if you saw any of them coming towards you on the street, you’d turn and run the other way.

  I put each card carefully back into its envelope so it doesn’t look like they’ve been messed with.

  And – as if brightening up her Christmas cards isn’t enough – I even take the trouble to find Jen and ask her if she’d like me to run them down to the postbox for her.

  She asks me if I’m feeling all right.

  I tell her that Christmas is a time for giving and that doing things for her makes me happy.

  She accuses me of sucking up because it’s Christmas.

  If only she knew . . .

  The postbox is over the other side of the hill.

  There are so many cards I almost get repetitive strain injury putting them in the box. But at last they’re all posted.

  I’m feeling pretty happy with myself.

  Jen’s friends all think they’re so sophisticated. I can just imagine the looks on their faces when they see their mutant Santas. They’ll think Jen has lost her mind. Maybe they’ll kick her out of the gang for being so childish. That would be excellent. Then maybe she could get some new friends. Some nice ones.

  And then an awful thought occurs to me.

  What if Jen’s friends retaliate? What if they start sending cards back to her wishing her a terrible Christmas – or worse? I wouldn’t put it past them.

  It’s not going to take Jen long to figure out that I had something to do with it.

  And then she’ll punish me by giving me a horrible present – or even worse – no present at all.

  Maybe this joke wasn’t such a great idea . . .

  I have to get those cards back out of the box!

  Luckily, the postbox has a parcel handle. Being Christmas time, the box will probably be so full that Jen’s cards will be right on top. Getting them back is going to be easy.

  I pull the handle towards me and slide my arm into the parcel slot. Standing on the tips of my toes, I ease the handle away from me and try to curl my arm down into the box. But it doesn’t work. My arm is jammed against the back of the parcel chute. My fingers are nowhere near the letters. There must be a better way.

  I could get a fishing line with a hook on the end of it and try fishing them out. No, that would take too long.

  It’s getting late. I’m getting desperate.

  Perhaps I could build a fire around the bottom of the box so that it heats up and becomes like a huge oven and incinerates everything inside it.

  Or maybe I could grab the hose from the house opposite and fill the box with water. Then the ink on the front of the envelopes would smudge and run and the post office won’t know where to send them.

  They are both brilliant plans, but neither would be fair to the innocent letters already in the box. I don’t want to stop them getting through – I just want Jen’s letters back.

  I hear a squeal of brakes behind me.

  I turn around. It’s the postman!

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ I say. ‘I ju
st posted some letters, but I think I forgot to put the postcodes on and I was wondering if you could get them back for me.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ says the postman, ‘I can’t help ya. I’m not allowed to do that.’

  He puts a sack underneath the door and turns the key.

  Hundreds of letters flow into the sack.

  ‘Besides, it’d take ages to find your letters in amongst this lot,’ he says. ‘Go down to the post office. They might be able to help.’

  ‘But I can’t get there now,’ I say. ‘It’s too late.’

  He shrugs. ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Please?’ I say. ‘It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘So’s my job,’ says the postman. He gets into his van and zooms off.

  So much for Christmas spirit.

  I don’t see much of Jen for the rest of the week, until Friday afternoon. The mail arrives late. There’s the usual boring letters for Mum and Dad, a couple of cards for Jen and, as usual, nothing for me.

  I go to Jen’s room and knock on her door.

  ‘Yes?’ she says.

  ‘Some letters for you,’ I say.

  She opens the door. Her eyes are puffy, as if she’s been crying. I hand her the envelopes. She takes them without a word and closes the door.

  A few minutes later I hear loud sobs coming from her room.

  I can guess why. It’s just as I feared. Her friends are sending her horrible cards. I should confess, but how can I?

  And what if Father Christmas finds out? He only comes to good boys and girls. What a dumb prank to play right before Christmas.

  It’s the night before Christmas. I’m in the loungeroom. It’s dark, except for the blinking of the Christmas tree lights.

  I’ve just put out a glass of milk and some chocolate-chip cookies for Santa, like I do every year. I’ve laid a pillowslip on a chair and written my name on it in black texta so he’ll know it’s mine. I’m just adding a few last-minute items to my letter to Santa when I hear the unmistakable sounds of jingling and reindeer hooves on the roof.