Just Stupid!

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Wake up!’ says the fireman. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What’s happening?’

  He lifts me to my feet. I slip on a pencil and fall back down.

  ‘You have to get out of here,’ he says. Fire!’

  He lifts me up again and starts shepherding me towards the exit. Away from the toilet!

  I try to head back towards the toilet but he grabs me.

  ‘Wrong way,’ he says, pointing towards the exit. ‘That way.’

  ‘But I have to go to the toilet,’ I say, ‘I’m busting!’

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ says the fireman. ‘It’s not safe! You have to get out of the building.’

  ‘Not safe?!’ I say. ‘If I don’t get to the toilet soon, nobody will be safe. This shopping centre will be flooded!’

  But he’s not listening. He’s escorting me to the exit.

  Outside there are four fire trucks in a row. The firemen are spraying enormous arcs of water onto the building. It might be helping to extinguish the fire but it’s definitely not helping me.

  I overhear the fire chief talking on his walkie-talkie.

  ‘All we know is that the fire appears to have started in one of the escalators,’ he says. ‘Some foreign material may have got in there and shorted the system. Until we can put the fire out we can’t be sure. But to do that we’re going to need back-up units . . . as many as you’ve got.’

  He wipes the sweat off his brow.

  Suddenly I know what I have to do. I can solve my problem and be a hero at the same time.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘you’re not going to need those back-up units.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he says.

  ‘You’ve got me,’ I say.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Watch this!’ I say.

  I go as close to the burning building as I can. I grab hold of my fly. I take aim.

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Relief! Beautiful relief. The fire is powerless against me. It disappears in clouds of steam. People are gathered around applauding. The supermarket manager is there. And the pencil seller. And the hippie. Even the old man. Cheering.

  Chanting my name. I don’t know how they know my name but I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is how good this feels. And how warm. It’s so warm.

  I roll over and snuggle down deeper into my blankets. My blankets? What are my blankets doing here? And why am I wearing pyjamas?

  I blink a few times. I rub my eyes.

  There’s no shopping centre. There are no fire trucks. No people.

  I’m in my bedroom. In my bed. Wrapped in my blankets. Putting out a fire. Only there’s no fire either.

  I hate that.

  t’s the first day back at school.

  And if all goes to plan it will also be my last.

  I’m sitting up the back corner of the classroom. Well, I’m not really sitting. I’m leaning back on the chair, putting all my weight on the back legs, just like we’re not supposed to.

  And that’s not the only rule I’m breaking.

  My feet are up on the desk. I’m not wearing any shoes. I’m wearing a cap. My T-shirt is ripped. Plus it has a rude slogan on the front. I’ve got my Walkman on. On the table in front of me is a packet of bubblegum, a spitball shooter and some freshly chewed spitballs. On the blackboard I’ve drawn this crazy-looking stick figure with bugged-out eyes and buck teeth. It’s hitting itself over the head with a hammer and saying ‘Look at me—I’m your stupid new teacher!’ And underneath it I’ve written ‘By Andy Griffiths’ so that there’s no chance anybody else will get the blame.

  I figure the new teacher will be like all new teachers. They’ll be wanting to show everybody how tough they are. They won’t be wanting to muck around with warnings or detentions or phone calls to parents. They’ll be looking for a scapegoat to send straight to the principal’s office. Well, they won’t have to look for long. Here I am—ready and willing.

  Danny comes into the room. He looks at me and his mouth falls open.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he finally says. He’s obviously having trouble taking in the full extent of my badness.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘But your feet . . . your T-shirt . . . the spitball shooter . . .’ splutters Danny. ‘Boy, are you going to cop it!’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I want to cop it. I want to be expelled.’

  ‘Expelled?’ he says.

  ‘I’m sick of school,’ I say.

  ‘But it’s only the first day back,’ he says. ‘And school hasn’t even started yet. How can you be sick of it?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘I can’t live like this. Bells, timetables, lessons, rules and regulations—they’re not for me. I had a taste of freedom on the holidays and I decided I’m not coming back.’

  ‘But you’re here,’ says Danny.

  ‘Only long enough to get myself expelled,’ I say. ‘Then I’m out of school for good.’

  ‘But your parents will just send you somewhere else,’ says Danny.

  ‘You don’t get it, Dan, do you?’ I say. ‘If my parents try that I’ll just get myself expelled from there as well.’

  Danny smiles.

  ‘You reckon it’s that easy?’ he says.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I say. ‘What could be easier? It’s not like there’s any shortage of rules to break.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ says Danny, nodding.

  ‘And when you think about it,’ I say, ‘how hard is it to break a rule?’

  ‘It’s not hard,’ says Danny, now shaking his head. ‘It’s not hard at all.’

  ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Danny, ‘you’re right. Because living on your knees would be really uncomfortable. Your pants would wear out and your knees would get all scabby, and it would take ages to get anywhere . . .’

  ‘We are living on our knees, Dan,’ I say. ‘But not me. Not any longer. I’m walking out of here.’

  Danny looks at me, his eyes shining.

  ‘Can I get expelled with you?’ he says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Between us we can break twice as many rules as I could on my own. We’ll be out of here in no time.’

  ‘All right!’ says Danny.

  ‘It’s a deal!’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Give me the secret shake.’

  ‘What is it again?’ says Danny, bending over and putting his hand through his leg. ‘Is this right?’

  ‘No, Dan,’ I say, ‘that’s the old one. Honestly, what’s the point of having a secret handshake if you can never remember it?’

  ‘Well it’s been a while,’ he says, ‘what with the holidays and everything.’

  I’m about to show him when a woman comes into the room. She must be our new teacher.

  ‘Quick—get into position,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about the handshake. And don’t forget to take your shoes off.’

  I lean back on my chair. The new teacher is holding an old-fashioned projector and a small yellow slide box.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘My name is Ms Livingstone. Sorry I’m a little late. I had a bit of trouble finding the room. I flew in very late last night and I didn’t get much sleep. I was supposed to arrive a few weeks ago, but the yacht I was sailing was destroyed by a tsunami in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I was marooned on a tiny island for many days before the rescue helicopters saw my smoke signals. I was beginning to give up hope that they would find me before the school term started. But, as you can see, here I am, safe and sound—just a little tired.’

  Excited murmuring breaks out all around the room.

  I think they actually believe her!

  I look at Danny and roll my eyes.

  ‘As if!’ I say.

  She probably just slept in. Just like I’ll be doing tomorrow morning. In a minute she’ll see the blackboard . . . then she’ll ask who Andy is . . . then she’ll see me and Danny and before we know it we’ll be on a
one-way trip to the principal’s office. This is too easy.

  She still hasn’t noticed me—too busy fussing around with the stuff on her desk. She hasn’t seen the blackboard. I have to get her to turn around.

  ‘Would you like me to clean the blackboard for you?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she says without looking at it—or me.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, stomping up the aisle as loudly as I can and swinging my arms in the stupidest and most attention-getting walk I can manage.

  As I’m walking, I accidentally knock Lisa Mackney’s folder off her table. It goes flying, hits the floor and the pages spill out everywhere. Lisa stares at me. I wish this had happened to anybody’s folder but Lisa’s.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ I whisper.

  I get down on my knees and start gathering up the paper. I push it all into the folder as neatly as I can.

  ‘That’s really nice of you to help pick all that up,’ says Ms Livingstone. ‘You must be quite a gentleman.’

  ‘But it was me who knocked it off in the first place,’ I say.

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ she says.

  ‘But I did it on purpose,’ I say.

  She laughs.

  ‘I can’t believe that somebody as helpful as you would do a thing like that,’ she says. ‘And even if you did, I’m sure you had a very good reason for it.’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ I say. ‘I did it because I’m bad and evil and I deserve to be sent straight to the principal’s office.’

  Ms Livingstone laughs again. She thinks I’m joking.

  ‘Look at the board if you don’t believe me,’ I say.

  Ms Livingstone looks at the board.

  ‘That’s very amusing,’ she says. ‘Who is it supposed to be?’

  ‘It’s you!’ I say.

  ‘Me?’ she says. ‘It doesn’t look anything like me.’

  She picks up a piece of chalk and, with just a few quick lines and squiggles, draws a perfect caricature of herself.

  ‘That’s me,’ she says.

  The whole class is laughing. Even me.

  Then she draws another figure with a really crazy face. Boy, is it ugly and stupid-looking. It’s much better than the one I drew.

  ‘And that’s you,’ she says.

  The class laughs even harder. I stop laughing.

  ‘So you’re not angry?’ I say.

  ‘Angry?’ she says. ‘Of course not. I’m flattered that you’ve gone to so much trouble to welcome me.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘aren’t you at least going to tell me off for wearing my cap inside?’

  ‘No,’ she says, I find the fluorescent light very harsh myself. I don’t blame you.’

  I’m thrusting out my chest.

  ‘What about my T-shirt?’ I ask.

  ‘What about it?’ she says.

  ‘It’s got an offensive slogan on it,’ I say.

  Ms Livingstone laughs.

  ‘Who would be offended by that?’ she says.

  ‘Anybody who reads it, I guess,’ I say.

  ‘Well, not necessarily,’ she says. ‘Whether something is offensive is very much in the eye of the beholder. For example, in our

  culture burping is considered offensive—but in some cultures not to burp after a meal is a dire insult to the host. Once, when I was travelling in Saudi Arabia I was invited to dine with Sheik Achmed Ben Bala. It was a magnificent feast but afterwards I was almost put to death because I was unable to show my appreciation by burping.’

  The class gasps.

  ‘It wasn’t until he had the scimitar at my throat,’ she continues, ‘that I was able to reach deep within myself and produce the burp that saved my life. After three months in Saudi Arabia I became quite an expert.’

  She gulps some air and lets forth with the most earsplitting burp I’ve ever heard. It’s even louder than one of Danny’s.

  The whole class applauds. But not me. I can fake-burp any time I feel like it. It’s no big deal.

  I stomp back to my desk.

  There must be some way to annoy her. I know—I’ll ask some stupid questions.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Livingstone,’ I say without putting my hand up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you ever been to Germany?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I have.’

  ‘Do people get sick a lot in Germany?’

  ‘No more than other places, I expect,’ she says. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just thought with all the germs and everything . . .’

  The class erupts with laughter.

  One to me.

  Ms Livingstone runs her hand through her hair.

  ‘Well, that’s actually a very interesting question you’ve raised, Andy,’ she says. ‘Standards of health vary all over the world. For instance, when I was living with the Eskimos, I noticed that . . .’

  Danny leans forward.

  ‘You lived with Eskimos?’ he says. ‘In an igloo?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘I was part of an expedition searching for the Abominable Snowman.’

  The whole class is silent while she explains. One to her.

  ‘Dan,’ I say. ‘Dan!’

  But he can’t hear me. He’s too involved in Ms Livingstone’s story. To tell you the truth, it is quite interesting. Especially the stuff about falling into the crevasse and trying to light a fire with only one match and a handful of wet wood—but that’s not the point. We want to be expelled! Or at least I do. Danny can stay here if he wants. I’ve got things to do, places to be. I’m not sure what they are yet but I’ll think of something.

  I might as well stop beating around the bush.

  ‘Ms Livingstone?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, Andy?’

  ‘Can I be expelled?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Andy, but I don’t have the power to do that. That’s a matter for the principal.’

  ‘Can you send me to him?’ I say.

  ‘But why?’ she says. ‘What have you done wrong? What rules have you broken?’

  ‘What rules haven’t I broken!’ I say, getting out my school diary. I start reading: ‘“No leaning back on chairs. No feet on tables. No hats inside. No offensive slogans on clothing. No eating in class. Show respect to teachers. Show respect to fellow students and their property. No Walkmans. No banging. No tapping. No spitballs.” I’ve broken every rule there is and it’s not even recess!’

  Ms Livingstone stands there thinking. She’s got to send me to the principal’s office now. She has no choice.

  ‘Rules are very interesting things,’ she says. ‘It is important to have rules and laws and to obey them . . . but it is also important to know when to break them. In fact, sometimes, your life can depend on not obeying a rule or a law.’

  Uh-oh, here we go again.

  ‘For instance,’ she continues, ‘in most societies there are laws against cannibalism, and yet when the light aeroplane I and my husband were piloting crashed in the Andes and I was stranded for three months without food, I had to decide whether I was going to observe that law and face certain death, or break the law in order to survive.’

  Ms Livingstone pauses. Everybody is listening now. Even me.

  ‘You had to eat your husband?’ I say.

  She stares wistfully into the distance. Tears form in the corners of her eyes. She brushes them away.

  ‘Perhaps now is not the right time to talk about it,’ she says. ‘All I’m saying is that sometimes rules have to be broken.’

  I check the fingers on her left hand. She’s wearing a wedding ring. What a phoney. I bet she didn’t really eat her husband. I bet she had a secret stash of muesli bars or something and she’s just pretending that she ate her husband. She’s a fake.

  ‘I thought this morning that I might introduce myself by showing you some slides of my most recent travels,’ she says. ‘Can somebody help me to set up the projector and the screen?’

  ‘I will!’ says Danny. He practically leaps out of his seat and runs to th
e cupboard to get the screen out. Definitely not the sort of behaviour that’s going to get him expelled.

  While he sets up the screen I lean back on my chair, turn up my Walkman full blast, drum on the table with my hands and sing the guitar solos at the top of my voice.

  Ms Livingstone doesn’t kick me out though. She’s saying something to the class. She points at me. They all look across and laugh. Even Lisa. I don’t know what Ms Livingstone said but I don’t think they’re laughing with me any more. They’re laughing at me. Another one to her.

  She turns the lights out and shows a slide of herself rowing a canoe down a river. On either side of the river is thick jungle.

  I pick up my spitball shooter. The thing I really like about slide shows is that they give you a chance to practise precision spitball shooting. You only get a little bit of time to hit each target before the next slide appears. I take a deep breath and aim my shooter at Ms Livingstone’s pith helmet.

  Damn. Too hard. I’ve blown the shooter right out of my hand. It’s landed up near the front of the room.

  I get out of my seat and walk down the aisle to retrieve it.

  Suddenly there’s an enormous crash. I’ve tripped over the projector cord and knocked the slide projector off the table.

  Silence.

  Ms Livingstone turns the lights on. She stares at me.

  ‘Please don’t feel bad, Andy,’ she says. ‘It’s time for a new projector anyway. That’s just the excuse I needed to update. I’ve always wanted one with a remote-control wheel, but while the other projector still worked I just couldn’t justify the expense.’

  I pick up my spitball shooter and go back to my desk. Looks like getting sent to the principal’s office is going to be harder than I thought. I’ve still got one last weapon though. Blood capsules!

  I take two out of my pocket.

  ‘Danny,’ I say, ‘pretend to punch me in the mouth.’