This is turning out to be the best night of my life. A food fight in a fancy restaurant and a kiss from Natasha Teasedale.
Dad steps between Danny and me. ‘I helped too,’ he says. He closes his eyes and puts his head forward. Mum pulls him back by the arm.
‘No you don’t,’ she says, giving him one of her withering looks.
Natasha giggles. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she says to me. ‘Don’t you want your reward?’
I close my eyes. Life doesn’t get any better than this.
WHACK!
I feel a sharp pain on the top of my head.
I open my eyes.
She’s holding a breadstick in her hand.
‘That’s for setting my hair on fire,’ she says.
‘But . . .’
She raises the breadstick and brings it down again.
WHACK!
‘And that’s for throwing beer in my face!’
Danny is bent over double laughing.
‘Something funny?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ says Danny. ‘You are. That was brilliant. He had it coming.’
‘You want to see it again?’ she says, raising the breadstick above her head in a two-handed grip.
‘Yes please!’ says Danny.
WHACK!
She brings the breadstick down again, but this time not on my head—on Danny’s. He’s not laughing any more. Just standing there with the bottle of champagne in his hand, looking dazed. Natasha drops the breadstick and heads for the door. The waiter runs after her.
‘Madamoiselle Teasedale,’ he says. ‘I am so sorry!’
She stops and turns around.
‘It’s okay,’ she says.
‘No, it is not okay,’ he says. ‘It is not okay at all.’
‘No, you’re right,’ she says. ‘It isn’t.’ She walks back to her breadstick, picks it up and clocks the waiter over the head.
Boy, that’s some temper she’s got. But it’s understandable, what with the pressure of being so famous and having to learn all those lines and act and sign autographs and everything.
She’s about to go through the door. Suddenly there is a loud pop. It’s Danny’s champagne bottle.
‘Oops,’ says Danny.
The cork fires out and hits Natasha fair and square on the side of the head. It ricochets and shoots straight up into the chandelier. The chandelier blows apart and beads of polished glass rain down over the restaurant. It is a beautiful end to a brilliant performance.
Natasha stops, straightens her shoulders, turns around and gives us a look even more withering than one of Mum’s withering looks. Then she turns and walks out of the restaurant without saying a word.
Wow.
What a professional.
What dignity.
What poise.
You’ve got to hand it to her. She’s had her hair set on fire, beer thrown in her face, fruit salad tipped all over her, broken up with her boyfriend and just taken a direct hit in the side of the head from a champagne cork, and yet she can still walk out of the restaurant with style.
She’s a great actress. There’s no doubt about it. And if I ever see her again I’m going to tell her that.
‘m standing at the entrance to the park, trying to decide whether to go in. I know it’s dangerous but I want to get home before the rain starts again and I’ll get there a lot quicker if I cut through the park. I hear thunder. I decide to risk it.
I walk through the gate.
I’m not sure if this was such a good idea after all. There are snails all over the gravel path. I have to walk very slowly to avoid stepping on them. If there’s one sound I hate, it’s the sound of a snail shell being crushed. I reckon I hate the sound even more than the snail does.
But so far so good.
I’ve almost made it to the pond in the middle of the park. No crushed snails and, even better, no sign of my enemy. I look up at the old gum tree just to make sure.
But it’s there.
The mad magpie.
Waiting.
For me.
I look around to make sure there is nobody else in the park. The place is deserted. That’s good.
I open my bag, take out an ice-cream container and put it on my head. I know it’s not a good look, but it’s better than having a hole pecked in the top of my skull. That’s not a particularly good look either.
I take a deep breath and start running.
There is an explosion of swooping, flapping and clicking around my ears.
Even though I’ve got my container helmet on I’m still scared. What if the magpie goes for my eyes? What if it pecks them out and feeds them to its babies? I’ll be able to see myself being eaten.
The magpie seems to be everywhere at once.
There is an especially hard whack on the side of the container.
I stagger sideways.
CRUNCH!
I look down at a grey and brown pasty mess.
A snail! I stood on a snail!
I look up at the magpie. It’s getting ready to swoop me again.
‘All right,’ I yell, ‘you asked for it!’
I reach into my bag and pull out my gun.
The magpie is swooping down fast.
I point the gun at it. My hand is shaking. I steady it with my other hand and squeeze the trigger.
POW! POW! POW!
The magpie veers steeply into the air and flies back towards its tree. It’s only a cap gun, but the magpie doesn’t know that. I blow the end of the gun and slide it into my pocket.
I kneel down and look at the snail. It is blowing bubbles. It’s alive.
I’ve crushed its shell, but not completely. The basic shape is still there. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . I could put it back together again. Like a jigsaw puzzle. It’s worth a try.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘But don’t worry—I think I can rebuild you.’
The snail blows a little green bubble.
That’s a good sign. Well, I think it is—sometimes it’s hard to tell with snails.
There’s a picnic table near the pond. I can use it for the operation. I take my library card out of my pocket. I slide it slowly underneath the snail and lift it up.
The magpie is nowhere to be seen, but I put my hand over the top of the snail to protect it, just in case the magpie tries to launch a surprise attack. I run, crouching at the same time. This is a war zone.
We make it safely to the table. The top of the table is wet and dirty. I fish around in my pocket and find a handkerchief. It’s got a huge blob of old chewing gum stuck to it. I was saving it for an emergency—and here it is.
I lay the handkerchief out flat on the table. I bet real surgeons don’t have to work under these conditions.
I ease the snail off my library card and onto the handkerchief.
Luckily I’ve got a glue-stick in my bag. I get it out, but it’s hard to know exactly how to start. The glue-stick is jumbo-sized and the pieces of snail shell are so tiny. And the edges are so thin.
I look over at the gum tree to check on the magpie. I can’t see it, but I notice that the gum tree has long white pieces of papery bark curling off it. It gives me an idea. I could smear glue onto the bark, wrap it around the snail, and use the strands of chewing gum to hold it all together while the glue dries. Just like a plaster cast.
‘Stay there,’ I say to the snail. ‘I’ll be right back.’
I sprint across to the tree.
The bark is wet. I rip a few sheets off to get to the dry stuff underneath.
‘Hey you!’ says a voice behind me. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’
I turn around.
A man in green overalls is sitting in what looks like a little golf buggy. He must be the gardener.
‘What sign?’ I say, backing away from the tree and up onto the grass.
‘That sign,’ he says pointing at the base of the tree.
I look at the little sign. It says KEEP OFF THE GARDEN.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I j
ust needed some bark.’
‘So does the tree,’ says the gardener. ‘In fact, the tree needs it a whole lot more than you do.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for a snail . . .’
But the gardener is not interested in my explanation. He’s already tearing off across the grass in search of more criminals.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got the bark. I head back towards the table.
I realise I’m still wearing the container on my head. How embarrassing!
I go to take it off, but suddenly the air is filled with the sound of flapping and clicking. It’s the magpie! Back already. I start ducking and weaving, but it doesn’t try to attack me.
I look up. The magpie is heading back to its nest. What was that all about?
I reach the table.
I don’t believe it.
The snail is gone!
I know what that magpie was up to. It was on a snail-stealing raid. My poor snail is about to become baby magpie food.
But not if I can help it.
I run to the tree and start climbing.
The magpie goes berserk. I bet nobody has ever dared come this close to its nest before. The bird does a mid-air U-turn and zeros in on me.
I see a small blob falling through the air. My snail!
It splashes into the pond.
This is terrible. The pond is full of goldfish! My snail is in even more danger than before.
I pull my gun out of my pocket and fire it at the magpie. The magpie flees skywards.
I run to the edge of the pond. There’s something going on in the middle. The fish are all in the one spot. They’re probably fighting over who’s going to eat my snail.
I take off my shoes and roll up my pants. I’m about to wade in when I hear the sound of a motor behind me.
‘Hey you!’ says the gardener through a megaphone. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’
‘What sign?’ I say.
He points to the sign on the side of the pond. It says NO SWIMMING.
‘But my snail!’ I say. ‘I have to save my snail!’
‘I don’t care if you have to save your mother!’ he says. ‘The sign says no swimming!’
He tears off again before I can argue. I’m getting really sick of this man and his stupid signs. He just doesn’t get it. This is not about saving my mother. This is an emergency. This is about saving my snail. If it’s not already too late, that is.
I kneel down and lean forward to look into the pond. The ice-cream container falls off my head and splashes into the water. The fish scatter. I have a brilliant idea. I can use the container to scoop the fish up. I look around to check there’s no signs that say NO SCOOPING. No—only one that says NO FISHING. But I’m not going to fish—I’m going to scoop. I grab the container and use it to try to catch the fish, but I can’t reach them. The pond’s too deep.
Then I have another brilliant idea. I go over to the NO FISHING sign. It is nailed to a wooden stake. I pull the stake out of the ground and remove the sign. I take out the nail and use it to attach my container to the stake. I now have a scoop that can reach right into the middle of the pond. And best of all, I won’t be breaking any rules. As far as I can see there is no sign around here saying DO NOT DISMANTLE THE NO FISHING SIGN AND TURN IT INTO A SCOOP.
I scoop my container into the pond and catch two of the biggest and fattest goldfish I can find. One of the fish has big ugly boggle eyes. I pick it up. I peer into the fish’s gaping mouth. My snail is stuck in its throat. No wonder the fish’s eyes are boggling.
Now I’ve got the snail—all I have to do is to get it out of the fish. But how? Tickle it? Tell it a joke and make it laugh? What sort of jokes do fish find funny? I’m trying to think of a fish joke when the fish wriggles out of my hand and falls to the ground. It flip-flops around on the grass and the snail pops out of its mouth.
I throw the fish back into the pond and rush my snail to the operating table.
Amazingly, most of the snail’s shell is still there. But there’s no time to lose.
I paste little pieces of paperbark over the broken pieces of shell to help hold it all together. I tear some small bits of green plastic off the cover of my school diary and use them to replace the missing pieces of shell.
I stand back and admire my work. Looks cool. A brown and green snail. And not only does it look good, it’s great camouflage as well. The other snails are going to be so jealous.
My snail seems pretty happy with its new shell too. It’s frothing and bubbling with excitement. Well, frothing and bubbling anyway. Like I said, it’s hard to tell with snails.
I wrap long strands of chewing gum around the snail’s shell to hold it all together while the glue dries.
Done. Good as new. Better than new. And stronger. I reckon I could whack this snail with a hammer and the hammer would just bounce off. Not that I’m actually going to try it. I’ve put this snail through enough trauma for one day.
I put the snail down in the grass and kneel beside it.
‘Go now, little snail,’ I whisper. I want to say more. I want to tell it how sorry I am and that I will never step on another snail for as long as I live. I want to tell it that I will dedicate my life to fighting for the rights of snails so that they can travel the footpaths of the world free from the fear of being stepped on. But I can’t say any of this. I’m too choked up.
As I watch it begin its slide to freedom I feel a mixture of awe and pride. I’m like those people who save beached whales. Only I’ve done more than just save the snail, I’ve improved it.
I’m still waving goodbye to the snail half an hour later when I hear the golf buggy again.
I look up.
Uh-oh. The gardener is over at the pond, looking at my ice-cream container scoop. I left it beside the pond. And the other fish is still in it. Oops!
‘What’s this fish doing in here?’ he says.
‘Um . . . would you believe it jumped?’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t believe me because it was pretty incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It just leapt out of the water and landed in the container.’
From the look on his face it is obvious he doesn’t believe me.
He picks up my scoop.
‘Can’t you read the sign?’ he barks. He points to where the NO FISHING sign was. He looks. No sign. He looks at the wooden stake in his hand. He looks at the NO FISHING sign lying on the grass.
He turns back to me. His eyes are bulging. He looks a bit like one of the fish. He pours the water and the fish back into the pond and wrenches the container off the wooden stake.
‘All right, you troublemaker,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough. I want you out of my park!’
‘But you don’t understand,’ I say.
‘No you don’t understand!’ he says. ‘This park is my responsibility. All the plants and animals here are in my care and you are threatening their wellbeing!’
‘But I saved a snail,’ I say.
He is not listening. He is walking towards me slowly, still holding the wooden stake. He slaps it into the palm of his hand.
‘Are you going to leave or do I have to make you?’ he says.
‘Now don’t do anything you might regret,’ I say, backing away slowly.
‘Oh, I won’t regret it,’ he says, slapping his hand with the stake again.
I reach for my gun.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ I say, pointing it at him.
He laughs and keeps right on coming.
I squeeze the trigger. Nothing.
I squeeze it again. Still nothing.
Drat! Out of caps.
I’m about to step back when something stops me. I look behind me.
My snail.
If I step back I’ll squash it. Again. But if I don’t take the step the gardener will get me for sure.
It’s me or the snail. I have to take that step. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I made a promi
se.
The gardener grabs my collar.
‘Gotcha!’ he says.
I suppose there are worse ways to die than being strangled by an insane gardener. I’m not sure what they are right at the moment, but I’m sure they exist.
Suddenly there is a flurry of white and black. Clicking and flapping. The magpie! I knew there was a worse way to die.
I can’t run because the gardener is holding my collar so tight. I close my eyes and get ready to accept my fate. Any moment that enormous black beak will penetrate my skull and it will all be over. I hope I go to heaven and get a pair of angel wings. First thing I’ll do is come back to the park and divebomb the magpie. See how much it likes it.
What’s taking so long?
I open my eyes. Just in time to see the magpie score a direct hit. But not on me. On the gardener.
He screams. He lets go of my collar and starts running. The magpie flies up into the air, circles and prepares to swoop him again.
It is a beautiful sight. Almost as beautiful as the sight of my snail still sliding slowly across the grass to freedom. But not quite. Nothing can compare to that.
oices.
I hear voices.
I open my eyes.
Everything’s blurred.
I close my eyes and open them again.
Round shapes against a white sky. But still blurred. And my head hurts.
I feel a hand shaking my shoulder. The two round shapes merge into one and a face appears. It comes in close. I try to make out who it is but the face does not look familiar to me.
‘Andy!’ says the face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Who’s Andy?’ I say.
‘You’re Andy,’ says the face.
‘Who are you?’ I say.
‘You know me!’ says the face. ‘I’m Danny. Your best friend. You just got hit in the head. Don’t you remember? We were trying to make a jack-in-the-box. You were just about to test it, but it went off in your face. I can’t believe you don’t remember it.’
Just Stupid! Page 6
