by R. A. Spratt
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Mr Popov. Just then the bell rang, it was the end of class. ‘Go on. Get out, all of you. I hope you learned something.’
‘I didn’t learn much,’ said April. ‘But to be fair, I learned more than I usually do in PE.’
Maths had not gone well for Joe. His teacher had been kind enough, but she was one of those young enthusiastic teachers who still believed in teaching students. So before the lesson began she asked Joe several questions to work out how much he knew about maths. Joe was not a great maths scholar, but even when he knew the correct answer to a question he had the blanket policy of saying ‘I don’t know.’ He found that failing was much less humiliating than trying and failing. And if you said the words often enough, teachers got tired of you and didn’t bother asking anymore.
Unfortunately, Miss Willard had a lot of stamina. She didn’t give up after three or four questions. She seemed genuinely concerned about Joe’s degree of ignorance. She asked no less than twenty-three targeted questions attempting to gauge Joe’s amount of knowledge in all the different areas of mathematics. But whether it was algebra, geometry, measuring, long division or even the simple times tables, Joe always answered, ‘I d-d-don’t know.’
What made it worse, every time he said those words he heard girls giggling and snickering right behind him.
Eventually it occurred to Miss Willard that Joe may have a learning difficulty and that it was cruel of her to keep up the questioning, so she stopped and was just kind, speaking slowly if he looked more confused than normal. For Joe, the kindness made it worse. He knew he was being a coward and letting his nice new teacher down. He wasn’t sure which he hated more – maths or himself. He just knew he felt terrible. Like he’d swallowed a brick. He felt sick and heavy.
On the bright side, everyone in his class now thought Joe was a total moron. So at least he wouldn’t have to make small talk at recess. Everyone would avoid him in case dim-wittedness was contagious.
When the bell rang, Joe scraped his stuff into his bag and followed the others down to the oval. No one talked to him along the way. He stared at his shoes so he wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone and see the look of pity in their eyes.
When they arrived at the oval for PE Mr Popov took the roll. ‘Nichols … Palmer … Peski.’ His head snapped up. He soon spotted Joe. He was the only one in a tie and collared shirt. Everyone else was wearing their sport uniform.
‘Joe Peski?’ asked Mr Popov.
‘Yes,’ said Joe warily.
Mr Popov glared hard at Joe. ‘I just had a lesson with your little brother and sister.’
‘S-Sorry,’ said Joe. No one knew more than him how annoying his siblings could be.
‘I’ll not put up with any funny business,’ snapped Mr Popov.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Joe.
‘Are you being sarcastic?’ demanded Mr Popov. He had taught in a public school for fourteen years and no one had ever called him ‘sir’ before.
‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Just p-polite.’
‘Well, cut it out,’ warned Mr Popov.
‘I thought we weren’t in your class today,’ said Roger, a tall athletic boy. ‘We’re with the bowls coach on Tuesdays.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Mr Popov. ‘I wrote the schedule.’ He turned on Joe again. ‘Now I’m aware that you and your family have no respect for our traditions here at Currawong High School, but it is an honour for us to have a great bowls master like Coach Voss coaching our team. I will not tolerate you showing any disrespect.’
Joe was confused how his attempt at respect had been interpreted as disrespect. April and Fin must have been extremely annoying in their earlier lesson. He was about to say ‘Yes, sir,’ but he was frightened how Mr Popov would take it so he just nodded instead.
‘All right,’ said Mr Popov, relenting slightly. ‘Give me your shoes.’
Joe was alarmed. He did not like to take his shoes off. He had seriously large feet and he knew people were often startled and stared when they saw them. He glanced across at the girls who had been laughing at him in maths. He couldn’t remember when he last cut his toenails. It can’t have been any time recently.
The problem with never taking your shoes off is it means that your feet never get a tan, plus the lack of ventilation between your toes can cause fungus to grow, and fungus smells. So the last thing Joe wanted to do, when his classmates already thought he was a nitwit, was take out his giant pale stinky feet.
‘Why?’ asked Joe. He couldn’t imagine Mr Popov’s motivation. From the context of the conversation it was as if Mr Popov wanted to keep them as a deposit to ensure Joe’s politeness.
‘Because they’re regular shoes,’ said Mr Popov. ‘The school gardener, he works tirelessly to ensure the quality surface of our lawn bowls greens. You can’t just wander about on them in street shoes. Come on, hand them over. Coach Voss is waiting.’
Everyone in the class was watching Joe now to see what he would do. Joe considered running away, but it would be hard to break through the thirty students standing round him. Plus if you are going to run away from a teacher, it’s probably best not to choose your PE teacher. They can most likely run faster than any maths, physics or English teacher.
Joe stood on the back of his left shoe and pulled his foot out. Then did the same with his right. He looked around. Everyone was still watching him. Mr Popov had his arms folded and was tapping his bicep impatiently. Joe bent over and pulled off his left sock. He definitely heard gasps. He pulled off his right sock. This time he could have sworn he heard a girl gag. Joe stuffed the socks in his shoes and handed them to Mr Popov.
Mr Popov took the shoes but he was still staring at Joe’s feet. ‘Are you good at swimming?’ he asked.
Joe looked down. He could see his teacher’s line of thought. His feet did look like flippers, but not the elegant type you see on birds or dolphins. His feet were more like the flippers you see on aliens in horror movies that emerge from protoplasmic goo to suck a human’s brains out.
‘No,’ said Joe. This was a lie. He was actually very good at swimming, but he didn’t want the PE teacher to start encouraging him or taking him under his wing.
‘All right,’ said Mr Popov with a shrug. ‘You’d better get down to the greens.’
The class shuffled off past the change rooms. As Joe turned the corner he saw two immaculately manicured lawn bowl greens. Unlike everything else at the school that was old and worn down, these greens were clearly lovingly maintained. A bust of Roland Guthrie, former student and lawn bowls champion, stood over the greens as if ready to watch their play.
Standing next to the statue was a man who looked like a statue himself. He was very still and grey. He wore brown cord pants, a short-sleeved collared shirt and a tie with a tie pin. On his head he wore a terry towelling bucket hat. This must be Coach Voss.
The other students grew silent as they approached him. He seemed to capture instant and total respect in the manner you would normally associate with an ancient samurai master. He combined wisdom and a stillness that hinted at great athletic ability despite his age. Coach Voss didn’t say anything. He just nodded once. The students clearly knew what this meant. They hurried off, breaking into groups of four and taking out equipment from nearby trunks.
Joe watched, bewildered.
‘New?’ asked Coach Voss.
Joe nodded.
‘Mmm,’ said Coach Voss.
Joe waited for him to say more, but it didn’t appear likely. Apparently Coach Voss was a man of few words. Joe looked about wondering if he should just copy what everyone else was doing, or if he should make a run for it. Coach Voss was clearly very old. Joe could definitely out-run this teacher.
‘Played before?’ asked the coach.
Joe shook his head.
Coach Voss pointed at a group of girls nearby who had started playing. ‘Bowl the black ball at the white ball.’ Joe watched what the girls were doing. He had been tenpin bowling
before and this looked like a similar action, only not as aggressive because the ball weighed fifteen kilos less.
‘But,’ said the coach, holding up his finger to get Joe’s full attention. ‘The black ball goes in a curve.’
Joe’s brow furrowed. That didn’t happen at tenpin bowling.
‘Try,’ said Coach Voss, pointing to a group nearby who only had three players. They looked deflated to be lumbered with Joe, but he went over to join them. Joe watched another boy closely – the way he raised his back hand high before swinging his arm in a pendulum motion, releasing the ball millimetres above the grass.
Joe picked up his own ball, ready to give it a go. He could feel the lop-sided weight that would give it its curve. He looked at the white ball ten metres away, stepped into a lunge, raised his arm back and released.
The black bowl rolled quickly across the perfectly flat grass, arcing away, then back towards the white ball. It slowed more and more until it finally stopped, paused, then fell the last centimetre until it touched the white ball.
Joe stood up and looked around. Everyone was watching him in open-mouthed awe. Coach Voss was right behind him. Joe waited for the coach to speak, but he didn’t say a word. He just picked up another bowl and handed it to Joe.
‘Again,’ said the coach.
Joe turned back to face the white ball and he did it again. He lunged, swung and rolled, and the bowl did the same thing too. It gently arced away then back, slowing down until it came to a stop so it was touching both the white and the other black ball.
When Joe turned around Coach Voss already had another bowl. He held it out to Joe.
‘Other way,’ he said, handing Joe the bowl so that the weight was on the opposite side.
Joe turned back and bowled. The black ball arced out to the left then back in, slowing down until it stopped on the other side of the white ball. Now all three of Joe’s bowls were in contact with it. There was a babble of excitement from the students behind him.
Joe turned to face Coach Voss. The class hushed. They were all waiting to hear what their coach would say.
Coach Voss’s lips twitched at the corners ever so briefly, almost as if some of his facial muscles had considered smiling, then thought better of it. Instead he held out his hand. Joe took it. ‘Well bowled,’ said the coach. Then the rest of the class burst into rapturous applause.
Suddenly everyone was slapping Joe on the back, shaking his hand, even hugging him. Joe had no idea what had just happened.
‘I’ve had three official complaints about you,’ said Mr Lang.
It was after school. April and Fin had been pulled aside in the corridor to talk to the guidance counsellor. Other students were rushing off to catch buses and go to their after-school activities, but Fin, April and Pumpkin were stuck in the corridor, every word of their conversation echoing off the pale blue linoleum.
‘But we haven’t done anything wrong!’ protested April.
‘Poor attitude, wrong uniform, physical assault,’ said Mr Lang, ticking the complaints off on his fingers.
‘We didn’t assault anyone,’ said April.
‘Matilda Voss-Nevers has carpet burn on her face,’ said Mr Lang.
‘That was only a bit of light wrestling,’ said April.
‘Her chiropractor says she has strained her shoulder ligaments,’ said Mr Lang.
‘Well, she was cheating in a cockroach race!’ said April. ‘You should think about bringing in a team of psychologists. You seem to have a very high level of students with no grasp on reality.’
‘They’re all nuts,’ agreed Fin.
‘Yes, I suppose I could try to alter the mentality of all six hundred students at the school,’ said the counsellor. ‘Alternatively, you two could make an effort to fit in.’
‘Come on,’ said April. ‘You can’t expect us to change when everyone here is totally cracked!’
‘If you moved to a school in a different country, you would respect the local culture and traditional customs,’ said Mr Lang calmly. ‘It’s just polite. You should do the same here.’
‘To be fair,’ said Fin. ‘April wouldn’t be polite or respectful anywhere.’
‘And then there’s your dog. You have to keep him under control,’ continued Mr Lang.
‘Pumpkin is perfectly behaved!’ argued April.
Pumpkin immediately contradicted this by grabbing hold of Mr Lang’s trouser leg and tearing a hole in the fabric when the counsellor tried to shake the dog off.
‘He’s very protective,’ said April. ‘Aren’t you, sweetheart?’
Pumpkin proudly allowed himself to be patted.
‘Your brother Joe hasn’t had any trouble fitting in,’ said Mr Lang. ‘Coach Voss says he’s the most naturally talented lawn bowler he’s ever seen, which is actually the most I’ve ever heard Coach Voss say. Not a chatty man.’
‘What?’ said Fin. ‘Joe has managed to fit in?’
‘The kids here have a lot of respect for sporting prowess,’ said Mr Lang.
‘Joe has prowess?!’ marvelled Fin.
‘But lawn bowls isn’t a real sport,’ said April. ‘It’s just for old people.’
Mr Lang’s eyes gaped in horror. ‘Shhh, don’t say that. Someone might hear you.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said April, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Look, I like Joe because he’s my brother.’
‘You do?’ said Fin. ‘You’ve never liked me.’
‘You’re more annoying,’ said April. ‘But I can’t imagine how Joe would be popular. He’s just a big lunk. And he smells. I know all teenage boys smell, but Joe smells more because he’s so big there’s more of him to be smelly.’
The counsellor opened his folder and took out the entry forms again. ‘Just enter the cockroach races. It will do you good. You’ll get to know the other students. They’ll get to know you. You’ll have a shared interest.’
‘But …’ began April.
‘No buts!’ snapped the counsellor. Pumpkin growled. The counsellor glared back and Pumpkin went quiet. ‘We tried doing things your way. It didn’t work. Now we’re doing things my way. Fill out the forms, hand them in at the front office, then go home and catch yourself a cockroach. That’s an order.’
April stared at Mr Lang mutinously. She had never attempted wrestling a school staff member before, but she was considering giving it a shot.
Fin reached forward and took both forms.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t let Joe be more popular than us. He’ll be gracious and kind about it. And that will only make it worse.’
When they got home April and Fin set to work looking for cockroaches. It was a lot harder than they imagined. They searched down the back of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out the kickboard and even dragged out the refrigerator from the wall so they could look behind it. Nothing. They did find a spider but it didn’t last long because Pumpkin ate it.
‘I thought there were supposed to be thousands of cockroaches in every home,’ said April.
‘They’re just good at hiding,’ said Fin. ‘They’re thigmotropic.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked April.
‘They like to be touching as many surfaces as possible,’ said Fin. ‘So they squeeze themselves into tiny spaces. I read somewhere that they particularly like to live inside microwaves.’
‘But they’d be cooked,’ said April.
‘Only in the oven part,’ said Fin. ‘Inside the panelling it’s nice and warm, there’s lots of delicious cooking grease nearby and there are loads of crevasses to hide in.’
April looked at their father’s microwave. She had an evil gleam in her eye. ‘Let’s open it up.’
‘Do you think Dad will mind?’ asked Fin.
‘Only if he notices,’ said April. ‘He’s been shut in his office since we got home from school. We could be testing a thermonuclear device in here and he wouldn’t know about it.’
‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Fin. ‘If we were testing a nuclear devic
e, he’d be dead from the radiation poisoning.’
April was already rifling through the cutlery drawers, looking for something she could use to prise open the microwave. Fortunately, their father was not good at cooking, so he kept a lot of mechanical tools in them. April soon found a variety of screwdrivers, spanners and pliers, but the implements she took up were a chisel and heavy mallet.
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ asked Fin, as he watched his sister start attacking the microwave.
‘No,’ said April, panting between heavy blows of the mallet. The metal began to buckle under the point of the chisel and the plastic fronting soon tore away and cracked. April grabbed hold of this and pulled, completely separating the digital keypad from the backing.
They both peered at the electronics within.
‘Can you see anything?’ asked Fin.
‘Just the inside of a microwave,’ said April.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Dad, bursting into the kitchen and startling April and Fin. ‘Did you find a listening device in the microwave? Or a hidden camera?’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Is someone watching us?’
‘Um, I’m tempted to say “yes”,’ said April.
‘We’re looking for cockroaches,’ said Fin. ‘We need one to enter in the cockroach races.’
Their father looked horrified. He staggered back a step. ‘Cockroaches!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are none in this house. I have it thoroughly sprayed four times a year by pest controllers.’
‘Isn’t that a bit excessive?’ asked April. ‘I don’t think Mum ever had our house sprayed.’
‘They’re horrible disease-carrying creatures,’ said Dad. ‘I won’t have them here!’
‘But you’re a gardener,’ said April. ‘Aren’t you used to bugs?’
‘I hate them all,’ said Dad. ‘Aphids eat my roses, centipedes destroy my strawberries and butterflies are a nightmare.’
‘Butterflies are pretty,’ said April, who wasn’t usually a connoisseur of beauty, but even she could appreciate they were nice.
‘Butterflies are the worst!’ exploded Dad. ‘They destroyed the new growth on my citrus last autumn.’
