There was another round of applause.
I was fully awake now.
Five hundred thousand kilos of brute garbage-compacting force?
I could use that!
As if reading my mind, Principal Greenbeard chose that moment to remind us all that Mr Spade’s shed—and the Mighty Boy Garbage Compactor—was strictly out of bounds. ‘Any scurvy dogs breaking this rule will be thrown into the brig and will go without food and water for a week. Do I make myself clear?’
We all nodded.
‘I’d also like to take this opportunity to welcome Fred and Clive Durkin back to school after their recent accident. We wish you both a speedy recovery.’
I turned around.
Sure enough, Fred and Clive were sitting a few rows behind me. Clive had his leg in plaster, and Fred had his arm in a sling.
There was a round of applause to welcome them back, but I didn’t join in.
Jenny elbowed me. ‘Henry!’ she said. ‘You’re not being very nice!’
‘They’ve never been very nice to me,’ I pointed out.
Jenny sighed.
‘Who are Clive and Fred?’ asked Jack.
‘They’re not very nice,’ I explained.
‘Henry!’ said Jenny.
I shrugged.
‘Now we shall all sing the school song,’ said Principal Greenbeard.
Now this was something we did like.
We all joined in a rousing version of ‘The Good Ship Lollipop’, except that when we got to the word ‘lollipop’ we sang ‘Northwest Southeast Central’ instead.
It was pretty crazy, but we all enjoyed it. In fact, it was definitely the best thing about school assemblies.
I patted the pencil in my pocket.
‘We’re going on a little trip, you and me,’ I said.
44
Mighty Boy
As we left the hall, I overheard Principal Greenbeard inviting Mr Spade back to his office for a cup of tea.
This was my chance. I had to act fast.
I nudged Jenny.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be a little late back to class,’ I said.
‘Why?’ said Jenny.
‘I’ve got an errand to do,’ I said.
‘What sort of errand?’ said Jenny.
‘Can’t say,’ I said.
Jenny noticed me looking at Mr Spade’s shed.
She shook her head. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to do,’ she said. ‘And it’s completely against the school rules! You heard Principal Greenbeard. If you get caught in there, your life won’t be worth living!’
I told her about how I’d almost been run over by Mr Grunt’s Hummer. When I finished, Jenny nodded.
‘All right,’ she said, perhaps remembering her own experience with the pencil’s evil sense of humour. ‘But I’m coming with you.’
‘Jenny!’ I said. ‘No! I need you to cover for me in class. Besides, it’s too dangerous.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jenny, ‘too dangerous for you to do it alone. I’m coming with you and that’s that. We’ll just chuck the pencil in, turn on the compactor, and be back in class before anyone has even noticed that we’re missing.’
‘Okay,’ I said. I knew there was no point in arguing. Jenny can be really stubborn when she wants to be. And she was right—it wasn’t going to take long.
We dropped to the back of the line, and as the rest of the class turned the corner to head towards our classroom, Jenny and I turned in the opposite direction and headed for Mr Spade’s shed.
We approached it warily, making sure that nobody saw us.
After one last look around, we slipped inside.
Standing in the middle of the shed was Mr Spade’s new Mighty Boy Garbage Compactor, a solid block of gleaming steel. The specifications on the side boasted six hydraulic pistons and five hundred thousand kilos of brute garbage-compacting force. If that couldn’t deal with my pencil, then nothing could.
‘Well, what are you waiting for, Henry?’ Jenny asked. ‘Put it in!’
‘I will!’ I said, studying the control panel. ‘I’m just trying to figure out how to turn it on. Mr Spade’s got the instruction manual, remember? Where’s Grant Gadget when you need him?’
‘What about this button here?’ Jenny pointed to a large green button with the word on written on it.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I was getting to that. I was just trying to figure out how to get the pencil inside the compactor first.’
‘What about this chute?’ said Jenny. ‘The label says place small items here.’
Gee, I had to hand it to her. Jenny really knew her way around a Mighty Boy Garbage Compactor.
‘Good work,’ I said, taking the pencil out of my pocket and passing it to her. ‘You put it in and I’ll turn it on.’
Jenny took the pencil and nodded. ‘Now?’ she said.
‘Now!’
She dropped the pencil down the chute.
I pushed the button.
The compactor began to vibrate—quietly at first, and then increasing in volume until it was really humming.
And then it started to compact.
We could hear it smashing, grinding and pulverising.
I could hardly believe it. ‘It’s working!’ I yelled above the noise. ‘It’s really working! It’s destroying the pencil! At last!’
‘That’s great,’ said Jenny. ‘I just can’t help feeling a tiny bit sorry for it, though.’
‘Are you kidding?!’ I yelled. ‘That pencil was bad news! It wanted us all dead . . . and it almost succeeded . . . and you feel sorry for it?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I know I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I just can’t help it.’
We watched as the Mighty Boy compacted away. That pencil must be nothing but splinters by now, I thought.
‘Do you think it’s done yet?’ Jenny asked.
‘Yeah,’ I told her. ‘It must be. I’ll turn it off. I just can’t see where the switch is.’
‘How about this red button that says off?’ said Jenny.
‘Do you have one of these at home?’ I asked.
‘No!’ She laughed. ‘It’s just really easy to operate!’
‘Then why did it come with that enormous manual?’ I said, pushing the off button.
‘Beats me.’
Even though I’d turned it off, the Mighty Boy kept right on compacting. In fact, it seemed to be getting faster and louder. It was starting to shudder violently, so much so that it was actually moving across the floor.
I punched the off button again. And again. And again. But it still didn’t turn off.
‘Turn it off, Henry!’ Jenny screamed.
‘I’m trying to,’ I shouted back. ‘But it’s not responding.’
‘Here,’ said Jenny, pushing me out of the way. ‘Let me try!’ She pounded on the button, but there was still no response apart from it getting louder and louder.
As it moved across the floor towards us, we were being pushed back into a corner of the shed—something we didn’t notice until it was too late.
‘Henry!’ cried Jenny, hitting me on the arm. ‘We can’t get out! We’re trapped!’
I looked around. She was right. The Mighty Boy had pushed us into a corner. It was coming closer and closer.
We were going to be crushed against the wall!
‘Push!’ I yelled.
With our arms outstretched, we pushed against it as hard as we could.
It was no use. The Mighty Boy was too heavy. Too powerful. We couldn’t hold it off.
We were just sliding across the floor.
Sliding to our doom.
45
Mighty girl
That’s when we heard Gretel.
‘Henry!’ she called. ‘Jenny! Where are you?’
‘Over here!’ we called. ‘Behind the compactor!’ I don’t know how we heard her, or how she heard us above the noise, but hear us she did. The next thing we knew, she’d leaped over the top
of the machine and was standing between us.
‘I can’t leave you two alone for a minute!’ she said, pushing against the compactor with her one good hand.
‘We were just trying to get rid of the pencil!’ said Jenny.
‘Really?’ said Gretel, laughing. ‘Looks like the other way around to me!’
‘Stop laughing,’ I said. ‘This is serious!’
‘I know,’ said Gretel. ‘But so am I!’
At that, she stopped laughing and began to grimace as she pushed the machine back towards the centre of the room, despite the fact that one of her arms was in a sling.
Jenny and I looked at each other. We’d known Gretel was strong—she was the strongest person in the school—but we hadn’t known that she was this strong.
As she pushed, though, the machine seemed to go into overdrive. The grinding noise changed to a rattling and clanking sound. Smoke started pouring out of the bottom of it. Bits started falling off. First buttons, then handles, then, to our astonishment, whole panels! Nuts, bolts and springs were flying through the air.
‘Take cover!’ said Gretel. ‘I think it’s going to blow up!’
We ran for the safety of a work bench and took shelter behind it just as the Mighty Boy gave one mighty shudder and then disintegrated in front of our eyes.
We were left looking at nothing but a pile of smoking metal.
And wouldn’t you know it, lying in the middle of all that metallic rubble was the pencil.
Completely intact.
46
Killer pencil
After retrieving the pencil, we left the remains of the not-so-mighty Mighty Boy on the floor of the shed and headed back to class.
‘Poor Mr Spade,’ said Jenny. ‘He’s going to be very upset.’
‘Yes,’ said Gretel. ‘I suspect he’s going to be needing some more shore leave when he sees that mess.’
‘Poor Mr Spade?’ I said. ‘His stupid garbage compactor almost compacted us!’
‘It wasn’t Mr Spade’s fault or the compactor’s,’ Gretel pointed out. ‘It was the pencil’s!’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘That pencil is evil. It would have killed us if you hadn’t come along.’
‘You saved our lives!’ Jenny said to Gretel.
Gretel shrugged. ‘I did what I had to do.’
‘But how did you know where we were?’ Jenny asked.
‘I noticed you weren’t in class when Mr Brainfright called the roll,’ Gretel replied. ‘I answered for you, and then I asked if I could go to the bathroom. It wasn’t hard to figure out where you were. I just followed the noise!’
We managed to slip back into class without Mr Brainfright seeing us. He was involved in a deep discussion with Penny and Gina about the best food for horses.
‘It’s ice-cream, I tell you,’ he was saying. ‘Horses love ice-cream!’
‘No they don’t,’ said Gina. ‘Horses eat hay.’
‘And chaff,’ said Penny. ‘Horses love chaff.’
‘Not as much as they love ice-cream,’ said Mr Brainfright.
‘I’ve never seen a horse eating ice-cream,’ said Gina.
‘Me neither,’ Penny added.
‘That’s because they have trouble holding the sticks,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘Their hooves aren’t made for it . . .’ and so on and so on. Mr Brainfright could argue with anyone about anything.
47
Mr Brainfright’s important lesson no. 4
Horses love ice-cream but the reason you don’t see horses eating ice-cream is because they have trouble holding the sticks. Their hooves aren’t made for it.
48
A bold idea
As we sat down, Clive eyed us suspiciously. ‘Where have you all been?’ he asked.
‘Nowhere,’ I said.
‘Yes you have,’ he said. ‘You’ve been somewhere.’
‘Darn,’ I said to Jenny and Gretel. ‘He’s too smart for us!’
We went over to the reading corner where Newton was sitting.
He looked at us nervously. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not really.’
I told him about our run-in with the Mighty Boy and my near-miss with Mr Grunt’s Hummer.
Newton nodded thoughtfully. ‘So every time you try to get rid of the pencil something bad happens to you?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘And you’re trying to get rid of it because every time you draw somebody with the pencil—even if it’s a picture of something nice—something bad happens to the person?’
‘Right again.’
Newton nodded. ‘So maybe the only thing that can destroy the pencil is the pencil itself.’
‘That’s a very good idea, Newton,’ said Jenny. ‘Don’t you think so, Henry?’
‘Just one problem,’ I said. ‘I don’t think the pencil is about to destroy itself.’
‘No,’ said Newton, ‘but what if you used the pencil to draw something bad happening to the pencil?’
‘Then I’m the one who would suffer!’ I said.
‘Maybe not, Henry,’ said Gretel. ‘Not if you didn’t draw yourself—just the pencil.’
I thought about what Newton and Gretel were saying.
I could see what they were getting at . . . but it was dangerous.
I heard neighing. I turned around. Jack was on his hands and knees. Penny and Gina were riding on his back, using a skipping rope as reins.
‘Giddy-up, Ponyboy,’ said Gina. ‘Giddy-up.’
It was a sad sight. The pencil had reduced Jack to a beast of burden. And to think, he’d been the only one trying to save it!
Newton and Gretel’s idea was dangerous, sure, but it was all we had.
‘Let’s do it,’ I said, taking the pencil out of my pocket.
49
Drawing the pencil’s doom
This is what I drew.
Frame 1: The pencil lying at the bottom of a cliff.
Frame 2: A fifty million billion tonne boulder at the top of the cliff.
Frame 3: A butterfly flies past the boulder.
Frame 4: The air from the butterfly’s wings dislodges the boulder.
Frame 5: The boulder rolls off the edge of the cliff.
Frame 6: The boulder falls.
Frame 7: And falls.
Frame 8: And falls.
Frame 9: The pencil looks up.
Frame 10: The boulder smashes down on top of the pencil.
Frame 11: The boulder rolls away and all that is left of the pencil is a little pile of dust.
Frame 12: The butterfly flies past. The wind from its wings makes the pencil dust fly up into the air and disappear.
50
The pencil’s doom
‘That is so good, Henry!’ said Jenny.
‘It is,’ said Gretel. ‘Really good!’
‘I’m scared,’ said Newton, backing away from the table.
‘But it was your idea!’ I said.
‘I know,’ Newton admitted. ‘But I’m still scared. What if the pencil finds out?’
‘It won’t,’ I promised him. ‘And even if it does, it’s doomed!’
‘It’s an excellent drawing, Henry,’ said a voice behind us. ‘Better than the one that Jack drew, that’s for sure.’
We all turned around.
Clive Durkin was behind us, leaning on his crutches.
‘What do you want, Clive?’ I said.
‘Just admiring your drawing,’ he said. ‘There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘No,’ said Gretel, ‘but there is a law against snooping.’
‘I’m not snooping!’ said Clive.
‘How long have you been there?’ I asked.
‘Long enough,’ said Clive, a slight smile playing around his lips.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gretel snarled.
‘Nothing,’ said Clive, hoisting himself back onto his crutches and making his way towards his desk. ‘See ya!’
&
nbsp; ‘Well?’ said Jenny, as we watched him go. ‘What happens now?’
‘We wait,’ I told her.
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes,’ I said.
Which, as it turned out, wasn’t very long at all, thanks to Clive.
51
Mr Grunt demonstrates
Halfway through the morning we had a sport lesson with Mr Grunt.
I put the pencil in my locker, took out my sports bag and went and got changed.
It was one of Mr Grunt’s ‘demonstration’ lessons. The annual Northwest track and field competition was coming up and Mr Grunt wanted us to be thoroughly familiar with all the events.
For one hour we watched Mr Grunt demonstrate how to start a running race from the crouch position, how to shot-put, how to throw a javelin, how to throw a discus, how to high jump, how to triple jump, how to long jump and how to stand on a winner’s podium without falling off.
Then he told us all to go and get changed back into our school uniforms and that he’d demonstrate some more stuff for us in the next lesson.
It was definitely something to look forward to.
‘I’m scared,’ said Newton, as we walked back down the corridor towards our lockers.
‘What are you scared about?’ I asked.
‘What if the pencil finds out that turning its power against itself was my idea?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter what that pencil thinks anymore. It’s doomed!’
Newton didn’t look convinced. ‘I’m still scared,’ he said.
‘You can be if you want,’ I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. ‘But there’s absolutely nothing to be scared about!’
That’s when I noticed my locker door.
It was completely smashed in, covered in dents—the sort of dents that might have been made with, oh, let’s see . . . the end of a crutch!
I didn’t have to look inside the locker to know what that meant.
Our plan to turn the pencil’s power against itself had been a good plan, but what we’d forgotten was that, like the monkey’s paw wishes, the pencil’s drawings had a habit of coming true in unexpected ways.
Pencil of Doom! Page 7
