Cool School

by John Marsden

  ‘Read it out!’ some jerk yells.

  ‘We don’t want to spoil a romance, do we?’ the teacher says. ‘But on the other hand it is a good piece of creative writing.’ And then suddenly making up her mind she reads it! With all the expression she can muster. Then she says to you: ‘I’d appreciate it if you saved your love affairs for out-of-school time.’

  You slink back to your seat like a criminal. ‘But why should you feel like a criminal,’ you ask yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong.

  Sam won’t even look at you, which makes it worse.

  At recess you finally get to talk. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘But she didn’t give me any choice. Mean old cane toad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam agrees. ‘Everyone says she’s the worst teacher in the school. How would she like it if we read her mail?’

  That gives you an idea. A frightening and exciting idea. You sit up straighter.

  ‘Hey listen,’ you say, ‘I know what we can do!’

  As you explain your scheme, a look of horror comes over Sam’s face.

  ‘Gee, I don’t know about that . . . do you really think we should?’

  our mother always keeps telling you that you should think before you act. Maybe she’s right. But this time you don’t think at all. You stuff the paper into your mouth and start chewing. Big mistake!

  Ms Janzen goes berserk. She tries to pull the note back out of your mouth, but it’s all covered with spit and stuff so she has to let it go. You chew and chew while Ms Janzen keeps yelling, but you don’t even hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy trying to digest this horrible lump of paper.

  Next thing you know you’re in the Principal’s office, with Ms Janzen holding your collar. Ms Janzen tells her side of the story, in a voice so loud that it rattles the windows. The Principal asks if you have anything to say. You try to speak, but your mouth is too clogged up with paper and spit, so you just shake your head. Then the Principal and Ms Janzen take it in turns to yell at you: it’s like stereo shouters. You wonder if they’re sisters.

  It seems to last for half an hour, but eventually there’s a silence and you realise they’ve finished. You stagger out into the corridor and lean against the wall with your eyes closed. With one big swallow you get rid of the last of the paper and open your eyes.

  And to your surprise Sam is standing there. You’re not sure what’ll happen but there’s a strange look in Sam’s eyes.

  ‘Er, what is it?’ you ask.

  ‘You’re a hero,’ Sam says.

  You close your eyes again as Sam’s lips come towards yours. At the first touch of those warm lips on yours you realise you’ve just discovered perfect happiness. Life is never going to get any better than this!

  hat night your best friend chucks gravel at your window to wake you up. You’re awake anyway, after a terrible dream about being locked for days in the wrong toilet, while teachers and students crowd around outside waiting for you to come out. When you hear the gravel you tiptoe to the window and look through. It’s so late—about 11.30. What’s going on?

  ‘Having trouble with your Maths homework?’ you whisper.

  ‘No, idiot. Get some clothes on and come out here.’

  You must be an idiot, because you do it. ‘What do you want?’ you ask, when you finally get outside.

  ‘I’m bored. Let’s go have an adventure.’

  ‘An adventure? Now I know you’re crazy. We’ve got school tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t be boring. Let’s go down the cemetery.’

  You’re too tired to argue so you go along without any more fuss, but yawning all the way.

  You get into the cemetery five minutes before midnight. It’s quiet in there, too quiet. You’re not tired any more, but you wish you were.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ you whisper.

  ‘Nah, what’s the matter? Are you a coward?’

  A church clock in the distance strikes midnight. As it finishes you see a ghostly figure appear through the wall of the graveyard. You grab your friend’s arm: you’re both shaking so much you’re scared your teeth will fall out. Then you recognise the figure in the distance.

  It’s Sam Jarre!

  ‘It’s Sam Jarre!’

  ‘I know, I know!’

  Sam goes to a stone crypt in a corner of the cemetery. It’s the oldest, coldest, loneliest part of the whole place. Sam seems to float over there, then disappear into the crypt. You know your hair’s standing up like it’s been gelled.

  ‘I don’t want to be here. Let’s go play in the crocodile pond at the zoo,’ you say. ‘It’s safer there.’

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ your friend replies. ‘Let’s check it out.’

  wenty years have passed. You’re now a dentist, living in the suburbs with your dog, three guinea pigs, seventeen goldfish and an albino aardvark.

  You haven’t married: somehow you’ve never found the right person.

  Life’s pretty dull. Your idea of a good time is to video episodes of ‘Mr Squiggle’ and watch them in slow motion.

  You pick up a newspaper. The front page photo is of Sam Jarre. Sam’s been living in Hollywood for eight years. A successful modelling career led to an acting career, playing opposite the biggest names in the motion picture industry. The photo is of Sam accepting another Academy Award: that’s three in a row. Sam charges five million bucks to make a movie now, mixes with the most famous people, has holidays in the Bahamas, is in every magazine, and does ads for Nike.

  As you cook your evening meal—pumpkin, broccoli, beans and porridge—you start dreaming of what might have been. As Sam’s partner, you could have shared that life. You could have been arriving in a limo at those Oscars last night, stepping out of the cars as the crowd cheered, walking up the red carpet, giving a few quick interviews as you went into the theatre . . .

  The most annoying thing of all is that you didn’t even keep that note Sam wrote you, way back in school. The note suggesting the two of you go steady. If you’d kept it, you could sell it now for around $25,000.

  Ah well. That’s life. You give a sigh and take a mouthful of luke warm porridge.

  ou tie a bit of string round the dog’s collar and off you go to West Mitchell. It’s a long walk to an area you don’t know very well but eventually you find Blundstone Drive, a tree-lined street full of brick veneer houses. It’s a quiet street, with a few Volvos and four-wheel drives and station wagons parked in driveways.

  Number 26 is different though. Number 26’s a dark gloomy house, hard to see through the pine trees that surround it. But the dog obviously recognises it. He trots up the path happily and scratches on the front door. You tag along behind, wondering whether you’re doing the right thing.

  No one answers for ages, but the dog keeps scratching the door and whining. At last you hear footsteps on the other side of the door. The handle turns and the door starts to slide reluctantly open. It scrapes over the floor until there’s room for you to see what’s inside. You see an arm then a shoulder, then a leg and the side of a head.

  Then you see a face. It’s a very familiar face. It’s a face that’s been haunting you all day. It’s the face of the thug who wanted your locker. Yes it’s him, and right now he’s glaring at you like you’re a lamb chop and he’s a vegetarian. ‘What do you want?’ he says, only he says it all in one growl, like a burp: ‘Waddawan?’

  Then he sees the dog, which is looking up at him eagerly, wagging his little tail. And suddenly the big tough Terminator melts in front of your eyes. His face falls apart and little tears scurry down his cheeks.

  ‘Rex!’ he says. ‘Rex!’

  He kneels on the ground and hugs the scruffy mutt. Then he looks up at you with unshed tears still shining in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I tried to take your locker this morning,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I was so upset about losing Rex and I took it out on you. You see in the last twelve months, our house burnt down, my parents went bankrupt and died in a plane crash, my baby sister joined a
street gang, and my budgie got mumps. Rex has been the only friend I’ve had. So when he went missing, I just felt I couldn’t cope any longer . . .’

  ‘That’s OK,’ you say, feeling your eyes misting over.

  ‘Would you like a cup of Ovaltine?’ he asks, opening the door wide.

  ‘Sure,’ you say, stepping inside. You know this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. He closes the door behind you. Only then do you notice the bloodstained chainsaw hidden behind the door.

  ight now this dog seems to have attached itself to you. You keep on walking and the dog follows you faithfully. But you soon realise that he’s no ordinary dog. By the time you get home, the dog has pulled you out of the path of a speeding semi-trailer, killed an escaped tiger that jumped at you from a tree, steered you around an open man-hole that you didn’t notice, and saved a couple of babies from a burning house. Yes, this is some dog!

  You take him inside and give him afternoon tea. You’re feeling guilty about not returning him, but you can’t bear to give him up, so you decide you’ll keep him overnight. You turn the TV on and stretch out in the best armchair with the dog on your lap.

  An hour later your mum comes home. ‘What sort of a day did you have at your new school, dear?’ she asks as she goes past the living room.

  ‘Words can’t describe it,’ you answer.

  ‘That’s nice dear,’ she says.

  You go to sleep for a few minutes in the armchair. You’re woken by a bright light shining in the window and a voice booming through a loudspeaker.

  ‘This is the police,’ says the voice. ‘We know you have Rex the Wonder Dog in there. Come on out with your hands up.’ Horrified you rush to the window. Sure enough the house is surrounded by police cars, TV cameras and a small crowd of neighbours.

  With Rex at your heels you walk slowly out. A microphone is pushed into your face and a voice asks, ‘Why did you kidnap the world’s most valuable dog?’

  You can’t think of an answer, but as the police car takes you away to begin your prison sentence—twelve years hard labour—you think, ‘Well, at least I won’t have to go back to that terrible school.’

  ith a huge swing of the arm you smash the glass in the alarm with the book. Sirens sound, lights flash, bells ring. But a moment later your arm is grabbed from behind. You turn to see who it is. It’s a meek and mild looking lady with glasses, and she’s holding your arm in an iron lock.

  ‘How dare you,’ she hisses. ‘Using a library book in such a way. Don’t you have any respect?’

  ‘But it’s an emergency,’ you stammer. ‘The school’s burning down.’

  ‘Don’t you back-answer me,’ she snarls. ‘You come with me right now.’

  She marches you straight to the library and sits you at a desk. Through the window you see the fire brigade arriving and putting out the fire.

  But that’s not much comfort to you. The librarian’s just put piles of books all around you. She tells you that you’ll spend every spare minute from now on covering books, until you’ve finished all these piles.

  ‘But, but how many are there?’ you ask desperately.

  ‘Eight thousand,’ she says, as she walks away.

  ou’ve got to do something!’ you stammer. ‘The whole place is about to burn down!’

  ‘Can’t help that,’ the cleaner grumbles.

  ‘What do you mean you can’t help that?’ You’re practically screaming at him.

  ‘I’m on my lunch hour,’ he says.

  ‘You’re on your lunch hour! You’re on your lunch hour!’ You can’t believe what you’re hearing. You try to keep control of yourself. ‘Um, may I enquire, when does your lunch hour finish?’ you ask politely.

  He looks at his watch. ‘Six minutes,’ he says.

  ‘And,’ you say, still being super-polite, ‘do you think it may be possible that some time this afternoon, among your many duties, you could find time to put out the fire which is currently burning the bloody school down!’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘That’s it. Out you go. I’m not having any swearing in this office.’

  ‘Office?’ you say, but before you can say any more he bundles you out of the room back into the corridor.

  hat football team do you go for?’ the little butter-menthol kid asks you.

  You look a bit embarrassed. ‘Um, Norths,’ you finally admit.

  The kid coughs and chokes a bit. ‘Norths? You actually support Norths? You mean there’s someone left on the face of the planet who follows Norths?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ you say. ‘Don’t rub it in. Just because they haven’t won a match for eight years.’

  ‘And you would really value a Norths premiership?’

  ‘Yes,’ you say emphatically. ‘They’re so depressed about it. No one even turns up to their matches any more. Last time I went, there were so few people in the crowd that they announced the names of the spectators instead of the names of the players.’

  The kid spends a moment deep in thought. Then he looks at you long and hard. ‘All right,’ he says at last. ‘You won’t believe it now, but I do have a special gift when it comes to making things happen. Norths will win a premiership this year, but only if you keep watching them. While you’re watching they’ll score more than the opposition; while you’re not watching they won’t. Understand?’

  You nearly make a sarcastic comment, but there’s a burning look in this kid’s eyes that stops you. There really does seem to be something powerful about him. So instead, you thank him and watch him walk away.

  Saturday you decide you will go to watch Norths play. They’re up against last year’s premiers and no one, including you, gives them a chance.

  You’re about to leave for the match when the phone rings. It’s Alex Lee, a kid you met at your old school, wanting you to come to the movies.

  Of all the people in the world you’d like to go out with, Alex is number one. But what about Norths? You can’t desert them—there’s just this faint ridiculous idea that maybe the butter-menthol kid does have some strange power, and you can actually do something for them by watching their games. You try to talk Alex into coming to the football but without success. So off you go on your own.

  ell,’ you say to this kid, ‘there is something I’d like a lot, and that is to do better at school. I’m not getting the good grades, that’s for sure. I keep telling my parents that F means ‘Fantastic’, but I don’t think they believe me.’

  The kid looks at you for a long time, shaking his head slowly. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I can do a lot of stuff, I can bend forks and make clocks stop, I can cure the common cold, I can make a Big Mac taste like food. But getting you better grades . . . I don’t know. That’s a tough call.’

  There’s nothing you can say to that. You just look at him until he shrugs his shoulders and walks away. But a week later he suddenly appears at your right elbow, with no warning. You can’t work out where he came from, but he hisses in your ear: ‘Come with me.’

  You follow him to a white door at the end of a corridor near the office. The staff are having their daily meeting, so there are no teachers around. He opens the door and in you both go. You find yourself in a computer room, with computers and screens and printers everywhere. The kid goes straight to one of the computers, sits down and turns it on. He starts hitting keys on the keyboard like he’s playing the piano. You stand behind him and watch.

  After a few moments to your amazement you see your own name on the screen. And then, right next to it, a whole string of grades start appearing. It’s all the marks from your old school, every mark from every subject, since you got D-for fingerpainting way back in kindergarten.

  And under that are all the subjects you’re doing this year, with spaces for your marks.

  As you stand there with your mouth open the kid puts his finger on the A key of the keyboard. He looks at you questioningly. All he has to do is hold that button down and you’ve got straight As, guaranteed.

  You pause, w
ondering what you should do. Is it a yes or is it a no?

  ook,’ you say, ‘I’m not putting up with these threats. This is blatant discrimination.’

  Ignoring the shocked Principal and her startled son, you pull your mobile phone out of your pocket and switch it on. Swiftly you dial your lawyer’s number.

  ‘I need you over here,’ you say, when your lawyer answers. ‘We’ve got a major lawsuit on our hands.’

  Twenty minutes later your lawyer arrives in her gold Mercedes. After a short conference with her, the two of you go back into the Principal’s office. The Principal is sitting behind the desk, with her son beside her. Both of them are white-faced, the sweat gathering in drops on their faces, like hundreds and thousands on fairy bread.

  Your lawyer does all the talking.

  ‘At this stage,’ she says, ‘my client would seem to have actions in torts, for assault, defamation, trespass, battery, libel and discrimination. You appear to be in breach of the school’s implied warranty to students, and you’re certainly in breach of your statutory and common-law duty of care to this unfortunate victim.’

  The Principal fans herself with her cheque book.

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘can’t we come to some . . . arrangement? We really don’t need this to go to court, surely. Do we?’

  Five minutes of fast talking follows, before you find yourself leaving the office with your lawyer holding a cheque for $10,000.

  ‘Wow,’ you say, ‘what a great result. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘terrific, isn’t it? Now here’s my account. As soon as you pay that I’ll be happy to let you have this cheque.’