Cross Puffer
There was a tight feeling in his chest. He coughed. His breath was wheezy. It was like drowning. He was gasping, but he couldn’t breathe out because the air was blocked in there. His brain kept telling him to breathe out but he couldn’t.
He needed his puffer. But he’d left it with Mrs. Tasker in one of those pockets!
‘Help!’
A runner was panting along the path behind him.
‘Help!’
‘Artie. What’s up?’ Mario’s voice was the last one he wanted to hear. Any kid except him.
‘Need my puffer. Mrs. Tasker’s got it.’
Art didn’t have time to wonder why Mario was coming from the wrong direction. He just waited as Mario jogged away, hoping that someone would come back with his puffer.
He stumbled towards the big tree. Art could feel the waves in his throat. He got angry with his chest when it messed him up. Why did it have to happen today? The waves got bigger and bigger. His chest was tight.
He stumbled towards the big gum tree. It seemed like hours, but was probably minutes before Mrs. Tasker lumbered towards him, arm outstretched.
‘Need your puffer, Art?’
Hhh ... Yesss ... Mrs Taskkkk ... er.’
Gratefully he puffed. His chest was still tight, but getting better.
‘Okay?’ Mrs. Tasker didn’t fuss. He liked that. It would be bad enough facing Mario afterwards.
Art stood there, chest heaving, waiting for his body to catch up. The other kids were out of sight. Art had that ‘left-behind’ feeling again. Why did his chest have to let him down?
‘That was scary.’
‘Want to drop out?’ asked Mrs. Tasker.
Art shook his head. Through the trees he could see India running. She was on her way back. Her black hair stuck out. Her stick legs were going fast. She didn’t have asthma.
‘Well, you got more than halfway this time,’ said Mrs. Tasker as she lumbered up the hill.
‘I wanted to run all the way.’ Art was disappointed. ‘I’ve got to get some practice or I’ll never make the cross country team.’
‘That’s important, eh?’
Art nodded.
At first, he used to hide his puffer. He didn’t want the other kids to know. Asthma was a bad word. He couldn’t even spell it. The ‘s’ always went in the wrong place. But later, he didn’t mind so much. India sprinted to the Finish. Then she bent over to get her breath. At the same time, she flicked the stop on her watch. ‘Three kilometers in nineteen minutes,’ she panted proudly.
Art watched on the sidelines. If he couldn’t run fast, perhaps there were other ways.
‘How fast can a giraffe run?’ Art imagined himself as a jockey.
‘Giraffes can reach the speed of 48 kilometres an hour at a gallop,’ said Mrs. Tasker.
‘Thanks.’ That might be the answer.
Mr. Douglas jogged past. ’Cross-country on Friday. Will you be okay then Art?’
Art nodded. His best was 27 minutes. India always beat him. So did most of the kids except Mario. But then Mario usually nicked off to buy a Mars Bar at the shop.
‘Got your puffer again, Artie,’ sneered Mario.’ You’ll never get in the cross country team.’
Art nearly said, ‘Get lost Mario.’ But then he remembered that Mario had gone for Mrs. Tasker and the puffer.
Mrs. Tasker overheard Mario.’ Made a little detour again, Mario? You did get lost didn’t you? Give!’
Mario fumbled under his sweaty T-shirt. The Mars Bar was squashed and had tooth marks.
‘Thank you Mario.’ The chocolate bar vanished into one of Mrs. Tasker’s pockets.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Your grandmother told me about your diet. No chocolate. And lots of exercise,’ said Mrs. Tasker firmly.
‘It’s my own money.’
‘Invest in something else, next time.’ Mrs. Tasker swept away to the Finish.
‘What are you staring at?’ Mario turned on Art. ‘You couldn’t even finish. I saw you skulking off. Pretending to die under the tree.
The word ‘thanks’ got stuck in Art’s throat. So he didn’t say it. India walked up, hands on her hips. ‘Tiny could run this course in two minutes.’
Art believed her. With Tiny’s untiny legs, it would only take a few bounds to go from start to finish.
‘Want a bet?’ Mario faced India. ‘My dog’s faster than yours. He’s been trained by Alfredo.’
‘Sounds like a hairdresser. Does your dog have his hair curled?’ laughed India, with her hands still on her hips.
‘Alfredo is the best trainer in the business. My grandfather says so. ‘ Mario thumped his fist on the fence. “We’re going to make a packet on our dogs.’
‘Don’t bet against the greyhounds,’ hissed Art. If India lost this bet how would she pay his? India listened, then turned around to face Mario.
‘When?’
‘Wednesday after school.’
‘You’re on.’
‘My Grey Flash could beat your Tiny.’
Mario’s dog Grey Flash was a professional racer. Running was his full time job. What was India planning with Tiny?
‘Art, are you still a part-time spy?’
Art nodded. ‘Part-time.’
‘Could you find something out for me?’
‘What?’
‘How fast can Mario’s greyhounds run?’
Art worked it out. ‘You mean at the race track, down the bottom of my street?’
That’s where Mario’s grandfather ran the dogs every morning. India nodded. ‘They run very early in the morning. And Mum makes me look after my little sister then.’
Art wondered how he’d record their times.
‘Want to borrow my stopwatch? ‘India smiled.
Art looked up. ‘Can you read minds?’
‘Of course not. But if you’re going to time the dogs you’ll need something to do it with.’
Art nodded. She was too quick.
‘If you find out about Grey Flash’s time, I’ll swap you for things about giraffes,’ offered India.
‘Okay.’ That was fair.
At home time, India called out.’ Got something for you.’ She gave him a newspaper.
‘There’s a giraffe picture too.’
‘What else did you find?’ asked Art. India was so fast, Art felt like a snail. What if he had trouble with the times tomorrow?
‘How many bones d’you reckon are in a giraffe’s neck? ‘India had that look of someone who knows the answer when you don’t.
‘I dunno.’ Art made a guess. ‘Sixty?’
‘Only seven. Same as your neck. But giraffe’s are longer.’
Art could have told her that.
‘A giraffe looks skinny, but it weighs as much as five lions. It has soft, dark eyes and it’s very shy. That’s why giraffe houses at the zoo often have signs asking people to be quiet.’
India stopped for a breath and Art felt pleased. Geoffrey might be big on the outside, but he could be shy inside.
‘I found out that male giraffes fight by swinging their heads at one another. And they kick lions or men with their hooves…’
‘Thanks.’ Maybe Geoffrey would need to fight one day. Or maybe he could just use his head?
As they walked out of school together, Art clutched the newspaper. He didn’t want to try and read it now. He’d wait until he got home and was by himself. Then he could put his fingers under the words.
He asked a last question. ‘How do giraffes hide?’
India shrugged. ‘I dunno. Use their spots I suppose.’She pointed to the Grade 6 window on the second storey of the school. ’A giraffe is tall enough to look in that window. How could you hide someone that tall?’
Hiding Geoffrey wa
s a problem, all right. Already.
At the school gates, Mario was speaking Italian to his Gran. She often waited for him there after school. Today she was telling him off. The words tumbled out.
‘D’you think Mario’s Gran heard about the milkbar visit?’ grinned India. She didn’t understand Italian, but anyone could understand Mario’s Gran.
‘Or his maths test mark. He cheated again. ‘ said Art.
Mario pretended not to see them. His grandmother wasn’t even up t his shoulder, so he leaned over to listen to her.
‘D’you reckon giraffes speak to each other?’ asked Art.
India was fed up with giraffes. ‘They don’t talk much. Their tongues are as long as your shoe, but their voices are very low. I read that today. Now, when will you let me know about Grey Flash’s best time?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Art firmly. This would be an early morning job for a spy.
Chapter 4
Pet Space & Grey Flash
Art’s lips moved. He read the headlines. His fingers stopped under some words. On the front page was a baby giraffe. One week old. 173 cm. Called Shorty. ‘In ten years, he’s the smallest giraffe I’ve seen,’ said the keeper.
There were some more words, but Art couldn’t read them. He looked at the photo.’ Shorty’ had a long neck. Shorty also had four long legs. He held the newspaper giraffe photo against the kitchen wall. Would Geoffrey fit in around here? Size was a problem.
Tired of reading, Art rolled two old socks to kick as an indoor football. The first kick landed on Mum’s bonsai plant.
‘Bonsai!’
He laughed to himself.
Mum kept plants in pots all over the house. Bonsai were tiny plants like shrunken trees. She might like a bonsai giraffe who was a Plant Friend. Or she might not!
What if Geoffrey put a green umbrella over Geoffrey? He might look like a tree. Or maybe Geoffrey could be a hat, cap and coat stand near the back door? Where else could Geoffrey live?
Art looked up the dirty chimney. The old fire place would be an ace giraffe space. Geoffrey could put his head up the chimney. Hot stuff! Art giggled. But the chimney was dirty inside. If Geoffrey was washed and put in a big enough dryer, he might shrink.
‘Art, come and have your bath,’ called his Mum.
‘Coming!’
‘We’d better check your peak flow meter first.’
‘Not again.’ They did it every day, except once when Mum forgot.
The peak flow meter measured the width of air in Art’s airways. It gave warning if he was likely to have an asthma attack.
‘Thank goodness the reading’s all right today.’ Then Mum looked worried. ‘But Mrs. Tasker told me about your attack on the cross country run. You knew what was happening didn’t you?’
Art nodded. He knew about the muscle around his heart contracting. But he didn’t want to stop running.
‘Exercise is okay, isn’t it Mum?’
‘Yes. Perhaps something else started the asthma attack. By the way were you reading this newspaper? The one on the kitchen table?’
Art knew she was going to make a fuss about that.
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘India gave it to me.’
‘Would you like me to buy you one every day? I will if you like.’
‘No thanks, Mum. I just wanted a photo of a giraffe.’
‘Is it for a project?’ Mum put a new towel on the rack in the bathroom.
‘Sort of.’ Finding a space for a giraffe was a big project.
‘Now don’t be too long in that bath, or your chest will get cold.’ Mum left. Sometimes she fussed a lot. Other times she was okay.
Art climbed into the bath and stretched his arms as high as a giraffe’s neck. No good. Even with the shower curtain drawn across, a giraffe’s head would stick over the top.
Geoffrey would have to bend his long legs to get his head down. Art tried a giraffe bend and nearly slipped on the soap.
‘Ow!’ He was used to falling over things. After checking his elbow, he picked himself up. Wrapping a towel around him, he wandered into his bedroom. Perhaps Geoffrey wouldn’t mind bending his head under the doorway. Model planes hung from the roof.
Art stepped over his dirty jeans and T-shirts growing in the corner. His grey left sneaker poked out from under the bed. His right sneaker was lost, but Mum didn’t know that yet. He’d wait until her bonsai plants won something , and she was in a good mood.
‘Would a giraffe like a part-time job as a coat-hanger? No. School pants might fall off Geoffrey’s ears. But what about the giraffe horns Mrs. Tasker was telling him about?
Art looked up. His air plane models swayed. They dangled on strings from the roof. It had taken him all last weekend to put them up.
‘A giraffe’d get dive-bombed around here.’
Giraffes were tall, but their spots made them blend into the background. So what about the shed out the back? It used to be a stable for horses. And a giraffe was a sort of horse with a stretched neck.
Their place was very big but tumbled down. Dad was away a lot, driving in the country. Mum was going to fix things up when she got time. But she slept most days until Art got home from school. Art hoped she’d still be asleep when Ms Cookies arrived on Friday.
Quickly he pulled on his pyjamas. Then he put on the alarm. He’d have to be up at 5 in the morning to get to the track in time for the greyhound racing.
At 5 am it was so cold his breath puffed in white clouds in front of him. Art wore two track suits on top of his pyjamas. He knew the track would be muddy, so he grabbed for his gumboots. But he could only find one.
’Not again.’ He couldn’t blame the cat for eating this one. They didn’t have a cat anymore. Not since Mum started worrying about cat fur.
The gumboot was lost. So he hopped out of the first one. His blue sneakers would have to do.
In the half-light, his fingers looked blue-cold. So he unrolled his indoor football and wore one red and one green sock from it on his hands. Then he crept out of the house.
Dark tree shadows hung at the side of the road. It was spooky. The racetrack was down the bottom of Art’s street. In the early morning air, he could hear trainers’ voices and a few dogs barking.
Art pulled out India’s stopwatch. The gate was open at the track and Art slipped inside. Most of the dogs were out on the track. Some had finished their training. Others were talking to their dogs.
‘Like the dogs ,do you? ‘ asked the trainer leaning on the fence. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Paul. Paul Smith,’ said Art quickly.
‘Got a dog, Paul?’ The trainer seemed friendly.
For a moment, Art looked around.’ No.’
‘D’you want one?’
‘I’d like a tall pet?’
‘Greyhounds are small. But they’re spunky. A bit highly strung. Like race horses. People say it’s cruel to race them, but they love it. Specially in Championship races. Know much about greyhounds, Paul?’
Art turned just in time. He saw Mario’s grandfather passing with two dogs and one could have been Grey Flash. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to go.’ He tugged at his stopwatch.
‘Oh. Is that your Grandad? Alfredo said his grandson might be down this morning. But your name isn’t Mario, is it?’
Art shook his head. But he had picked up one clue. Alfredo must be the name of Mario’s grandfather. That made him the trainer. To Art’s horror, he saw Mario coming towards the fence.
Mario had overheard. There was nothing wrong with his eyes or ears.
‘Have you met Paul?’ said the friendly trainer. ‘You two look about the same age. Perhaps you could become mates.’
A smile grew on Mario’s face.
‘He’s not Paul. That’s Art. He’s in my class at school.’
�
��I thought you said your name was Paul?’ The trainer looked puzzled.
‘Ar ... yes.” Said Art. Spies weren’t meant to get caught.
‘I suppose Paul’s your middle name. I had an uncle called Cyril once. Insisted on being called Uncle Ron…’
Art didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy working. He followed the greyhounds which Alfredo, Mario’s grandfather, was taking to the start.
Just as the school bell went, India raced up to Art in the yard. ‘Did you get the times?’
‘Yes,’ yawned Art,’ I used the stopwatch on both of them.’
He told her the times.
‘That’s very fast,’ India looked worried. ‘You’re sure it was Grey Flash?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can they really go that fast?’
Art nodded and another yawn escaped.
‘My Tiny hasn’t got hope against them unless…’
‘I told you that. But Mario won’t let you off.’
‘Wednesday after school. A lot can happen before then.’
‘Would you like me to put a stopwatch on Tiny?’
India shrugged. ‘Thanks, but I’ve already done that. It won’t make him run any faster.’
During school, Art dozed off a few times.
‘Wake up, Art!’ bellowed Mrs. Tasker.’You’re not doing a project on sleep.’
‘No, Mrs. Tasker.’
On the way home, he snack-walked through the shopping centre. Eating food samples always cheered him up. Art peered over the side of the escalator, sniffing the food smells.
The escalator would be too steep for a giraffe. But maybe Geoffrey could use the lift?
‘Sausages!’
‘Would you like to try our new sausage, Madam?’ asked the woman who was cutting sausages into bite size pieces.
After Madam nibbled, Art reached for a piece. ‘Thanks.’
‘Not you again. Don’t they feed you at home! Got hollow legs, have you?’
Next, Art sipped a chocolate milk sample.
At the Hot Bread were muffin bits. But there, the girl was mean. She cut tiny slices. So Art sampled seven and went back to the sausage counter.
Unluckily, Mario was hanging around the sausages too.
Winning a Giraffe Called Geoffrey Page 2
