by Mo O'Hara
‘Swishy little fishy,’ Mark’s coach mumbled.
‘Frankie!’ Pradeep whispered, scooping up the water bottle. Frankie popped his head out and looked sheepish.
‘Why did you zombify everyone?’ I asked.
Frankie pointed a fin at the list of competitors on the table in front of the officials. We walked over to take a closer look. All the track athletes from Mark’s school, except for Mark, had ‘unfit to compete in sports events’ written next to their names. Instead of racing, they’d been added to the knitting, group-quilting, cooking, chess and poetry events.
‘This definitely proves Mark is up to something,’ I muttered. ‘Good work, Frankie.’
‘But Mark can’t be the only one from his school who’s racing for the track team, can he?’ Pradeep said.
Just then, an announcement came over the loudspeaker. ‘Would all competitors please head to their meeting points. The first round of events will begin in ten minutes.’
‘We’d better get down to the racetrack to see what Mark is up to,’ Pradeep said.
Suddenly a voice behind us boomed, ‘Pradeep my lovely! There you are.’
Walking into the tent behind us was Mrs Kumar, Pradeep’s mum, and his three-year-old little sister, Sami.
‘Mum! What are you doing here?’ Pradeep mumbled.
‘I just wanted to make sure you had all your allergy medicines with you!’ Mrs Kumar said in a whisper so loud even the kids outside could probably hear what she was saying.
I could tell by the look on Pradeep’s face that he was suddenly reliving all of his sports-day disasters at once. You see, Pradeep’s allergic to a lot of things (as well as being mega-accident prone), and sports days for him usually end with a trip to the medical tent.
• In Year 4, Pradeep and I managed to get tangled up during the three-legged race and ended up with at least three sprained ankles.
• In Year 3, Pradeep had an allergic reaction to the sack in the sack race and swelled up like a balloon.
• In Year 2, Pradeep had an allergic reaction to the balloon in the balloon toss and swelled up like a watermelon.
• In Year 1, Pradeep had an allergic reaction to the watermelon in the watermelon-rolling race and swelled up like a kid covered in bubble wrap.
• In Reception, Pradeep’s mum covered him in bubble wrap under his tracksuit so that he would be protected if he fell over. Unfortunately Pradeep was immediately swarmed by a herd of kids who knocked him to the ground and spent the rest of the day trying to pop him.
‘Race people swishy fishy!’ Sami giggled, interrupting the moment.
‘Besides, I so wanted to see you compete in the chess tournament,’ Mrs Kumar added.
I shot Pradeep a look that said, ‘We have to get your mum out of here! Take her to the stands while I get Frankie to unzombify people.’
Pradeep nodded.
Quickly I handed Sami the bottle with Frankie in. Then Pradeep and I grabbed Mrs Kumar and steered her towards the front of the tent.
‘Mum, my event isn’t for a while yet.’ Pradeep smiled his best ‘talking to a teacher’ smile. ‘Why don’t you go and watch some other events with Sami while you’re waiting?’
‘You are so good to your mother!’ Pradeep’s mum ruffled his hair and called to Sami, ‘Come along, little one. Leave those nice people to get on with whatever it is they are doing.’
Sami toddled over and handed back Frankie’s bottle. Then she followed Pradeep and Mrs Kumar out of the tent.
‘Swishy fishy!’ she mumbled as she walked away.
‘Did you just zombify Sami too?’ I asked Frankie. He shrugged, which is pretty hard to do since goldfish have no shoulders, but somehow he managed it.
‘You’ll have to unzombify her later,’ I said. ‘Now unhypnotize this lot, fast!’
As soon as the officials and Mark’s sports coach were back to normal, we headed down to the racetrack. Camille was waiting by the break station with her oranges neatly sliced and laid out on china plates, while the St Agnes competitors stood nearby. Mark was at the starting blocks, bouncing on the spot and stretching. It was as if he suddenly had unlimited power and energy.
A few of the best hurdlers from the track team at my school were on the starting blocks too. Unlike Mark, they were looking really bored and were leaning on each other or sitting on the ground. They looked just like the kids from Mark’s track team had looked at the registration tent. Like all their sportiness was gone!
Pradeep hurried over, having finally managed to get his mum and Sami to take a seat in the stands. ‘Do you think Frankie has zombified the girls from St Agnes too?’ he asked me. ‘They look kinda weird.’
Pradeep was right. The St Agnes girls were packed into a huddle, staring as if they were in a trance.
‘Frankie?’ I whispered into the bottle.
Frankie stayed firmly at the bottom. I handed him to Pradeep and walked up to the St Agnes head girl. ‘Are you OK?’ I shouted. I stared into her vacant eyes and shook her arm. ‘Do you feel you need to stare at a tent and up my left nostril at the same time?’ I asked. ‘Do you want to say “swishy fishy” over and over again?’
‘Urgh!’ The head girl pulled her arm out of my grasp. ‘Camille, that creepy boy you were talking to is asking me about nostrils and fish. Get him away from me. He’s ruined my visualization!’ She stormed towards the starting blocks.
Camille came up to me and couldn’t resist laughing.
‘I ruined her virtualization?’ I said.
‘Her visualization,’ Camille corrected me. ‘All the runners visualize the race in their heads before they run it. It’s supposed to help them win.’
‘I don’t think I’d want to tire out my brain and make it run the race twice,’ I said. ‘That seems a little unfair.’
At that moment, Mark walked up to the St Agnes head girl. ‘May the best man win,’ he said, holding out his hand.
The head girl looked at Mark’s hand and said, ‘I don’t shake hands. None of us does. Too many germs. Besides, the words I think you were looking for are “May the best woman win!”’ She turned away and started stretching.
The announcer spoke again. ‘Attention. Due to the netball and football teams from St Agnes Preparatory School and Parkside Primary taking naps, playing chess, quilting and reading poetry, Westfield High have won all netball and football events for the day by default . . . er . . . just for turning up.’
‘What?’ cried Camille, Pradeep and I at the same time.
‘Girls,’ shouted the St Agnes head girl, ‘we’ll just have to make sure we win all the track and intellectual events from now on. We can still win!’
Mark grinned.
‘Competitors, please get in place for the following events – hurdles, knitting and poetry,’ the announcer went on. ‘Feet in the blocks, needles in position and rhymes at the ready.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘On your marks . . .’
The track competitors were all in the starting blocks and ready to go.
‘Set,’ continued the announcer. ‘Go!’
The gun sounded and Frankie jumped. If Pradeep hadn’t shoved his hand over the top of the bottle he would have gone for Mark right there and then!
The crowd cheered as Mark and the St Agnes girls cleared the first hurdle easily, while the Parkside Primary track team shuffled along behind. A couple of them tried to climb over the first hurdle, one of them ducked under it, and one fell asleep on top of it!
By the third hurdle Mark and the head girl were ahead of everyone else, and in the final sprint the head girl just beat him to the line. Another St Agnes girl came third, while the Parkside Primary team seemed to have given up altogether, had found some knitting stuff from somewhere and had started making a blanket for the sleeping kid.
The first thing Mark did was to go up to the head girl and shake her hand in a sportsmanlike way before she could pull it away. She stared at him for moment and then said, ‘I think I need to sit down.’
C
amille raced over with her oranges, Pradeep and I trailing behind. She held out the plate of perfectly sliced fruit.
‘No, thanks,’ the head girl said. She seemed to have found a small volume of poetry from somewhere. ‘I don’t want my book to get sticky.’
‘But . . . you’ll need the energy for the next race,’ Camille replied.
‘I don’t really feel like racing any more,’ the head girl replied. ‘I think I’ll just read or take a nap.’
‘Something weird is going on here, Pradeep, and Mark is definitely behind it,’ I muttered.
‘Yeah, the one person that beats Mark is now suddenly not interested in racing,’ Pradeep said. ‘That’s definitely suspicious.’
Frankie peeked his head out of the water bottle and glared at Mark.
‘I know you want to stop him too, Frankie. We just have to figure out how,’ I whispered.
The announcer’s voice boomed: ‘There will be a fifteen-minute break before the next race – the one-hundred-metre dash – while we . . . umm . . . clear the track of reading, napping and, er . . . knitting hurdlers.’
In the post-race confusion, we saw Mark slip off towards the parked coaches. He had picked up a small box from his sports bag and was carrying it under one arm.
I shot Pradeep a look that said, ‘If we find out what’s in that box, we’ll find out what Mark’s up to!’
‘Let’s go!’ Pradeep’s look replied, when our path was suddenly blocked by the St Agnes team coach, wearing a bright red tracksuit with ‘Elite Team’ embroidered across the front.
‘Right,’ she yelled as she ran on the spot, ‘all of you girls, back to the coach for a pep talk. I’ve had to switch the netball and football teams to the craft and intellectual events. They’re acting very strangely. I think they must have caught some kind of bug. Germs, that’s the problem. What do I always tell you, girls?’
The St Agnes girls chanted, ‘Germs on faces lose us races, germs on hands keep us sitting in the stands.’
‘Exactly!’ The St Agnes coach nodded and switched to star jumps. ‘So now it’s up to you to WIN!’ She pointed to the head girl. ‘Somebody move her to the spectator stands so she’s out of the way! Spit, spot, girls. Let’s go!’
With that she led the way back to their bus, Camille and the other girls following behind. That’s when I noticed Mark was back on the sports field, but this time without the box.
At that moment, Mr Thomas strode towards us. ‘Tylor? Tony? Tarquin?’ He pointed at me.
‘Tom,’ I said. ‘You could just call me “Hey, you”, sir, if that’s easier.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You have to run in this race.’
‘I . . . I . . . I can’t!’ I stammered. ‘What about the netball team?’
‘I’ve reassigned them to the cookery event,’ he said. ‘They’re practising their soufflés.’
‘The football team?’ I pleaded.
‘They’ve made themselves pyjamas and are finishing the quilt they’re sewing. The quilting judging is coming up and they have to “get their borders nice and pretty”,’ he huffed.
I gulped.
‘You’re the only one left on any sports team who’s not reading, knitting, napping or playing chess. You have to do the race.’ Mr Thomas patted me on the back.
Pradeep looked over at me. ‘You can do it, Tom!’ his look said.
I can’t do it! I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that it was hopeless, that we might as well go home now and let Mark and his school win. I wanted to convince him with some kind of Jedi mind trick – I am not the runner you are looking for! I wanted to sneak back to the bus and hide, but instead for some reason I said, ‘OK,’ and headed off towards the starting blocks. I knew that I couldn’t run just for the sake of it, even if it meant beating Mark. I shook myself anyway and did some pretend stretching. I knew I wasn’t going to win, but at least I could try so that my team didn’t feel too let down.
‘Competitors, please take your places for the next events,’ the announcer’s voice echoed. ‘Quilting – judging in the yellow tent. Chess tournament – this will take place in the blue tent. Cookery – in the refreshments tent. One-hundred-metre dash – please make your way to the racetrack!’
I put my feet in the blocks in the lane next to Mark’s and crouched down.
He looked at me. ‘Loser,’ he mouthed.
‘Good luck, Tom!’ called Pradeep, who’d joined me at the starting line. He put Frankie’s water bottle down and gave me a thumbs-up. Then he headed off to the blue tent.
‘Where are the competitors from the St Agnes team?’ the race official standing on the starting line shouted. Everyone looked around, but there was no sign of the girls from St Agnes anywhere.
‘Last call for St Agnes runners,’ said the announcer over the loudspeaker.
We waited for a few more minutes, but no one appeared.
‘We can’t hold off any longer,’ said the starting official. ‘Runners in position.’ He held the starting pistol over his head and pointed it up and away from us.
‘Ready . . . set . . . go!’
The gun fired and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as a flash of orange flew past me. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a zombified Sami holding a slingshot.
Frankie! my brain screamed.
My pet zombie goldfish was flying through the air straight towards the finishing line. If I didn’t get there before he came down he’d be splatted on the track! The power surged through my legs as I pushed off the blocks and started to build up speed, my eyes on the flash of orange ahead of me. Mark had spotted the flying fish too and pulled ahead, but I couldn’t let him stop me! Somewhere deep inside I found the strength to push harder. I caught up with Mark and then overtook him.
I could hear the crowd cheering and Mr Thomas yelling, ‘Come on, what’s-his-name!’ but I didn’t care. I just had to get to Frankie.
As we neared the finish line, the orange dot that was Frankie was almost close enough to grab. But I wasn’t fast enough. I’d have to dive to save him!
With less than a metre to go, I threw myself forward with my hands outstretched. Mark raced past me and crossed the line as I skidded along the gravel track and felt the wet squelch of goldfish landing safely in my hands.
Mark stood in front of me and punched the air. His sports coach came up to him.
‘Amazing run, Mark. You’re the fastest athlete here by far. Keep it up, lad, and not only will our school win the competition, but you’ll get to choose what we spend the money on!’
Mr Thomas came over just as I was picking myself up off the floor. ‘That was the fastest I’ve ever seen you run, kid. But what happened at the end? I thought you had that race in the bag.’
‘In the bag,’ Sami repeated, having somehow toddled to the finishing line already. For a three-year-old, she can be scarily speedy! ‘Swishy fishy bag,’ she said, and slipped Frankie from my cupped hands into a sick bag filled with water. One of her eyes was looking up Mr Thomas’s left nostril and the other at the spectators.
‘Have I got something on my face?’ Mr Thomas asked Sami.
‘Swishy fishy,’ she replied.
While Mr Thomas went off to check for bits of fish on his face and Mark was busy being congratulated, I opened the bag and whispered to Frankie, ‘I know what you were trying to do – but you could’ve got hurt!’
Frankie waved a fin in a ‘Naaaaah!’ kind of way.
‘Seriously!’ I said. ‘And can you unzombify Sami now and get her back to Mrs Kumar, OK?’
Frankie nodded. I picked up an empty dark blue water bottle from Mr Thomas’s kit bag and quickly poured him inside, then I handed it to Sami and she started to toddle back towards the stands.
Just then Mark strode over to me and held out his hand.
‘Good race, moron . . . I mean . . . um, Tom,’ he said. And he smiled an evil smile and grabbed my hand. Then he leaned in and whispered, ‘I know you’ve got your stupid fish helping you – b
ut I’ll take care of that. I will win EVERY race. I will get my Evil Science lab. And when I do . . . you’ll be sorry! Mwah haaaa haaaa haaa ha!’
‘That’s what I like to see. Good sportsmanship,’ muttered a race official as he walked by. ‘Although that is a slightly creepy laugh.’
The next thing I remember was Pradeep’s worried face looking down at me. We appeared to be off the track, over by the spectator stands. ‘Tom, are you OK?’ he asked.
‘How’d the chess match go?’ I said, and yawned.
‘Checkmate in seven moves!’ Pradeep grinned, but then he looked worried again. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling OK? You don’t look so good.’
I felt this overwhelming need to have a snooze, and then maybe sew something. Or knit. Knitting sounded good. I was suddenly so drained. Then it hit me. Drained, I was drained. And it was Mark who had drained me.
‘Pradeep, it’s the handshake,’ I whispered as I lay back on the floor. ‘Mark’s handshake. That’s how he’s draining the sportiness from everyone.’
Pradeep looked up at the St Agnes head girl, still happily reading poetry in the spectator stands next to us.
‘You’re right!’ Pradeep said. ‘He shook hands with the head girl, and with everyone on our track team before the first race.’
‘He must have shaken hands with our football and netball teams earlier, the St Agnes teams . . . and even the track team from his own school too!’ I added sleepily.
Just then Camille came running in from the parking lot. ‘Tom, are you OK?’ she cried.
‘I’ve lost all my sportiness,’ I replied.
‘I didn’t know you had any,’ she said with a smile.
‘My Evil Scientist big brother, Mark, is somehow sucking out people’s sportiness with his handshake!’ I explained.
