He starts trying to pull me in, but he seems to be having trouble. The wind is really strong up here, and I’m starting to drift towards the edge of the oval.
Danny is leaning back, straining on the rope. But it’s no use. He’s not pulling me down — I’m pulling him along.
Uh-oh.
This is not fun anymore. And the wind seems to be getting even stronger.
‘Come on, Danny,’ I call. ‘You can do it!’
But he can’t hear me. And he can’t do it, either. He is being dragged to the edge of the oval where it slopes steeply away to the fence. He takes two giant steps, trips and tumbles down the bank . . .
I feel myself whoosh high and fast into the air. Danny has let go of the rope!
I can see him lying at the bottom of the bank, holding his leg. He’s getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
Aaaaggghhh! I’m floating away!
What am I going to do?
How am I going to get down?
What if I just keep going up and up and up until I end up out in space?
This was a bad idea.
A dumb idea.
A crazy idea.
A bad, dumb, crazy idea.
A crazy, bad, dumb, bad, bad, dumb, crazy, bad idea.
And I’ve only got myself to blame. Which makes it even worse. I hate that.
Hang on. The stick! I forgot about my stick!
I don’t have to worry about a thing. All I have to do is burst a couple of balloons and I’ll go down instead of up. Mr Pickett won’t be happy about me bursting the balloons, but at least I won’t just disappear and never be seen again, which will make me happy.
I raise the stick as high above my head as I can. I try to poke a hole in the ‘F’ balloon but it just bobs away. The skin is tougher than I thought. I jab at the ‘E’ balloon. It bobs away as well. I try some of the party balloons but it’s no use. There’s nothing to push against. This stick was another bad, dumb, crazy idea.
I poke a few more times, but my neck’s getting really sore from looking up at the balloons. I give up and turn around.
Oh no.
In front of me is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
High-voltage power lines.
There must be at least fifty of them — stretching in front of me like a gigantic horizontal spider web.
And I’m heading straight towards them.
If I don’t do something fast I’m going to hit the lines and fry like a mozzie in a mozzie zapper.
I have to get rid of some of these balloons.
I can’t pop them but maybe I can untie them.
I pull at the knots tying the party balloons to my pack, but I can’t get them undone. They’re too tight. It’ll take me ages to get them untied. Time I don’t have.
Maybe I should just take the pack off and let myself fall to the ground. But that would kill me. But so will the wires.
What to do? Fry or splatter? Splatter or fry?
Actually, I’d rather die of old age.
My only hope of that, though, is to go over the power lines. But how? How do I get myself up higher?
I know! I could jettison some stuff. The more I can get rid of, the higher I’ll go.
I’ll start with this stupid stick. It was no help at all.
I drop it. It falls through the air like a spear. Lucky there’s nothing but grass and trees underneath me.
What else can I get rid of?
I look at my runners. The soles alone must weigh at least two kilograms. They’re brand-new but they’re going to have to go.
I raise my feet up, untie the laces and pull off the runners. My socks as well. They go sailing downwards.
But I’m still not high enough. I need to get rid of more.
I untie the rope from around my waist and let it go. I search through the pockets of my jeans and pull out everything I’ve got. A used Band-Aid. A half-eaten Jaffa. A chewing gum wrapper A dead cockroach — at least I think it’s dead. My wallet. It’s got ten dollars in it. I saved it to spend at the fete. But I have to let it go. It kills me to drop all this stuff, but it will really kill me to keep it.
I rummage deep in my shirt pockets. I pull out a photograph of Lisa Mackney. No, not that. Anything but that. I cut it out of our school magazine. It’s not a very good picture, because it only catches her side-on. Well, more like the back of her head — most of which is covered by the back of somebody else’s head — but I know it’s her. And it’s all I have. I can’t throw it away.
I look at the power lines.
I’ve made a lot of progress. A lot of very good progress. I’m a fair bit higher than I was. But still not high enough. I need to lose something else. But I haven’t got anything else. Except my pants that is.
I watch as my jeans drop away towards the ground.
I hate to see them go. They’re my favourite pair And it’s freezing up here. If I don’t fry on the wires I’ll probably die of exposure.
The wires are getting closer but unless I get a bit higher I’m not going to clear them.
I look at Lisa’s photograph in my hand. I’m going to have to let her go.
It flutters and spirals away. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
But also the most fantastic.
Because it’s saved my life.
Lisa Mackney has saved my life!
I lift my legs, curl my toes and clear the power lines with less than a centimetre to spare. I hear the deadly hum of the electricity as I skim over the top. If this hadn’t been such a crazy, bad, dumb, bad, bad, dumb, crazy, bad idea in the first place, I would be very proud of myself.
I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. But not for long. Because now I’ve got a new problem. Well, an old problem actually but it’s getting worse. I’ve got goosebumps all over my legs and my toes are turning purple. And I’m still no closer to the ground. How am I going to get down and get back to the school before Mr Pickett does?
I’m going to have to try to untie the party balloons again.
I work away at the knots. It’s hard because not only are they tied on very tightly, but my fingers are almost numb with cold.
Finally, I loosen the knots and untie the balloons from the shoulder strap of my pack.
There must be at least two hundred of them. They fly into the sky above me like it’s five minutes before the siren on Grand Final day at the MCG.
I begin to drop quite quickly. They were giving me more lift than I realised. For a moment I’m worried that I’m going to keep dropping and not stop, but I level out just a bit above the tree-tops. That’s better. Not perfect, but a lot better. It beats hovering above high-altitude high-voltage lines any day.
I’m floating slowly over the roofs of houses. I can see into all the backyards. A dog is going nuts. Barking and jumping up at me. It sets off other dogs and soon there’s a chorus of barking and howling.
Some kids are pointing and waving at me. I wave back. They run out of their yard and onto the street and begin following me. They are joined by others and within minutes there’s a small crowd of people following me. Not just kids, either. There are a few adults as well. One of them is pointing a video camera at me. Probably hoping I’ll have an accident so he can flog it to one of those funniest home video shows.
‘Don’t just watch me!’ I yell. ‘Help me!’
‘What do you want us to do?’ yells a woman.
Now that’s a very good question.
I don’t exactly know.
They don’t teach you how to deal with situations like this in school. That’s the trouble with school. They don’t teach you anything useful. There should be a subject called ‘What to do if you find yourself floating about twenty metres off the ground with no pants on and four large weather balloons attached to your backpack’. Or, even better, they could deal with this and many other situations by lumping them together under one subject called ‘Crazy, bad, dumb, bad, bad, dumb, crazy, bad ideas’. Now that would be useful.
&nb
sp; I’m heading towards a long row of pine trees. I can hear buzzing and whining. Oh no, not more power lines! No, it’s louder than that.
As I float over the top of the pine trees I see lots of people. They are all looking up, as if they’ve been waiting for me to appear. But it’s not me they’re looking at.
Gulp.
The air is filled with model aeroplanes. They are looping and diving around each other.
I suddenly realise what this is.
It’s the local model aeroplane club. They’re putting on a display at the school fete today. They must be practising.
People are pointing and laughing at me.
‘Look out!’ I yell. ‘I’m coming through!’
But there’s too much noise. And the men flying the planes are too busy twiddling the knobs on their remote control units to even notice me.
I float right into the middle of the action. The planes are swooping and diving and whining around me like a pack of killer mosquitoes. But I can’t swat them. They’re much too big for that, and their propellers look much too sharp.
I hear a particularly loud whine behind me.
I turn my head and see a large biplane with orange wings.
Uh-oh. I’m in trouble.
Or am I?
This could be just what I need to get me away from here and back to the school. I might even beat Danny’s dad.
I watch as the plane flies closer and closer. I flex my fingers and wait for my chance. I’m only going to get one shot at this.
As it passes me I shoot my hand out and grab onto its tail.
It starts pulling me away at high speed. I can feel the wind from the propeller on my face.
I carefully turn the plane towards the right. I fly around in a wide semicircle and head back towards the school.
I hear yelling.
‘Hey, you little thief! Let go of my plane!’ calls a man in a red cap.
‘I’m not stealing it,’ I yell. ‘I’m just borrowing it. I’ll bring it back. I promise!’
But he obviously doesn’t believe me. He is furiously working away at his controls and I feel the plane start to turn back again.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I say. I reach over and pull the aerial out of the cockpit of the plane. I’m in control now.
I turn the plane towards the school and travel back the way I came. Over the houses, over the yards. It’s the same as before except now I’m travelling ten times faster and this time I go under the power lines instead of over them.
I can see the school oval ahead of me. There are a few more people there now than when I left. They’re unpacking cars and setting up tables. The jumping castle is being inflated. Imagine one of them filled with helium. Now that is a good idea. You could float really high.
There’s Danny, at the edge of the oval. He’s still sitting on the ground, holding his leg. He’s looking up, talking to somebody. Who is that?
Oh no.
It’s Mr Pickett!
Rats. I didn’t beat him. I’m going to cop it after all.
They look up and see me.
Danny gets to his feet and waves.
I point the plane downwards and head towards the cricket pitch. It will make a great landing strip.
When I’m a few metres from the pitch I straighten the plane up and level out.
‘Grab me!’ I yell.
Mr Pickett starts running. He wraps his arms around my legs and pulls me to the ground.
Danny limps over and takes the plane out of my hand. He flicks the throttle switch off.
‘That was so cool!’ he says. ‘You’re amazing!’
‘Shut up!’ growls Mr Pickett. He keeps hold of me while he takes the pack off my back. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ he yells. ‘Of all the irresponsible, fool-hardy stunts to pull!’
‘It’s not his fault, Dad,’ says Danny. ‘I shouldn’t have let go of the rope.’
‘That’s beside the point!’ yells Mr Pickett. ‘He should never have been up there in the first place!’
Danny looks at me and shrugs. It was a good try and I appreciate it, but Mr Pickett is on a roll.
‘You could have been killed!’ he says and points at the sky. ‘These balloons were supposed to be used to advertise the fete. They should have been up there by now. Instead I come back and find that you’ve taken them for a joy flight. An insanely dangerous one, I might add!’
I look over Mr Pickett’s shoulder.
The small crowd that was following me through the streets is coming through the gates of the school. But it’s not a small crowd anymore. It’s huge!
There are kids, adults, dogs, cars, police, an angry-looking man in a red cap and even a television news van with a satellite dish on the roof. A cameraman is hanging out the window with his camera pointed at us. They must be transmitting live footage back to their newsroom.
Wow! I’m going to be on TV. I’m famous. That’s great, but I wish I had some pants on.
Mr Pickett pauses. He’s so mad he can’t think of what to say next.
A little kid comes up behind him and tugs on his jumper.
He wheels around and looks down.
‘What do you want?’ he growls.
‘How much for a ride on the balloons?’ says the kid, pointing to my pack, which Mr Pickett is still holding.
‘What?!’ he says.
He looks up and notices the crowd. There are people everywhere. Already there’s a long queue at the sausage sizzle and the drinks stall. Chasing me through the streets has obviously made everyone pretty hungry and thirsty.
Business is booming. Mr Pickett can’t be mad at me now. I wish I could say the same for the man in the red cap, though. He snatches his plane off Danny and walks up to me.
‘I want a word with you,’ he says.
‘Smile!’ calls a newspaper photographer.
The man turns. He smiles for the camera. Mr Pickett puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles too.
‘Remind me to murder you later,’ he grunts.
I grin.
Looking at the crowd I’ve gathered I can’t help thinking that my balloon flight wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
In fact it was a good idea.
A great idea.
A brilliant idea.
A good, great, brilliant, great, great, brilliant, good, great idea.
t’s Tuesday night.
A very important night.
And not just because it’s Valentine’s Day, either.
It’s rubbish-bin night.
And what’s so important about rubbish-bin night?
Well, according to my mum and dad, the health of the entire neighbourhood depends on me remembering to put the rubbish-bin out.
Because if I forget to put the bin out, the garbage men can’t empty the bin.
And if the garbage men can’t empty the bin then we can’t fit any more rubbish into it.
And if we can’t fit any more rubbish into the bin then the rubbish will spill out over the top and onto the ground.
And if there’s rubbish on the ground then the rats will come, and if the rats come, people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.
And, the worst thing is that I will get the blame.
That’s why rubbish-bin night is the most important night of the week: the fate of the neighbourhood is in my hands. Every man, woman and child is counting on me to remember to put the bin out.
And I haven’t failed them yet.
I never forget.
Each week I tie a piece of white string around the little finger on my left hand to remind me.
The trouble is tonight I’ve tied it a bit too tightly and it’s making my little finger throb. It’s so tight that I can’t get the knot undone. I’m going to have to cut it with a pair of scissors.
I go downstairs to the kitchen.
I pass Dad in the lounge room.
‘Have you remembered what night this is?�
�� he says.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say.
‘Have you put the bin out yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I say.
‘Well, don’t forget,’ he says. ‘I don’t want rubbish spilling out all over the ground. It will attract rats and . . .’
‘I know, Dad,’ I sigh. ‘If the rats come people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.’
‘You think it’s all a bit of a joke, do you?’ he says, leaning forward in his chair and pointing his finger at me. ‘Well, we’ll see how much of a joke it is when we’re up to our ankles in rubbish and rats and you’ve got bubonic plague and you’ve got boils all over your body, funny-boy! And we’ll all have a good laugh when bits of your lungs come flying out of your mouth and . . .’
‘Okay, Dad!’ I say, ‘I get the picture! I’m going to put the bin out, all right?’
‘Now?’ he says.
‘In a minute,’ I say. ‘Right after I cut this string off my finger.’
‘Don’t forget,’ he says.
‘I won’t, Dad,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
I swear my dad’s getting crazier by the day.
I go into the kitchen, pull open the second drawer down and start rummaging for the scissors.
Mum comes into the room.
‘Have you put the bin out?’ she says.
‘Not yet, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m just about to.’
‘Well, don’t forget,’ she says. ‘We don’t want . . .’
‘Rats,’ I say.
‘How did you know I was going to say that?’ she says.
‘A lucky guess,’ I say.
The phone rings.
I go to pick it up.
‘Don’t touch that!’ says Jen, pushing past me and beating me to the phone. ‘That’ll be Craig. Besides, shouldn’t you be putting the bin out? It stinks — I can smell it from my room.’
‘I’m surprised you can smell anything above your own stink,’ I say. Jen makes a face and picks up the phone.
I just keep standing there. She hates it when I listen in on her calls.
Just Crazy Page 4
