Just Crazy

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Shush!’ hisses a teacher standing at the end of our row.

  Danny and I sit up in our chairs and look to the front.

  But nothing has changed.

  Mr Rowe is still going on and on and on. Blah blah blah. I wish he’d hurry up and finish.

  I just want to get up there, collect my prize, make Lisa fall in love with me and get out of here.

  Mr Rowe pauses, clears his throat, and pauses again, as if he’s forgotten what he’s saying. He shuffles some sheets of paper and pulls out an envelope.

  ‘And now for the winner of the short-story competition,’ he says.

  At last!

  ‘We received a record number of stories for this year’s competition — more than ten in fact — and the judges had a very difficult time deciding on a winner because they were all of such a high standard . . .’

  That’s funny. I would have thought mine was so obviously superior that it would have made the judge’s job really easy. Perhaps he’s talking about the runners-up.

  ‘However,’ says Mr Rowe, ‘in spite of the difficulty, they have decided on a winner . . .’

  Yes! Me, you gasbag! Just say my name and let me up there on that stage!

  ‘. . . but before I announce the winner . . .

  Oh come on! Get on with it!

  ‘I just want to say that as far as I’m concerned, every person who put an entry into the competition is a winner, and whether or not you actually win the competition is not important. The important thing is to have had a go . . .’

  In case you’re not familiar with Mr Rowe’s speeches, what he’s actually trying to say is that he’s going to announce the winner (that’s me) and that we’re all going to pretend that the losers (that’s everybody else) are winners as well. That’s so they won’t feel so bad about losing, which is quite pointless really because everybody will know that the losers are still the losers and that I, the winner, am still the winner.

  ‘But without any further ado,’ says Mr Rowe, opening the envelope and pulling out a small folded piece of paper, ‘the runner-up of this year’s short-story competition is . . . Daniel Pickett for his entry “Killer Mechanical Chickens From Outer Space”.’

  Huh? I don’t believe it. Danny can’t win second prize. Not with a story like that. The judges never award prizes to stories about robotic killers from outer space. Especially not if they’re chickens. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they just felt sorry for him.

  Everybody applauds. Danny stands up, walks to the stage, receives his certificate and walks back to his seat, his grin as wide as his face.

  I lean across and shake his hand.

  ‘Congratulations, Danny,’ I say. ‘You missed out on the top prize but don’t feel bad — you were up against me, after all.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he says.

  ‘And now,’ says Mr Rowe, ‘the moment you’ve all been waiting for . . . the winner of this year’s short-story competition is . . .’

  ME!

  ANDY GRIFFITHS!

  THE BEST!

  THE STAR!

  Mr Rowe pauses for dramatic effect and clears his throat.

  ‘. . . Tanya Shepherd for her story, “The Ballerina Princess”.’

  I jump up out of my seat, my hands clasped above my head in victory and start heading towards the stage when I realise everybody is laughing. Except for Mr Rowe. He’s frowning. I stop, halfway between my seat and the stage.

  ‘Excuse me, young man,’ he says. ‘Is your name Tanya Shepherd?’

  Everybody starts laughing again.

  It takes me a little while to understand the question.

  Tanya? My name’s not Tanya. At least I don’t think it is.

  ‘Well?’ says Mr Rowe.

  I look at Mr Rowe standing there in front of me.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Then sit down, you silly boy,’ he says.

  There’s a fresh round of laughter as I turn around and walk back to my seat.

  I can’t believe what’s happened.

  Tanya Shepherd has blitzed me. Again.

  She walks up onto the stage and Mr Rowe presents her with my certificate. It’s all happening like a dream. No, not a dream. A night-mare. It’s crazy, that’s what it is. It’s all wrong.

  Danny leans across.

  ‘Bad luck, mate,’ he says, patting me on the arm. ‘But don’t feel too bad about it. Remember what Mr Rowe said? You’re a winner too, not a loser. You had a go.’

  I pull my arm away.

  ‘That’s crap and you know it!’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Danny. ‘I guess you’re right. Your story really did suck. You are a loser.’

  He’s right.

  I shouldn’t have tried to write a story that the judges would like. I should have written a story that I would like.

  In fact that’s exactly what I’m going to do. After assembly we go back to our classroom to get our lunches. Everybody goes outside except me.

  I spend half of lunchtime rewriting my story.

  I’ve finished the last sentence when Danny comes into the room.

  ‘Okay, are you ready to hear it?’ I say.

  ‘Hear what?’ says Danny.

  ‘My story,’ I say. ‘I’ve rewritten it.’

  ‘The one about the kittens?’ he says. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve fixed it up.’

  ‘Is there any hugging in it?’ says Danny.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘What about face licking?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

  ‘All right,’ says Danny, sitting down. He doesn’t look too happy.

  I start reading.

  Kittens, puppies and ponies:

  the TRUE story

  by Andy Griffiths

  Once upon a time there was a magical kingdom called Lovelyville. Everything was lovely in Lovelyville. The people were lovely, the weather was lovely and the animals were lovely. There were no horrible spiders, poisonous snakes or giant cockroaches.

  No. There were none of these things.

  Just lovely animals like kittens, puppies and ponies. They played and frolicked and scampered around in the meadows causing no harm to anybody.

  One day, one of the kittens had an idea.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘let’s go around to all the townspeople and give them each a big hug!’

  ‘What a good idea!’ said a pony. ‘We could give them rides as well!’

  ‘And lick their faces!’ said a puppy.

  ‘Yes!’ said the kitten. ‘Let’s do it right now!’

  And so all the animals set off.

  The first house they came to belonged to Mr White.

  He opened the door and saw all the kittens, puppies and ponies of Lovelyville on his doorstep.

  ‘Hello!’ said the kitten. ‘We’ve come to give you a big hug!’

  Now the animals didn’t know it, but Mr White was the only unlovely person in Lovelyville and he had only one thing on his evil mind that morning — who was he going to test his new PULVERISING AND MASHING MACHINE™ on? He couldn’t believe his good luck.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what a nice surprise! Won’t you all please come inside?’

  The animals went inside.

  Mr White shut the door and locked it. He rubbed his hands.

  ‘Prepare to die!’ he said. He pulled a cord and a heavy black curtain parted to reveal his insanely evil PULVERISING AND MASHING MACHINE™.

  The animals gasped.

  In front of them was a bath-tub and suspended above it were two giant pistons. On the end of one piston was what looked like a giant potato masher, and on the other a giant pitchfork.

  The animals were very frightened.

  ‘Who’s going to be first?’ said Mr White.

  The kitten gulped.

  ‘Take me and let the others go free!’ she begged.

  ‘And deprive me of a wonderful morning’s entertainment?’ said Mr White. ‘You must be mad! I intend to pulve
rise and mash all of you! And then I will turn my PULVERISING AND MASHING MACHINE™ to work upon the whole of Lovelyville! I will not be happy until I have popped the head of every lovely person, mashed the petals of every lovely flower and crushed every single lovely thing in this lovely, lovely land!’

  And on saying this he reached out and grabbed all the animals, threw them into his machine and pressed the on button.

  It was incredible. Bits and pieces of kittens, puppies and ponies went flying everywhere as the twin pulverisers and mashers went to work and the blood and guts and fur went all over Mr White and filled up the house and he drowned and then the house blew apart and a tidal wave of blood and guts flooded out over the whole town, and everybody got drowned and those who didn’t got sucked into the PULVERISING AND MASHING MACHINE™ and got pulverised and mashed, every last lovely person — every last lovely animal, every last lovely vegetable and mineral — all mashed beyond recognition, all pulverised beyond belief, every last bit of loveliness crushed, killed and destroyed.

  And the town was renamed BLOODYVILLE and nobody ever went there again because the smell was so bad that anybody who smelt it died instantly.

  The End.

  I put the story down.

  Danny’s eyes are wide. His mouth is frozen open. He’s staring at me in horror.

  ‘Danny?’ I say. ‘Danny? Are you all right?’

  He can hardly talk. I’ve obviously really freaked him out. He points at me.

  ‘It’s just a story, Danny,’ I say. ‘It didn’t really happen.’

  I look closer at him.

  He’s not pointing at me at all. He’s pointing over my shoulder.

  I turn.

  Oh no.

  Lisa is standing behind me. She’s crying. And not just crying. I mean sobbing. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She must have heard the whole thing.

  ‘Those poor animals,’ she sobs. ‘They didn’t deserve that. It was so cruel. Such a cruel, heartless thing to do.’

  ‘Um . . . err . . . ah,’ I stutter. ‘It’s just a story’.

  I know this is a pathetic answer, but I don’t know what else to say. I’ve blown it. Really blown it.

  ‘Did you write it?’ sobs Lisa.

  What can I say? She’s going to hate me if I admit it’s mine. I don’t want her to hate me. There’s only one thing I can do. Lie.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not my story.’

  ‘It’s not?’ she sobs.

  Danny frowns.

  ‘But . . .’ he says.

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I swear on my mother’s grave that I didn’t write it!’

  ‘But your mother’s not dead, is she?’ says Lisa.

  ‘My grandmother’s grave,’ I say.

  ‘But she’s not dead either,’ says Danny. ‘She lives in Mildura and . . .’

  ‘Well, actually no, Danny,’ I lie. ‘I forgot to tell you that she died.’

  ‘She was okay last week,’ says Danny.

  ‘It was very sudden,’ I say. ‘She just got sick and died. It happens, you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Danny ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ says Lisa.

  ‘Yeah, well, never mind,’ I say, ‘but I swear on my grandmother’s extremely freshly dug grave that I did not write that story.’

  ‘Then if you didn’t,’ says Lisa. ‘Who did?’

  I point at Danny.

  ‘It was him!’ I say.

  Danny looks alarmed.

  ‘Me?’ says Danny. ‘But . . .’

  Lisa turns to Danny.

  Boy, he’s really in for it now. Lisa loves animals.

  ‘That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard,’ says Lisa, her eyes shining through her tears. ‘So sad, so moving . . . so cruel and yet . . . so beautiful. You’re a very talented writer, Danny.’

  What? She likes it? But she was crying. I thought she hated it! I’ll never understand girls.

  But I can’t tell her that I wrote it now. I can’t go back on my lie. Especially when I just swore on my grandmother’s grave. I know my grandmother’s not really dead, but to admit that would only make me a double liar. The only thing to do is to try and take some of the credit.

  ‘It was my idea,’ I say. ‘I helped him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Danny. ‘Andy was a big help. He practically wrote it.’

  Lisa shakes her head.

  ‘I’m sure you’re just being modest,’ she says. ‘You were the runner-up in the school short-story competition after all.’

  ‘I helped him with that story too,’ I say.

  ‘You did not,’ says Danny, puffing his chest out. ‘That was all my work.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ I say.

  Lisa rolls her eyes.

  ‘Quit messing around, Andy,’ she says.

  Danny looks at me and shrugs.

  ‘Danny,’ says Lisa. ‘You know that project we have to do for English where we have to write about our favourite author?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Danny. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I was wondering if I could do mine on you?’

  Danny blushes a deep red.

  ‘I guess so,’ he stammers.

  I cough. I splutter. I gag. But they ignore me.

  ‘Great!’ says Lisa, opening her notebook. ‘Can I interview you? I’d love to know where you get your ideas from.’

  ‘Well,’ says Danny, sitting up in his chair and folding his arms. ‘It’s not that hard. You just need some sort of monster. It’s not that important what it is. It can be an alien . . . or a robot . . . or even a chicken. It doesn’t matter. It just has to be evil and want to destroy everything.’

  ‘Like this you mean?’ I say. I raise my arms, roar like a monster and stomp towards Danny. I’m going to rip him to pieces.

  Lisa touches my arm.

  ‘Andy,’ she sighs, ‘you are so immature. If you’re not interested in learning from someone as talented as Danny, then perhaps you could go away and leave us in peace.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Danny. ‘Why don’t you run along and play?’

  I don’t know what to say.

  I put my arms down, turn and shuffle slowly towards the door.

  This has got to be the lowest point of my entire life. And that’s saying something.

  But hold on.

  I may have lost the competition.

  I may have lost my dignity.

  And I may have lost the best chance I’ve ever had to impress Lisa.

  But I’m not a loser.

  I’m a winner.

  Because now I know exactly what sort of stories Lisa likes.

  All I have to do is write another one.

  I can’t wait to get started on it.

  I don’t exactly know what’s going to happen yet, but I do know it will involve bunnies, lambs, fluffy ducklings, a couple of baby seals and a maniac driving a steam-roller.

  She’s going to love it.

  Learn to Read with Andy

  See me jump.

  See me run.

  See me hop.

  It is fun.

  See me hop.

  See me run.

  See me jump.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  See me jump.

  On my bed.

  I jump so high

  I bump my head.

  On the ceiling.

  On the roof.

  I hit it hard.

  Ouch! Ugh! Oof!

  I say a word.

  It is bad.

  It is rude.

  I am glad.

  I like to swear.

  It is fun.

  Bad words, rude words.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  Hop, hop, hop.

  Bump, bump, bump.

  Swear, swear, swear.

  Jump, jump, jump.

  On my tummy.

  On my bum.

  See me jump.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  Hear my bed-springs.

  Hear them groan.

&nb
sp; Hear them squeak.

  Hear them moan.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  Groan, groan, groan.

  Creak, creak, creak.

  Moan, moan, moan.

  This is not good.

  This is bad.

  Mum will hear.

  She’ll get mad.

  I’ll be in trouble.

  I’ll be sad.

  Big trouble, bad trouble.

  Bad, bad, bad.

  Oh no! Oh no!

  Here she comes.

  Oh no! Oh no!

  Here comes my mum.

  Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

  Down the hall!

  I do not like this.

  Not at all!

  The door flies open.

  She’s mad as hell.

  See her point.

  Hear her yell:

  ‘Are you jumping

  on your bed?

  You stupid boy!

  You’ll crack your head!

  ‘I’ve told you once.

  I’ve told you twice.

  It is not good.

  It is not right.

  You must not jump

  upon your bed!

  Do you understand?’

  she says.

  I can fib.

  It is fun.

  I can fib

  to anyone.

  I fib to Dad.

  I fib to Mum.

  Fib, fib, fib.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  See me shrug.

  Hear me fib.

  ‘But, Mum,’ I say,

  ‘I never did.

  It was not me.