6) B
7) B
8) A – although gorillas and chimpanzees would disagree. Option B works providing you don’t have a peanut allergy, and D is unproven yet possibly effective and results in the invention of a new flavour of ice-cream.
9) B
10) D (Option A works well on sharks. Remember that next time you go swimming.)
1–3 Answers Correct: You’re a Nitwit. You know so little about nits that you’re destined to be infested for the rest of your life.
4–7 Answers Correct: You’re a Louse. You know a little but not enough to protect yourself from these bloodthirsty vampires.
8–10 Answers Correct: Congratulations – you’re a Nitologist! You should quit school now and wander the earth spreading your nit knowledge. And your nits.
* To witness me almost dying in a mutant nit attack, read ‘Revenge of the Nits’, parts one and two, in My Life & Other Exploding Chickens.
I am alone in my grandmother’s 1952 Ford Crestline, tearing backwards down Kingsley Street towards the two toughest kids in my class, Brent Bunder and Jonah Flem. I must be doing 60 or 70 kilometres an hour. I’m screaming. They’re screaming. There’s no way they’ll make it out of this alive. I’ll be sent to prison for being an underage, unlicensed driver. I’ll have to eat sloppy prison food for the rest of my life, and I really don’t enjoy sloppy food very much.
I can see their ugly faces through the rear windscreen of the car. In the last seconds of their lives, I try to imagine Brent Bunder and Jonah Flem as a pair of cane toads, like Nan said, so that I won’t feel so bad when the car mashes them into the road.
At the very last second, I try jerking the wheel to the right. Brent and Jonah dive to the left onto the gravel at the roadside.
Somehow, I miss them.
I’m so relieved.
‘Sorrrryyyy!’ I call as I tear past.
‘Crazy old lady!’ Jonah shouts, throwing a handful of gravel at the car, and I realise he must think Nan’s still at the wheel. Then Brent and I make eye contact for a split second.
‘You’re dead, Weekly!’ he screams. Usually having the biggest kid in my school wanting me dead would bother me, but right now it’s the least of my worries. If I don’t stop this speeding car he won’t have the chance to kill me.
I look down and there are three pedals. I stomp on the one on the right. Nothing happens.
I turn and look out the rear window. While I’ve been trying to figure out the pedal situation, the car has shot straight past my house and I’m bearing down on the intersection of Kingsley and Tennyson streets. Cars crisscross at high speed from either side of me. I stomp on the left pedal. It’s firm and it squeals as I jam my foot down. But the car keeps rolling.
I’m going to hit that concrete truck, I think. I can feel it in my bones. The truck says ‘Craig’s Concreting’ on the side. The truck’s rounded tail-end spins. I bang my fist on the horn again and the driver – Craig, I assume – looks up to see Nan’s ancient Ford speeding backwards towards him. His mouth forms an ‘O’ of surprise and he slams on the brakes. His truck squirls and skids 180 degrees so that it, too, is now driving backwards. The slippery dip that the concrete slides out of swings wildly around. Thick, grey goo flies through the air towards Nan’s car. It’s going to –
Schlump.
The wet concrete hits the top of the car and sprays the side of my face. I’m right behind the truck now as it skids towards me. The numberplate reads ‘CON-CR8’, and I know it’s the last thing that I will ever read because the truck is about to hit my concrete-spattered face.
Prang!
Rip!
Crunch.
The shiny silver bumper bar of Nan’s car has been torn off and is now wedged beneath the rear wheels of the concrete truck, which, thankfully, comes to a screaming stop.
The driver shouts something at me and waves his fist, but I don’t care. I’m alive!
But not for long.
I look back out the rear window to see the Dog Kisser about to cross the street with nine hounds of varying shapes and sizes on leads. Oh no. The Dog Kisser is a weird dog-walking dude in my neighbourhood who loves nothing more than a dog licking him all over the neck, face and mouth. But he might have smooched his last pooch, because I’m about to take the DK and his canine companions out. I stomp on the middle pedal – it has to be the brake – and get ready for the squealing sound of tyres on road.
Nothing happens.
I stomp on the pedal again.
The dogs are looking right at me and barking, but the Dog Kisser, unaware of the car hurtling towards him, is trying to untangle himself from a bunch of leads.
I never liked the DK much. I find it hard to respect a man who has such a high tolerance for canine saliva, but I don’t want to make roadkill out of him. I’m five metres from him when I hit the horn. The DK looks up, howls and pulls back hard on the dogs’ leads. The dogs fly through the air towards him.
Whoom!
I zoom past as all nine mutts land on the Dog Kisser and he goes sprawling to the kerb.
‘Sorry!’ I shout again.
All the dogs start to lick him on the neck and face. It must be the greatest day of his life.
The fire and police stations blur past. Sergeant Hategarden is out front, waxing the bonnet of his police cruiser, holding a large takeaway cup of coffee.
‘Heeeeeeeeelp!’ I howl.
He looks up, sees Nan’s very long, very wide vintage vehicle careering backwards down the street with a child at the wheel. He spills his coffee on his shirt and lunges around the front of the car, into the front seat. I hear the siren start up, but it’s too late to save me now.
Kings Bay Swimming Pool is at the end of my street, on the opposite side of the T-intersection that I’m speeding towards. The road running across is the main street in town, and it’s choked with holiday-maker traffic. I’ll never get through. Not to worry. It was fun while it lasted. Life, I mean. I had some good times, a few real shockers, but all things must come to an end. I plant my hand firmly on the horn, say my final prayers, secure my seatbelt and get ready for the crash.
Three seconds …
A family station wagon with a surfboard on the roof and two bikes on the back crosses the intersection.
Two seconds …
A campervan with three long-haired backpackers in the front seat cruises by.
One second …
A semitrailer rumbles along in no hurry at all. The truck driver hears my horn and looks up. His eyes go wide. I’m going to miss his cab, but I’m certain to hit the big, heavy trailer that has ‘Fielder’s Fresh Foods’ on the side. I’m going to hit a vegetable truck. What a horrible way to die. Death by pumpkin. I duck down low as my car and his truck collide, and I hear the loudest noise I have ever heard – ripping, tearing, smashing, screeching. The roof of Nan’s car is torn off and the rest of the car – with me in it – shoots out from underneath the other side of the truck and across a lane of traffic.
A cyclist coming from my left yells, ‘Watch out!’ He hits his brakes, flies over the handlebars, slides across the rough, concrete-spattered bonnet and somehow lands on his feet. The back of Nan’s car mounts the gutter, tears across the footpath, smashes through the pool fence, knocks over a small palm tree, and cleans up the ice-cream trolley, sending Magnums and Icy Poles flying (but not a single Bubble O’ Bill, from what I can see). The car races towards the diving blocks where a row of kids are lining up for a race.
‘On your marks …’ says a voice over the speakers.
The kids turn at the sound of the exploding trolley – there’s ice-cream all over my rear windscreen – to see the car hurtling towards them. They dive off the blocks and onto the grass then scramble out of the way, revealing a still, tranquil pool. Nan’s car smashes through the diving blocks and goes flying, boot-first, into the deep end, snapping the orange lane ropes. The heavy car begins to sink like the Titanic, tipping up at one end.
With me
in it.
I’m still above the water, and I suck in an enormous breath before I feel the weight of the back of the car pull me down into the deep. Millions of tiny bubbles roar past me towards the surface.
I can only see white froth. I try to swim up towards the light but the seatbelt holds me down. I reach for my hip and click the release button. The car bangs against the bottom of the pool. I claw at the water, but as I shoot out of the newly convertible car, my shoulder and arm get tangled in the belt. I wrestle with it. I can’t believe my Nan’s horrible driving has led to this. All I wanted was a Bubble O’ Bill and to go for a swim. At least I got one wish, I guess.
I pull hard and twist my arm out of the belt. I place a foot on the car seat and push upwards, firing like a rocket through a storm of bubbles. I blow air out until I have no more air to blow, but I’m still beneath the surface. I kick and paddle hard, making a desperate squeaking noise as my lungs strain for air. I’m pretty sure I’m going to faint. Then – schploosh – I break the surface of the water and drink in the sweet, chlorinated air. There is screaming and cheering all around.
I tread water, wipe my eyes and look to the side of the pool. I bob on the surface, surrounded by thousands of soggy phone book pages. The edge of the pool is lined with kids and parents and pool-workers. An arm wraps around my waist as a guy in a red-and-yellow lifesaver’s cap swims me to safety. He boosts me up and out, and I lie flat on the warm tiles.
I am happy to be alive.
‘What in God’s name are you doing driving a car, boy?’ a voice demands.
I open my eyes and sunshine spears them. I squint, still heaving for air, and I make out the face of Sergeant John Hategarden.
‘I just wanted an ice-cream,’ I say. ‘A Bubble O’ Bill.’
After the pool’s first-aid guy checks me out, Sergeant Hategarden gives me a ride in the police cruiser up to Papa Bear’s. Nan is standing outside, looking confused, wondering where her car is.
Hategarden guides her into the back seat alongside me and takes us down to the station. In the interrogation room he informs her: ‘You are never allowed to drive again, Nancy.’
‘Why?’ she asks, surprised.
‘Because you don’t have a licence.’
‘Oh, poppycock,’ she says. ‘I’m an excellent driver. I’ve been driving since I was seven years old.’
‘If you ever drive another vehicle again, even so much as a scooter, you’re going to go to jail,’ he says, stone-faced.
‘What did I do? Everything turned out okay in the end. Apart from that blasted semitrailer driver who ripped the roof off my car. He’ll pay for that.’
‘Nancy, your car is at the bottom of the municipal swimming pool.’
‘I’ll never get the rust out,’ she says.
Hategarden firmly smoothes down the sides of his moustache. ‘You’re lucky that car didn’t kill someone. Do you know it hasn’t been registered since 1979?’
‘Rules, rules,’ she says. ‘Life’s no fun anymore.’
‘You nearly killed your grandson!’
She looks at me. ‘You’re alright, aren’t you, mate? He’s a tough little fella, this one. Sergeant, if you could please have my car removed from the swimming pool, we’ll be on our way.’
Hategarden lets out a low animal growl of frustration.
‘There’s no need to be a bear about it,’ Nan says. ‘You’ll give an old lady a fright. Come on, Tom, let’s go get that ice-cream. And maybe we’ll go car shopping. I agree with all of you – I think it’s time I applied for my licence.’
It’s a great time to be a writer because readers have a chance to contribute to my stories. While I’m working on a book I visit lots of schools and festivals and libraries. I share one of the stories I’m working on and brainstorm ideas for those stories with lots of super-creative kids. Sometimes those ideas find their way into the book, so here is my thank-you list to all the fantastic kids and teachers who have contributed to this book and have given me feedback on what’s working and what could be better.
Special thanks to Luca Bancks for being my first reader and sounding board, and for being so enthusiastic about Tom Weekly’s ongoing adventures. And to Amber and Hux for their unrelenting support for my creative work and for blocking their ears when they overhear me reading the particularly disgusting bits.
Big thanks to Anjali Dutton, who wrote the story ‘Toffee’ when she was 11 years old and won the NSW Pilot PEN short story competition, judged by Andy Griffiths. Anjali rewrote the story for publication in this book. She’s such a talented writer, and ‘Toffee’ will hopefully inspire you to write your own stories!
Thanks to students in the following schools for bainstorming stories with me in live talks and online: Varsity College year 7, Pembroke Junior School, Grand Avenue SS year 4, Hillcrest Christian College years 5 and 6, Scotch College class 5D, St Stephen’s and St Imogen, Youngtown PS, Ravenswood PS, Scottsdale PS, Penleigh and Essendon Grammar School year 4, The Southport School, The Pocket PS, All Hallows CPS, Rosary School Adelaide, Coorabell PS year 5/6, Kyogle PS 5/6T, Lismore PS, Mullumbimby PS, Bangalow PS, Modanville PS, Eureka PS, Ivanhoe Girls’ Grammar year 3/4, Genesis Christian College, Whitsunday Anglican School, Eagle Junction SS, Kimberley Park SS, Craigslea SS, Blackbutt SS, Everton Park SS, Taranganba SS, Mt Carmel School, The Willows SS, Xavier Catholic College, St Andrew’s Catholic College Cairns, St Patrick’s School Emerald, Wentworth Falls PS, Gordon East PS, St Ignatius’ College Riverview, Albany Creek SS, St Eugene College, Macgregor SS, St Peter’s Rochedale, Windsor SS, Brisbane Boys’ College, Bray Park SS, Churchie and St Pius X College, as well as participants in my Brisbane Writers Festival 2016 sessions.
And thanks to the following individuals: Ben, Tina, Harrison, Jackson, Amber, Gideon, Isaac, Caitlin, Dakota, Anthony, Ruby, Gabriella, Nick, Boris, Raph, Zayneb, Lucy, Briannon, Amelie, Sam, Klaes, Joel, Emily, Liam, Sinead, Rex, Finley, Ashwin, Mitch, Josie, Oskar, Fletcher, Matilda, Asia, Eva, Lochie, Bron, Will, Tara, Katie, Suneha, Jem, Connor, Anesa, Erin, Adelia, Elijah, Caleb, Claire, George, Emile, Tom, Noah, Thomas, Nicole, Mitchell, Ashley, Matthew, Aden, Imogen, Indira, Huxley, Luca, Jack, Millie, Gem, Cosmo, Iggy, Maggie, Sol, Bella, Angus and Caleb. And to Tom Kirk for sending me a brilliant ‘What Would You Rather Do?’ challenge.
Thanks to all the brilliant booksellers, teachers, librarians and parents who share my crazy stories with kids.
Thanks to Gus Gordon for being an all-round nice guy and for bringing Tom Weekly’s weird little world to life in pictures. Thanks to the fantastic Anthony Blair and Jo Butler at Cameron’s for being a constant source of energy and support, and to the team at Penguin Random House Australia. Zoe Walton and Brandon VanOver offer up lots of brilliant ideas and push and prod me to make the stories funnier and more detailed. Dot Tonkin, Zoe Bechara, Angela Duke and Suzannah Katris take the books to the world in fun and innovative ways, and Laura Harris and Julie Burland run a super-dynamic team. I feel lucky to be working with you.
May you be well and happy.
Tristan Bancks is a children’s and teen author with a background in acting and filmmaking. His books include the My Life series, Mac Slater (Australia and US) and Two Wolves (On the Run in the US), a crime-mystery novel for middle-graders. Two Wolves won Honour Book in the 2015 Children’s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Awards and was shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. It also won the YABBA and KOALA Children’s Choice Awards. His new novel, The Fall, is available from May 2017. Tristan is a writer–ambassador for the literacy charity Room to Read. He is excited by the future of storytelling and inspiring others to create. Visit Tristan at www.tristanbancks.com
Gus Gordon has written and illustrated over 70 books for children. He writes books about motorbike-riding stunt chickens, dogs that live in trees, and singing on rooftops in New York. His picture book Herman and Rosie was a 2013 CBCA Honour Book. Gus loves speaking to kids about illustration, character design and the desire to control a wi
ggly line. Visit Gus at www.gusgordon.com
Tristan Bancks is a committed writer–ambassador for Room to Read, an innovative global non-profit that has impacted the lives of over ten million children in ten low-income countries through its Literacy and Girls’ Education programs. Room to Read is changing children’s lives in Bangladesh, Cambodia, India, Laos, Nepal, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Tanzania, Vietnam and Zambia – and you can help!
In 2012 Tristan started the Room to Read World Change Challenge in collaboration with Australian school children to build a school library in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Over the years since Tristan, his fellow writer–ambassadors and kids in both Australia and Hong Kong have raised $80,000 to buy 80,000 books for children in low-income countries.
For more information or to join this year’s World Change Challenge, visit http://www.tristanbancks.com/p/change-world.html, and to find out more about Room to Read, visit www.roomtoread.org.
My Life & Other Stuff I Made Up
My Life & Other Stuff that Went Wrong
My Life & Other Massive Mistakes
My Life & Other Exploding Chickens
Two Wolves
The Fall (May 2017)
Mac Slater, Coolhunter
Mac Slater, Imaginator
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Penguin Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
My Life and Other Weaponised Muffins Page 8
