by John Marsden
‘Um, OK,’ you say, feeling your courage deserting you. But there seems to be no escape. You follow her out the door, up endless stairs, and along the corridor. You can hear a noise like the surf in a raging storm, and gradually you realise that’s your class. They’re at the end of the corridor and they’re in full riot mode. As the two of you approach, a chair comes flying out of the door and crashes into the wall. The lady with you doesn’t even slow down. She charges into the room, while you hang back. As soon as the students see her they rush to their seats. There’s instant silence.
‘Disgraceful behaviour! Disgusting!’ she shouts at them. ‘I don’t know what your new teacher will think.’ She beckons to you.
‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Class, I’d like to introduce you to your new teacher.’
hen it’s been quiet outside for ten minutes you unlock the door and sneak out. The washroom is empty. You say a silent thank you and rush off to your first class. Luckily the teacher is still getting the class organised, calling the roll and giving out the books. She hardly notices that you’re late. You hurry to a spare desk and sit down. You’ve only been sitting there a moment when you take a look to see who you’re next to. Your mouth drops open in astonishment. Wow! It’s Sam Jarre! You both seem to be blushing. This is a very interesting situation, you think to yourself. But the teacher’s getting serious now and wants everyone to take out paper and pens. You both do that, and you start writing what the teacher tells you. Soon, out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Sam has torn off a bit of paper and is writing something different. You know it’s going to be a message to you. You can’t wait to read it. Sure enough, after a minute, it’s pushed along the desk to you. You grab it and hide it in your hand and read it when no one’s watching. The message is what you half expect . . .
It says: ‘Do you want to go with me?’
ou spend all morning looking for Sam Jensen. Somehow you’re not surprised to think that Sam’s got the hots for you. Those little sideways looks late last year, at your old school, those secret smiles, those casual hints. It’s pretty exciting! After all, Sam’s admired by so many people, boys and girls, and is so cool, so good looking.
You’re not all that sure that you like Sam much though. Sam’s always seemed to you to be a bit cruel. But maybe when you get to know each other better you’ll realise you were wrong about that.
The search takes half the day. It’s nearly the end of lunchtime when you track Sam down. The best-looking student in the school, surrounded by the usual group of fans. For once, you’re not put off by all these people. You walk up to them confidently and stand there.
For a few minutes no one seems to take any notice of you. But eventually Sam realises you’re right there, just looking on and smiling. Then finally comes a conversation that you know you’ll never forget, for the rest of your life.
‘Well, hi,’ Sam says.
‘Well, hi Sam.’
‘Were you looking for me?’
‘I think you’re looking for me,’ you say, with a little grin and a wink.
‘I am?’
‘Yes,’ you say, and then add: ‘You see, I know about the message in the toilets.’
‘The message?’
‘The heart.’
Sam goes into hysterical laughter and all Sam’s friends go into hysterical laughter, too. When they’ve finally got control of themselves again you ask, ‘Would someone mind telling me the joke?’
‘Sure,’ Sam says. ‘We were having a competition this morning to put each other’s names in hearts with the biggest nerds we could think of. And Danny here put my name in with yours. Thanks a lot, Danny!’
And they all burst out laughing again, having to hold each other up to stop from falling on the ground with hysteria.
oming along the corridor is a middle-aged female teacher carrying a briefcase and a pile of books. You realise this is your chance, and it’s the only one you’re going to get. You rush to the teacher’s side.
‘You’ve got too much to carry there,’ you say. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Why, what nice manners,’ she beams. ‘So unusual among young people these days. Thank you.’
You take the pile of books, and the two of you walk right past the caveman-student, who’s had to move aside to make room for you. ‘Why, thank you,’ you say to him, ‘what nice manners you have. So unusual among young people these days.’ He goes purple in the face and starts rumbling like a small active volcano. But you sweep on by without another look.
A minute later, as you deliver the teacher to her classroom, the bell rings and you go off to your own class. The morning passes in a blur and it’s not until the lunch bell that you have time to be worried about the Incredible Hulk. You leave the classroom cautiously, peering down the corridor before you step into it. The coast looks clear, so you head for your locker. A few kids look at you strangely: you remember the scene in the bathroom this morning and blush with embarrassment.
It’ll take you a long time to live that down.
You get to your locker and everything seems OK. The area is deserted.
You open the locker to put your books in and realise straight away that it’s not OK after all. There’s some kind of fire bomb in there, and as soon as you open the locker the whole thing bursts into flames. Yikes! This is really dangerous. You look around desperately.
At one end of the corridor there is a fire alarm button. At the other end there is a cleaner’s cupboard, which you think should contain a tap and some buckets. Which way are you going to go?
oming along the corridor is a kid who’s got to be the smallest kid in the school. He’s like a butter menthol with four limbs. When someone slams a door further down the corridor this kid almost gets blown over.
You give a deep sigh. He’s not going to be much use. But he surprises you. He walks straight up and says, ‘What seems to be the problem here?’
He’s got a big deep voice that gets your attention.
‘Uh, no problem,’ you say. ‘Just this maniac here who thinks he owns the school.’
The little guy looks up at the refrigerator on legs who, you’re amazed to see, is now hanging his head and looking a bit embarrassed.
‘Now now, Cedric,’ he says, ‘that’s enough. Go to class.’ You nearly fall over when Cedric immediately shuffles away down the corridor.
‘Wow, how did you do that?’ you ask.
He shrugs. ‘Not a problem. I know what Cedric values most in life, and I keep him supplied with it.’
You ask the obvious question: ‘What does Cedric value most in life?’
‘Basketball cards.’
‘Basketball cards?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But. . .but how do you control the supply of basketball cards?’
‘I have special access to them,’ he says mysteriously. ‘At the end of this week I’m considering giving Cedric an Abdul B.B. Amir card.’
‘Abdul B.B. Amir. Wow.’
You begin to realise that there’s more to this kid than meets the eye. There’d want to be, because there’s not much that meets the eye. As you start walking down the corridor together you ask him: ‘Who is Cedric anyway?’
‘Cedric’s repeating for about the eleventh year. He’s the oldest student in the school.’
‘Yeah, he looks it.’
‘What do you most value?’ he asks you suddenly.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, for Cedric it’s basketball cards. What is it for you? What would you be really excited to get your hands on?’
You’re getting really weird vibes from this kid. Maybe he does have special powers or something. You hesitate, wondering what you should say.
r, hi Aunty,’ you say to this dangerous-looking woman.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I think you’d better come to my office.’
You know you’ve been busted. The last mouthful of Iced Vo-Vo is sticking in your throat. You follow the Principal as she strides ou
t of the staff room, along a quiet carpeted corridor to her office. She leads you in, tells you to sit down, then seats herself behind the desk.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘I think you’d better tell me what this is all about.’
‘Er, what do you mean?’ you ask weakly.
‘I mean, why did you say I’m your aunt, when I was an only child, my husband’s sister isn’t married, and I’ve never seen you before in my life?’
‘Your husband doesn’t have a brother by any chance, does he?’ you ask.
‘Try again,’ she says.
So finally you tell her the truth.
‘This big kid was chasing me all around the school and I just ran into the first room I saw, and it was the staff room.’
‘And to explain what you were doing there you said I was your aunt?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ you admit.
She asks you what the boy looks like, and you give a vague description.
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Wait here a minute.’
She gets up and leaves the room. You sit there in fear, wondering what your punishment will be.
Five minutes later she returns. With her is the big guy who’s been chasing you. He looks bigger and fiercer than ever and he glares at you like an angry buffalo who’s been sitting on an ant nest for the last half hour.
‘Is this the boy you say has been terrorising you?’ the Principal asks.
r, hello Aunt,’ you say to her.
‘Well, hello dear,’ she says. To your surprise she gives you a little dry peck on your cheek. Maybe you’re going to get away with this after all!
‘Why don’t you come to my office,’ she says, ‘and I’ll get you a cup of herbal tea.’
You follow her as she toddles along to the office. She leads you in and shuts the door. To your surprise she locks the door, takes the key out, and puts it in her handbag.
‘Why’d you do that?’ you ask.
She gives a little chuckle. For the first time you notice her eyes. There’s a little red spot in each one and, as you watch, the spots seem to get larger, fiercer. She pulls a knitting needle out of the ball of wool and advances towards you.
‘Sit down dear,’ she coos, ‘and make yourself comfortable.’
‘But, but . . . what are you doing with the needle?’ you ask.
‘Oh!’ she laughs. ‘What a silly child! Don’t you trust me?’
‘Gee,’ you think. ‘That’s a tough question. I’m not so sure that I do.’
But you can’t tell her that. Can you?
he class sits there in stunned surprise. You glance around quickly.
Luckily there’s no one you recognise. The teacher is looking at you suspiciously. She’s still not sure whether you’re who you claim to be. You clear your throat and speak, trying hard to sound confident.
‘Right, class, take out your textbooks.’
You don’t even know what subject this is meant to be, but the class is so shocked that they actually do what you ask. You grab a book from the nearest student and look at the cover. It’s called The World Around Us and it looks like Social Studies or Geography or something. ‘Turn to page one,’ you say to the class, opening the book in a rush, trying to get to page one before they do. It seems to be a chapter about Africa.
You decide to bluff your way through.
‘OK, now, so what do we know about Africa?’ you ask the students.
‘They’re a good group,’ someone says.
‘No, no, I don’t mean the group,’ you say, ‘I mean the country.’ You look around for the teacher, but she’s leaving. She’s got her own class to go to. ‘So what do we know about Africa?’ you ask again.
‘They speak African,’ someone says.
‘Yes, very good. What else?’
There’s a dull silence.
‘Are you really a teacher?’ someone asks.
‘Hey, are you really a student?’ you say.
‘You don’t look any older than us.’
‘I was a child genius. They wheeled me to school in my pram. I was in high school before I was out of nappies. I was at university before I could tie my shoelaces.’
‘If you’re a teacher,’ a kid yells out, ‘can we have the rest of the period off?’
he class sit there staring at you. The teacher’s staring at you, waiting to see your first move. That’s not surprising—you’re waiting to see your first move too.
In a state of total fear you open your mouth.
‘OK,’ you say, trying desperately to remember how new teachers start.
‘Yes of course!’ you think. ‘My name, I’ll tell them my name.’ So you say: ‘OK, first of all, my name is. . .’
And suddenly you can’t remember your name.
‘I’ll just write it up on the board for you,’ you say, thinking fast.
As you turn to the board the teacher leaves to go to her class. This is the first lucky break you’ve had all day. You stagger to the board and stand there trying to remember your name.
While you’re standing there a voice behind you says, ‘You’re not really a teacher, are you?’
You turn around. The whole class is watching you. You realise you can’t go through with this. It’s just too big a bluff.
‘No, no I’m not,’ you confess miserably.
The students start laughing and after a minute you join in.
‘So why’d you pretend to be a teacher?’ someone asks.
‘I was desperate,’ you say. ‘I was being chased by this kid and I ran into the first room I could find and it turned out to be the staff room. So I said I was a teacher.’
‘Was he a big kid with a crewcut?’ someone else asks. ‘And did he have a skull tattooed on his face? And did he look like a bush pig?’
‘Yeah, that’s the guy.’
‘Ah, phooey, he’s no problem. Just breathe in his face. He’s scared of germs. He’ll run a mile if you breathe on him.’
‘That’s true,’ someone else says. ‘He’s a real wimp.’ You can’t decide if they’re joking or not, but it looks like you’re going to have a chance to find out. For you can see the bush pig himself coming straight towards the classroom door.
n the bottom of the note you write, ‘Yes, yes, that’d be great!’ and you pass the note back to Sam. But as you do so you get that terrible feeling that you’re being watched. You look up anxiously. Sure enough the teacher, Ms Janzen, is staring straight at you.
‘I won’t have people passing notes in my classes,’ she says. ‘Bring that piece of paper out here right now.’
‘Oh no miss, please,’ you say. ‘I’ll destroy it, OK? I promise we’ll never do it again.’
‘Too late for that,’ she says. ‘I want it here. Quicksticks!’
You’re trapped. There’s an agonised look on Sam’s face, but what can you do? Slowly, like you’re going to a funeral, you walk to the front of the class. The teacher has her hand out, reaching for the note.
Just as you reach her you get a sudden desperate thought. If you really want to save both your hides you could eat the note. It’s a desperate remedy, but these are desperate times.
ou sit there in a stew. It’s a tough call to make. What are you going to do? You like Sam; that’s not the problem. But it’s going to complicate your life an awful lot if you start going out together. For one thing, you’ve already got a bit of a thing going with Nicky Wren. And for another, you’re too young to get into a serious relationship. And for a third, this has been a very stressful morning already; you feel like you need another six weeks’ holiday, straight away. You start thinking of all the other reasons, too:
Fourth: Sam’s vegetarian and you’re omnivorous.
Fifth: your parents hate Sam’s parents.
Sixth: your best friend has had a crush on Sam for months.
Seventh: your second best friend has had a crush on Sam for years.
Eighth: Well, there’s no eighth reason, but seven is enough.
Reluctantly you writ
e a note back: ‘I really want us to be friends but I don’t think I want to go with you, OK? But thanks for asking me!’
ou’re so mad you’ve got steam coming out of more than just your ears! You’re so mad you’ve got steam coming out of your butt! Sam has made a big, big mistake in underestimating you. The last time you were this angry you caused your old school principal to take early retirement.
Now you spend all day working out a way to get even with Sam. No, not just to get even, to get way in front!
When you go home after school you still don’t have a plan. But at about three o’clock in the morning, as you lie awake with your mind going full speed, you get it. It’s a brilliant scheme, so brilliant you’re amazed at your own genius.
You have to wait till the weekend before you can do it. The week seems to pass slowly. Every time you pass Sam in the corridor you get treated to sarcastic laughter and mocking comments. But you don’t mind. You can take it, because you know that the person who laughs last, laughs loudest.
On Saturday morning you get to the gym early. It’s already open because the builders are working flat out on the renovations. They got held up by all the rain and they’ve still got half the job to do. You explain you’re here to do some warm-ups and they let you in. You hurry to the south end of the gym. It’s quite a mess. The changing rooms can’t be used so they’ve put up a plywood partition and the competitors get changed behind that. You check it out, and do a bit of rope work with the big heavy knotted ropes that hang from the roof. Then you wait for Sam and all the others to arrive.
The morning follows the usual routine. There’s the monthly competition, and soon most people are involved in that. Not Sam though. Being a gymnastics legend means you don’t bother to go in these little local events. Instead Sam trains with a private coach at the south end of the gym. You watch and wait, knowing that every passing moment brings your hour of triumph closer.
