by John Marsden
At last Sam finishes and, after cooling down and towelling off, goes behind the plywood wall to get changed. Big Carl, who’s the adult ropes champion for the whole district, starts spitting on his hands and flexing his huge muscles, warming-up. You wait about two minutes and then, with an evil grin, hand one of the ropes—the one you’ve prepared—to Big Carl.
‘Have a swing on this,’ you suggest, then stand well back.
Big Carl takes the rope without even bothering to say ‘thank you’. He’s so used to everyone treating him like a hero that he takes it for granted when you wait on him. He climbs the ladder, then, like Tarzan, he launches himself across the gym. You’ve taken the precaution of running the rope over a rafter and tying the end of it to the plywood partition. There’s a wild scream from that end of the gym, as the partition rises two metres into the air. That’s Sam. There’s a second wild scream—from Big Carl—as he crashes into a heap of gym mats. Then there’s wild laughter from all around the gymnasium as people realise what’s happened. You sneak out into the sunlight, smiling. Now all the world knows what Sam looks like dressed in hot pink undies.
omehow you get through the day, even though you feel like sticking chewing gum up your nostrils to suffocate yourself. Or taking an overdose of chocolate. Or putting your head in the toilet and pressing the flush button.
It’s the end of the school day at last. The bell rings. You can’t wait to get out of the place. You grab your bag and head for the gate.
You decide not to catch the bus: you don’t want to risk being laughed at like that again. You walk off down the road. It’s a long walk but you don’t mind.
About a k from the school you hear a panting noise behind you. You’re scared to turn around in case it’s a mad serial killer, red in the face, spit dribbling down his chin, with the axe raised above his head.
But you summon your courage and turn round anyway. There’s no serial killer. In fact there’s no one there at all. It’s quite a shock. Then you look down, and at your feet is a little terrier dog. He’s a cute scruffy little thing, wagging his tail enthusiastically. He seems to be grinning up at you as he pants away. He’s so happy to have found you. You bend down and pick him up, holding him in your arms as you scratch behind his ear.
Around his neck is a collar, and as you look at it you see a name tag attached. You manage to pull it out and read it. It says: ‘If you find me please return me to 26 Blundstone Drive, West Mitchell.’
ou race to the fire alarm. The sign says: ‘In the event of fire, break glass and press button.’ You draw back your fist and punch the glass hard. Ouch! Unfortunately the glass hasn’t broken, but your hand probably has. You look around and see a good weapon: a library book that’s lying on the floor nearby. You pick it up and look at it. It’s called Tomorrow, When the War Began and it doesn’t look too bad. You think, Gee, I might read this.
There’s a photo of the author on the back jacket flap. He’s not going to win any beauty competitions but, hey, looks aren’t everything: it still might be a good book.
or once in your life you time something perfectly. You race to the cleaner’s cupboard, sliding the last five metres to the door, and turn the handle smoothly, throwing the door open with a huge push. You step over the body of the cleaner who had been eating his lunch just inside the door.
You grab the bucket from the sink, tip out the tea that the cleaner had been brewing in it, and fill it with water. You leap over the cleaner and rush back to the lockers, which are now blazing furiously.
You pour the water over the flames but to your horror the flames flare up even more brightly. Where did you go wrong? You suddenly realise!
It was hot water that you tipped on the fire! Oh no! How could you have been so stupid? You rush back to the cleaner’s cupboard and trip over the body of the cleaner. You jump up and fill the bucket with cold water. You head out the door. The cleaner’s coming back to life and staggering to his feet. Unfortunately the bucket catches him on the side of his head and he goes down again.
Back at the lockers you realise that things are getting serious. The corridor’s full of smoke and flames are leaping up to the ceiling. You pour the water over it again and this time it seems to help a bit. Back to the cupboard again, and there’s the cleaner, on his feet now.
‘What do you think you’re doing with that bucket?’ he asks.
‘Putting out a fire,’ you answer.
‘You put it down,’ he says angrily. ‘It’s against rules for students to touch those buckets.’
‘Well, you do it then,’ you say, getting angry.
‘None of your cheek,’ he says. ‘Now where’d I put my Marmite sandwich?’
‘Is this it?’ you ask, picking up what looks like a dirty bit of rag from the floor. You’ve trodden on it a few times as you ran backwards and forwards, so it’s lost a bit of its freshness. The cleaner goes purple in the face.
‘Get out of here!’ he yells. ‘Get out!’
‘But what about the fire?’ you ask.
‘Never mind the fire! Just get out!’
orld peace!! World peace!!! Don’t give me any of that crud. What do you really want?’
You think again. It’s a tough choice. You’d really like your favourite football team to win a premiership, for one thing. And you’d like to get better marks at school. Then there’s the Cosmic Criminal computer game, which is meant to be so difficult that no one in the world can solve it. Hmm. Choosing will definitely not be easy. But can this weird little guy really give you what you want?
ell I am a bit of a chocolate junkie,’ you admit.
‘Chocolate!’ the kid says. ‘That’s really original. Chocolate! That’s what everyone says.’
‘Yes but I’m not just a chocolate junkie. I live on it—well, when I can get it. My perfect day is Coco Pops for breakfast, a Kit Kat for morning tea, Nutella sandwiches and a Choc Wedge for lunch, a Mars Bar and a chocolate milk shake for afternoon tea . . .’
‘Stop, stop!’ the kid yells. He is starting to look a little green. ‘I believe you, but you’re making me sick. You are an addict. You could be the most severe case I’ve ever seen.’
‘Well thank you,’ you say.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘As it happens I do have a few connections in the chocolate industry. Keep an eye on your locker. You might get a surprise in a day or two.’
A day or two go by and you forget about what he says. You’re mainly grateful for the fact that the big guy, Cedric the bully, seems to be keeping out of your way. But on the third day, at lunchtime, you open your locker and stagger back in astonishment. It looks like a milk bar in there. There’s a stack of Caramellos, Bounties, Fantales, Snacks. There are Aero bars, Toscas, Chokitos and Cherry Ripes. There are Scorched Peanut Bars, Whispas, Nudges, Snickers and Flakes. There’s no room for any books. It’s solid chocolate, wall to wall.
You reel back in shock and slam the door shut. It’s too much to cope with. You decide to leave it there and come back after school with a wheelbarrow.
ou take a deep breath.
‘Well, yes,’ you say.
The Principal freezes over, like chocolate Ice Magic does when you pour it on ice cream.
‘This is my son,’ she says.
‘Aaaghh,’ you say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘My son. His hobbies are collecting wildflowers, cooking quiches, and helping at the old people’s home.’
‘Gulp,’ you say.
‘So do you still persist in this ridiculous story that dear Cedric is bullying you?’
You open your mouth.
‘Think before you speak,’ she warns. ‘Think very carefully. I can make life extremely difficult for students who get on my bad side. So be warned.’
ou decide to play it safe.
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ you mutter.
‘Are you sure?’ the Principal asks.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘All right, Cedric’ she says to the boy. ‘You can
go.’
‘Go?’ he says. ‘Go? I’ve got something to say first.’
‘Yes?’
The boy points straight at you and says: ‘Never seen me before, that’s a good one! This kid’s been making my life hell. Just because I wouldn’t join some drug-selling, blackmailing, illegal gambling and car-stealing racket that they’re running. I tried to do the right thing and I’ve been victimised for it ever since.’
The Principal looks shocked
‘This can’t be true!’ she cries. ‘Not in my school!’
‘It is true, you bet your bottom dollar,’ Cedric says. ‘They call themselves the Mini-Mafia. I saw them in the holidays at the child care centre snapping kids’ crayons. Last week they stuck a 150 k speed limit on a zebra crossing. And at Christmas they put a plate of Ratsak out for the reindeer.’
The Principal turns on you. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘never in my wildest dreams . . .’
‘It’s a lie!’ you shout. ‘A vicious, horrible, twisted, nasty, ugly, deformed, disgusting, sleazy, obnoxious, foul, repulsive, evil lie. Or, to put it another way, it’s not true!’
‘Well,’ the Principal says. . .
hy, er, sure I trust you,’ you say. ‘Yes, yes, sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Oh good,’ she says. She hands you a cup of a foul-smelling hot brown liquid. ‘Drink that down now dearie—you’ll find it . . . unforgettable.’
You pretend to take a mouthful, but when she turns her back to put her knitting on a desk you quickly pour the tea on a pot plant. To your horror the plant shrivels up, turns black and makes a little hissing noise. All of its leaves immediately drop off. The Principal turns around to face you again, and you give her a nervous little smile.
‘Did you drink that all up?’ she says. ‘Oh goodie.’ She picks up a silver locket from a table beside her. ‘Would you like to see a photo of my grandchildren?’ she asks.
‘Oh yes, sure,’ you say nervously.
‘Isn’t this a beautiful locket?’ she says. She waves it slowly backwards and forwards in front of your eyes.
‘Beautiful,’ she says. ‘Look at the intricate design. Look at the little flower in the middle.’ Her voice has become very soft, and it makes you feel tired and sleepy. ‘Look at the lovely silver,’ she whispers. ‘Keep your eyes on it. Your poor tired eyes, that feel so heavy. Feel your eyes slowly closing . . .’
You know, somewhere in your brain, that she’s gradually getting you under her power. You’ve got to fight her, you tell yourself. But can you?
’m not so sure that I do,’ you say slowly, backing away. Three steps later you’re against the bookcase with no escape available. The old lady is still pointing the knitting needle at you, at your throat it seems. Suddenly she’s snarling in your face.
‘Suppose you tell me what this is all about?’
‘Uh, what do you mean?’
‘You’re a spy, aren’t you? A spy!’
‘No! No!’ you say feebly.
‘You’ve been sent here by the Education Department, haven’t you?’
‘No! No!’
‘They’re trying to get rid of me,’ she screams. ‘It’s a plot. They’re all against me.’ Little white bubbles of spit are frothing out of her mouth. She lunges at you with the knitting needle. You twist to one side and luckily the needle misses you. But it’s driven with such force that it goes through three volumes of her World Book Encyclopedia.
She tugs at it with all her strength, trying to pull it out. You scuttle round to the other side of her desk and grab a big heavy jar of jelly beans. You pick it up and hold it in your hand, aiming it at her and wondering: should you or shouldn’t you?
ell OK, why not, you think. Everybody has to have a holiday some time. The fact that you’ve all just finished six weeks holiday doesn’t worry you too much.
‘If I let you have the rest of this period off, will you promise to work very hard tomorrow?’ you ask them.
They don’t even bother to answer, just stampede for the door. They knock over everything that’s in their way: desks, chairs, schoolbags and you. You’re lying on your back as an assortment of Adidas, Reeboks, Nikes and Doc Martins leave their impression on you.
‘I wonder if this was such a smart move,’ you think as you lie there.
When they’ve gone you pick yourself up and follow them, moving carefully so that your broken bones don’t stick out through your skin. That would be messy, and you don’t like mess. But it doesn’t take long to start finding members of the class. The first group is racing around the corridors, one of them in a wheelbarrow with three others pushing him. Two kids are trying to break into the soft drink machine. Three more are making flour bombs. ‘Ah, don’t you think it might be a good idea to go back to class?’ you murmur to them. They ignore you. You see a large group of kids heading down the road to the shops. You decide the shops might be a safer place than the school for you right now, so you follow the kids. They wait for you at the traffic lights and, as you approach them, you call out, ‘All right, very good for waiting. You may cross now.’
But you understand the real reason they’re waiting when one of them says, ‘Hey teacher, those people over there want to see you.’
‘Who are they?’ you ask, looking across at the man and woman they’re pointing to. They’re on the other side of the road, and they look pretty stern. They’re beckoning to you.
‘Don’t you know who they are?’ the kids ask.
Then one of them says: ‘They’re Mr and Mrs Pigly.’
‘He’s a teacher,’ another one says.
‘You’d better go and talk to them,’ the first one says. ‘They’re losing their patience.’
o,’ you say firmly.
‘Oh, what a rip off,’ the kid says, leaning back in his seat and putting his feet on the desk in front of him. ‘You’re a jerk.’
‘Give him a detention,’ a girl sitting by the window yells out.
Suddenly you realise the power you now have. Yes! You can give detentions!
You can keep people in, kick people out, give them essays to write. You can confiscate a whole pile of good stuff: chewing gum, comics, basketball cards, Walkmans. This is the big time!
‘OK,’ you say to the boy with his feet on the desk. ‘You’ve got an hour’s detention tomorrow after school.’
‘Stuff that,’ he says. ‘I’m not going.’
‘Don’t be rude,’ you say. ‘If you’re not careful I’ll double it.’
‘Double it then,’ he says, ‘I still don’t give a stuff.’
‘OK,’ you say, getting angry. ‘You’ve got an hour for the next two days now.’
‘No way,’ he says. ‘You can shove you head down a dunny.’
‘Right, that’s four hours,’ you yell.
‘Go suck on superglue.’
‘It’s doubled again!’
‘You sound like a parrot farting.’
‘Doubled! And redoubled,’ you scream.
‘Is that all you can say? I’ve heard more sense out of a garden gnome.’
‘Doubled! Doubled! Doubled!’
‘Er, that’s 256 hours,’ a student in the back row says. She’s got a calculator and is reading figures off its screen. You realise you might have gone a bit too far.
‘OK,’ you say to the kid. ‘I’ll let you off this time. But don’t let it happen again.’
‘I’m leaving,’ he says. ‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Wait!’ you say. ‘Stop! I’ve got something special for you.’
‘What?’ he says pausing.
You think desperately. There has got to be something you can do! He’s edging towards the door. You say lamely: ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
he guy comes into the room, crashing the door back so hard it hits the wall. He stalks towards you, his red eyes gleaming. You make the sign of the cross but that doesn’t stop him, doesn’t even slow him down. You back away as he advances fast on you. When you hit the wall you realise you
’ll have to do something drastic. So you shout out:
‘Stop! I’ve got German measles!’
To your astonishment the guy hesitates. You quickly point out a few scattered pimples and freckles on your face.
‘See!’ you say, with as much confidence as you can muster. ‘Spots!’
Now he’s definitely rattled. He takes a small step backwards. You exhale as hard as you can, straight at him. He goes back three steps, in a hurry. But then a crafty look comes over his face.
‘I’ve already had German measles,’ he says.
‘But these are North German measles,’ you say wildly. ‘From Schitzenhaven, a small town near the north coast. Very rare and highly contagious. If you get these . . . well, the effects are terrible. For one thing you become allergic to junk food.’
Now you’ve definitely shaken him. He’s back at the door, looking to right and left, choosing an escape route. The class is watching avidly.
‘Don’t get sucked in,’ some idiot calls out. ‘That turkey hasn’t got measles at all.’
The bully looks at you suspiciously. He’s trying to decide, do you or don’t you?
ou’ve got about three seconds to get rid of this guy. One second as he opens the door. One second as he comes through it. And one more second as he comes towards you, flexing his fingers and snorting through his nostrils. And it’s in that third second that you try a desperate tactic. You go into your best kung-fu pose, standing on one leg, with the other leg sticking out straight in front of you.
‘Stop right where you are!’ you cry dramatically. ‘Stop, or I’ll have to hurt you!’
he teacher takes the note from your unwilling hand and slowly reads it. Your face is burning so hotly you’re afraid you’ll get skin cancer. Where’s the fifteen plus?
