by John Marsden
A teacher standing behind you hisses at you. ‘See!’ he says. ‘See what you’ve done? You’ve destroyed him. You’ll have this on your conscience for the rest of your life.’
You slink out of the hall and down the corridor. Along the way you pass the Principal, who’s still being helped along by the Deputy. The Principal’s mumbling to himself, and a dribble of spit is running down his cheek.
You look the other way and hurry past. You bump into a door—and you don’t even say sorry.
ou decide that the smart thing to do is to lie low and say nothing.
You say nothing while the police take fingerprints, while dogs sniff the corridors, while TV reporters try to trick students into confessions.
You say nothing while the whole school is locked in the gym for three weeks and beaten with rubber truncheons. You say nothing while the Royal Commission meets to hold its inquiries.
You even refrain from claiming the credit as Ms Janzen’s new nickname of ‘Barbie’ spreads throughout the school.
But then comes the fateful day. You walk into school early one morning and all you can see is your face on every wall and every window. A row of police officers is waiting for you. You give in without a struggle, holding out your wrists while they snap the handcuffs on. ‘How did you catch me?’ you ask.
‘We did a computer image of the criminal,’ they explain. ‘And this is what we came up with.’
You look more closely at the posters. ‘But it’s not totally like me,’ you say. ‘The nose is different for a start.’
‘We’ve arranged to fix that,’ they say, bringing out a baseball bat.
hree months later you’re in Rio de Janiero. It seems years since the school burnt down and you copped all the blame. No one would believe you, and when you were expelled from the smoking ruins of the school, with the Principal pointing a firm finger down the road as he told you to get off the premises and never come back, you soon found that no other school wanted you either.
Eventually you got a job as a kitchen hand on a cargo ship and so you ran away to sea.
Now, three months later, the ship’s arriving in Rio. It’s the first time you’ll have touched land since you signed up for life on the ocean waves. The ship drops anchor in the harbour, and the customs officers come aboard. But what’s this? They take one look at you and glare accusingly.
‘You’re the kid who burns schools down,’ they chant. ‘We don’t want you here. No way are you coming ashore.’
After a few more days on board, still in the harbour, you transfer by flying fox to another ship leaving for Johannesburg. Little do you know that when you get there the same scene will be repeated. You’re doomed never to touch land again. For the rest of your long life you’ll be refused entry to every country in the world, and you’ll spend the entire time at sea, transferring to one ship after another.
And all because you wouldn’t let that kid at school have your locker.
or a moment you struggle, but only for a moment. As those hot firm lips squelch onto yours you start to feel dizzy. The roar of the crowd gets fainter and fainter. ‘I wonder if Norths won or not,’ you think, then, as your arms hold Alex tighter and closer, you stop caring. You don’t know how long the kiss lasts but when the two of you finally separate the oval is in darkness, the crowd has gone home, and nothing but scraps of paper and empty cans remain as evidence that a game was played there.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex says.
‘Sorry? What do you mean? That was great! Who cares about stupid old football?’
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ Alex says.
‘Confession? How do you mean confession?’
‘Mikel told me what he’d done.’
‘Mikel?’
‘Mikel’s the little guy who made the deal with you about Norths winning for as long as you’re watching them.’
You stand there with your mouth open.
‘And,’ Alex continues, ‘I’m a Magpies supporter.’
You don’t say anything.
‘I tried to talk you into missing the games,’ Alex says.
You start to walk away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex says again, to your back.
Somehow you’re not surprised. Those Magpie supporters will stop at nothing.
fter school you can hardly wait to get back to your locker. Boy, what a pigout you’re going to have tonight. You lead the rush out of class when the bell goes and run along the corridor, twenty metres ahead of the usual stampede. Most of the people following you are your friends, because all through afternoon school you’ve been promising them handfuls of chocolate bars. You get to your locker, and with the pack thundering up behind, you fling the door open. Suddenly there’s a silence behind you that matches the emptiness in your locker. Yes folks, there’s nothing in your locker and there’s a crowd of ex-friends behind you. They start walking away.
‘Guys, guys,’ you say, ‘I can explain, believe me. I can explain everything.’
The trouble is you can’t, and there’s something in your voice that must have told them that, because they keep walking.
After they’ve gone you wander sadly through the deserted corridors of the school, out through the front door, and into the street. As you do, a group of people come out of another exit about thirty metres along. You’re astonished to recognise the little butter-menthol kid.
But you can hardly recognise him. He’s surrounded by a squad of uniformed police officers: so surrounded that you only get a glimpse of him.
They throw him in the back of a divvy van and drive away.
Next day you read all about him in the papers. SCHOOLBOY SUPERCRIM, they call him. STUDENT MASTERMIND.
You start to read one of the stories. It begins: ‘Charged with the theft of eight hundred and thirty chocolate bars and two thousand basketball cards, a young student pleaded very very guilty in the Central Criminal Court today . . .’
o,’ you say virtuously. ‘It wouldn’t be right to do that.’
At that moment the roof splits apart, the clouds open, the heavens roll back and you hear the strumming of harps. Suddenly you’re surrounded by angels. They lift you with no effort at all, and you find yourself rising rapidly through the air. You’re floating like fairy floss in an updraft and the sweet music is all around you.
But above the music comes a huge voice, rolling around the skies. It’s the biggest voice you’ve ever heard.
‘Welcome to Heaven,’ says the voice. ‘It’s time you came here. You were just too good for the mortal world.’
ome closer,’ Cedric says.
You move about three centimetres closer.
‘Closer,’ Cedric says again.
This time your toes wiggle in your shoes, and you figure that’s enough movement to keep him happy.
‘That locker,’ Cedric says.
‘Yes,’ you whisper. Then you clear your throat and try again. ‘Yes?’
‘I want it.’
‘But, but I need it.’
‘You can have mine.’
‘Well, why do you want mine then?’
‘Better temperature,’ Cedric says.
‘Better temperature? What on earth do you mean?’ you ask.
‘Well, it’s for me flowers, see,’ Cedric says bashfully. ‘The locker I got, it’s too hot. Me flowers fall apart. But your locker, it’s twenty degrees all year round. That’s perfect, see.’
He pulls a box out of his pocket and opens it. You go right up to him and have a look. There are a dozen glass slides in the box and he pulls them out and shows you each one.
‘That’s a Japanese windflower, see. Comes out in autumn. It’s a type of anemone. And this is star jasmine, real pretty smell. Now this, this is a viola, called Irish Molly. You know it flowers itself to death, Irish Molly. That’s sad, isn’t it?’
You start to realise that Cedric isn’t a violent monster. He’s a gentle guy with an amazing knowledge of botany. You smile at him. ‘Sure you can have my
locker,’ you say. ‘And listen, you want to come look at my grandmother’s garden this weekend? She’s got some great flowers.’
Cedric gives you a big grin, and you realise you’ve just made your first friend at your new school.
ou’re the last one to get to PE and they’re about to start. Everyone’s changed, and they’re ready to play basketball. The teacher’s irritated with you for being late. ‘No time now to get changed,’ he says. ‘Here, take this whistle. You can be the referee.’
You put the whistle in your mouth, go to the centre of the court and blow to start the game. Then you toss the ball up. It’s tapped down to a player from the red team, who charges down the court with it. But as she gets to the top of the key she hesitates, looking for someone to pass to. You notice a slight movement of her back foot. It’s a travel. You blow the whistle hard and race straight off to the Principal’s office. You charge in there without knocking. There’s some sort of meeting going on—the room’s full of adults—but you don’t care. You know what you have to do.
‘What is it?’ the Principal says, looking alarmed.
‘One of the players travelled in our basketball game,’ you say. You don’t wait to see her reaction but instead rush back to the game. In the next ten minutes you race in and out of her office four times to report a foul, a cross-court violation, a time-clock violation and another travel.
You don’t understand why she takes you into a separate room, re-hypnotises you, and tells you never to come near her again.
‘Gee,’ you say to her back, as she walks angrily away, ‘did I do something wrong?’
ell,’ says the Principal. ‘You sure made a mess of yourself.’
You still don’t say anything.
‘You did a lot of things wrong for your first day,’ says the Principal. ‘Trespassing in the staff room, impersonating a teacher, giving unauthorised detentions, ordering students out of class, jumping out of windows . . .’
You close your eyes with the pain of the memories.
‘But,’ says the Principal. The tone of his voice seems different now, so you open your eyes again. ‘The class really liked you—apart from that one boy you threw out, and he doesn’t like anyone much. It’s made me think. Maybe we don’t make enough use of students. I guess students could take some lessons better than teachers could.’
‘Mmm,’ you say. You try to nod, but you’re scared your head will fall off if you do.
‘So when you come back,’ the Principal says, ‘I want you to join the SRC. I want you to work with them on a programme for greater student participation in the classroom. I want you in charge of that programme, OK?’
‘Sure, sure.’
It hurts you to say it, but only on the outside. On the inside you’ve never felt better in your life!
uddenly she explodes with rage. ‘You blockhead!’ she screams. ‘Did you really think you could fool me? I have powers greater than you can begin to imagine. I can hold an assembly of Year Nines in complete silence for twenty minutes! I can get money out of the Education Department to fix leaking roofs! I can put books with rude words in them in the school library and not have parents complain!’
You are flabbergasted. Obviously there’s nothing this woman can’t do. She really does have remarkable powers. Maybe you’ve underestimated her.
‘I know you resisted me,’ she says. ‘I know you were making that stuff up. I’ll teach you to meddle with my powers!’
She picks up a long cane stick and waves it at you, making funny patterns in the air.
‘See that aquarium over there?’ she asks.
You nod ‘yes’. It’s a nice aquarium with weeds and pebbles and three or four fish.
‘Oodle, boodle, spruddle and sprat,’
Liver of poodle and tongue of rat,
By the keating, give me a wish,
You will now become . . . a fish!’
It’s nice in the aquarium. The water’s a pleasant temperature, there’s always plenty to look at through the glass, and the other fish are friendly.
Two used to be students; the other was an art teacher. It’s lucky you all get on so well, because you’re obviously going to be there a long time.
he Science lesson is just starting as you arrive. The teacher is a tall thin bearded man with glasses. He’s calling the roll. You’re just in time to answer your name as you hurry to your seat.
‘Now,’ he says, when the roll is finished. ‘I want to make a few very important points about the Science course this year. Firstly, safety in the laboratories. Let’s start with the Bunsen burners. The gas emitted by these burners is both toxic and inflammable. This means that . . .’
Suddenly he’s interrupted by the crackle of static from the loudspeakers.
‘Teachers, please excuse this interruption,’ a voice says. ‘Could the following students please be sure to pick up their photographs from the office: Vanessa Hong, Steven Cooper, Martin . . .’
‘Bloody hell!’ the teacher says. ‘What a waste of time, having to listen to this.’
You’re shocked. The teacher swore! Here’s a person who’s done something wrong. You feel a powerful desire to report him to the nearest teacher, straight away. You rush out of the lab, ignoring the startled looks of the Science teacher, and of the students. Next door there’s an elderly man wearing a tweed sports coat, teaching a group of senior students.
You run straight in to his class.
‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ you yell. ‘Our teacher just swore.’
The man stares at you with his mouth open. For a long time he doesn’t speak. The students stare at you, too, with their mouths open. Finally the teacher says something.
‘I think you’d better come with me.’ He takes you into a small office.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Is this right? You want to report a teacher for swearing?’
‘Yes!’ you insist. ‘Yes! I have to report him.’
‘Why do you have to?’ he asks.
You think long and hard. You have a vague feeling that the Principal’s got something to do with it. But should you tell this man?
’m obeying orders,’ you say. ‘The Principal said I should.’
‘Well,’ says the teacher, ‘I’m not surprised. She’s obviously up to her old tricks. It’s time something was done about this. Come with me.’
He walks off with a grim expression on his face and you follow anxiously, still not too sure what’s happening. He takes you into the staff room and sits you down. He explains to you that you’ve been hypnotised, and that this Principal has already been in trouble at other schools for doing stuff like this. Then he rings the Education Department and makes an official complaint.
Nothing happens for quite a while, then the same teacher comes to see you to tell you that the Principal has been kicked out of the school.
‘She won’t be able to do any more harm to any students anywhere,’ he says.
‘Has she been sacked?’ you ask.
‘Oh no.’ He looks shocked. ‘No one gets sacked. No, she’s been promoted.’
‘Promoted?’
‘Yes, she’s going to Head Office. She’s now the Regional Director of Education.’
don’t know,’ you say. ‘I just have to.’
The teacher takes down the details and, satisfied now, you go back to your class. By the end of the day you’re exhausted from running backwards and forwards, reporting things. You’re reported fourteen teachers for offences like not setting homework, being late for class, eating in class, parking in the visitor’s space in the school car park, and letting a class out before the bell. You haven’t had time to report any students, you’re too busy with the teachers.
Despite being exhausted, you’re dimly aware that you’ve become the talk of the school. Students look at you strangely and go quiet when you hurry past them. Teachers seem to avoid you. One of them runs into the teachers’ bathroom as you approach, and you find another one hiding behind a tree. You report them both, of cou
rse.
After school finishes you’re at your locker packing your bag when you suddenly get a weird feeling in your back. You turn around slowly.
The Principal’s standing there. ‘Come with me,’ she hisses through her teeth. She seems angry. You follow her slowly to her office. She slams the door shut and picks up the locket again and, once more, swings it in front of your eyes. You feel instantly sleepy and your head falls forward. You go into a strange drowsy state, where you can’t move.
Through a fog you hear her voice.
‘My previous instructions are cancelled. You’re an idiot. When I snap my fingers you will awake, get out of my office, and never come here again.’
There’s a snapping noise, you jerk your head up, and hurry out of her office. You feel wonderfully happy and relieved. But it’s quite a few weeks before the teachers start talking to you again!
John Marsden
Creep Street
You Make It Happen
If you’re about to enter this book, we have a piece of advice for you! BE CAREFUL in here. Be very careful.
Making the wrong moves in CREEP STREET can get nasty!
You could find yourself up to your ankles in blood . . .
or with flesh-eating spiders crawling all over you . . .
or with a skeleton stalking you through an attic.
Is there any escape? It’s up to you.
