“Miss Duck, ahh, I mean Petunia, I ahh, um, must talk to you about your words.”
“Excuse me?” said Miss Duck, thinking perhaps Mr Gobblefrump had thought she had said something rude.
“Your words, Petunia! Your marvellous verse!”
Now she was truly lost. What was he talking about?
“In the heat of the moment I forget what’s what,” said Mr Gobblefrump in his best voice, staring into Miss Duck’s baffled eyes. “I forget what’s right and I forget what’s not . . .”
Well, now, it seemed the gentleman had truly taken leave of his senses.
“Petunia, when you handed me that envelope I had no clue what was inside. Then when I opened it and breathed in that lavender,” Mr Gobblefrump touched the lavender in his pocket, “this very lavender that I have attached to my breast, and then I read the beautiful words you had composed . . .”
Oh no . . . The penny had finally dropped for Miss Duck. He thinks that poem was from me! And a love poem at that!
Mr Gobblefrump continued to recite, keeping his eyes locked with hers, “My actions do become my art, forgive me for doing what’s in my heart.”
And with that he began to lean his body over the table with an unexpected daintiness. He’s offering himself up for a kiss! thought Miss Duck. He’s offering himself up for a kiss, and . . . and I like it! And she leaned across to meet him in the middle and planted a delicate kiss on Mr Gobblefrump’s cheek.
Elizabella was lying on her bed thinking about her mum, remembering the things she used to do like eat ice cream with her fingers and do all the voices when she’d read Elizabella a story. If it was a fairy story, her mum would often point out the bad bits and together she and Elizabella would find a way to fix it. She remembered one time when they were discussing how to fix Rapunzel. Her mum pointed out that the prince could have at least bought Rapunzel a fancy hair treatment, to deal with the inevitable split ends that would have come from climbing all the way up her hair. She and her mum had been improvising a scene between the prince and Rapunzel when her mum had got excited and grabbed the book with her ice cream-covered fingers, coating it in chocolate goo. Elizabella had gasped.
“Don’t worry, darling,” her mum had said. “I have a magic stick!” Her mum had gone to the laundry and come back with a big, sticky, orange stick. She rubbed it all over the book, and all over Elizabella’s nightdress, which had also caught some of the ice cream deluge. And in an instant the mess was gone.
“Wow!” said Elizabella.
“This is my magic stain stick,” her mum explained. “It gets out everything. Ice cream, mustard, tomato sauce . . .”
Tomato sauce! Elizabella shook herself out of her memory and went to the laundry and started rummaging around the cupboards. There was a lot of stuff in there. Toddberry’s old socks, a broken dustbuster, dead lightbulbs, used lint rollers . . . and then she saw it. Her mum’s orange magic stain stick. She grabbed it and ran out of the laundry.
She stomped down the hall, so loud and fast that Toddberry heard it through his deafening headphones and came out of his room to see what the commotion was about.
“What’s up with you?” he asked as his sister flew by.
Elizabella barely heard him. She went to her room, pulled out her best silver writing paper and a ruby red pen and began to write.
Sitting on her couch, watching some reality TV and idly making some seashell necklaces to sell at the Bilby Creek Fete, Miss Carrol heard a rustling out the front. Curious, she thought. She went outside to investigate and glimpsed a hand close her letterbox then scurry away into the night. She went over to it and discovered a little lumpy envelope . . .
Dear Miss Carrol,
I know you probably won’t believe me, but I truly didn’t put the tomato sauce in your eraser. I thought for a moment that maybe I had done it and forgotten, but after a lot of thinking I realised I really didn’t. And I now know who did it, but I can’t say who. And please don’t ask me because I won’t dob. And if that makes me just as bad, well so be it.
I was going to write you a Sorry Poem. Instead I found this magic stain stick. My mum used to use it to get out anything. It really works, trust me, she was the messiest woman on the planet.
Anyway, I’m sorry about your lovely shirt.
xxx Elizabella
Miss Carrol peered into the envelope and pulled out a stubby little orange stick wrapped in a ribbon.
Elizabella and Huck had just arrived at school. This was Take Two of her attempt to be perfect for a day, as she’d explained to Huck as they walked there.
“Elizabella!”
They both looked over to see Miss Duck frantically gesturing for Elizabella to come over to the tuckshop.
“I better go see what that’s about,” she said to Huck.
When Elizabella got to the tuckshop, Miss Duck started trying to explain what had happened the night before. There was so much to communicate and she started getting tongue-tied, struggling to separate the important bits of the story from the little details.
“And there was a bicycle built for two . . . and then the salad with all the nuts and . . . and . . . he thinks the Sorry Poem you wrote for him . . .”
Elizabella was starting to understand. “. . . Was actually a love poem you wrote for him!”
“Yes! And I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything! And then . . . and then . . .”
“What, what?” Elizabella asked.
“And then I kissed him on the cheek!” Miss Duck cried.
“Ewwwwwwwww!” said Elizabella, involuntarily. Then, realising that this may have been insensitive, she said: “I mean . . . good? Was it nice? Are you happy?”
“Oh, Elizabella, I don’t know. Chester certainly isn’t the type I would normally go for,” said Miss Duck.
“Chester!?” spluttered Elizabella, trying to come to terms with the fact that Mr Gobblefrump had a first name.
“Now I feel such a fraud.”
Elizabella looked into Miss Duck’s eyes. Who was she to deny the lady some happiness, even if it was with . . . Chester.
“Miss Duck, some very famous people have ghostwriters. It means having a silent partner who does the writing for you. It’s a legitimate thing. Let me write you another poem.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly . . .” said Miss Duck.
“It’s already composing itself in my head,” Elizabella lied. How in the name of Banjo Paterson was she going to write a love poem to Mr Gobblefrump?
The morning bell rang and Elizabella went straight to her class line. When she clamped eyes on her teacher she realised Miss Carrol was wearing the very same blouse that less than twenty-four hours ago was splattered with a shirt-killing volume of tomato sauce. The stick must have worked! thought Elizabella, delighted.
Miss Carrol walked down the line, checking to see if everyone was in place.
“Miss Carrol!” Elizabella cried out. “Your shirt looks perfect!”
“Doesn’t it?” said Miss Carrol. “Bit of magic did the trick,” she said, smiling. Then she came right up to Elizabella. “Oh, and Elizabella?”
“Yes, Miss Carrol?”
Miss Carrol whispered in her ear: “I believe you.”
That morning Miss Carrol was teaching her class about the different parts of a cell, which is the smallest part or unit in any living organism. They had learned that even though cells could be quite diverse across different animals and plants, they all had certain things in common. No matter if it was a cell in a flea, a flower or tyrannosaurus rex, all cells have a plasma membrane, cytoplasm, ribosomes and DNA.
Elizabella was drawing the different parts of the cell in her book when she noticed something thin and rainbow-coloured slither onto her desk. It was a giant jelly snake. She looked up and saw Minnie moving her hand away, leaving it there.
“That’s to say thanks,” Minnie said.
“For yesterday?” asked Elizabella.
“No, for what you’re doing with
Mr Gobblefrump and Miss Duck. It’s genius.”
Elizabella was taken aback. Minnie was apparently very good at gathering information.
“I, ahh, don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Elizabella.
“Yes you do. You’re writing love poems for Miss Duck to give to Mr Gobblefrump. I heard you talking to her about it at the canteen.”
Elizabella had no idea anyone had seen her. Minnie was stealthy.
“And why would you thank me for that?”
“Because if Mr Gobblefrump is happy, nobody gets in trouble,” said Minnie. “That’s why you didn’t get in trouble with him yesterday about the eraser. You’re very smart, Elizabella.”
Elizabella thought about this. Minnie was right. If she could keep Mr Gobblefrump happy then maybe she could keep on being Elizabella with no consequences. Of course Elizabella was going to write a new poem to help Miss Duck, but was there any harm in being helped herself in the process? An always happy Mr Gobblefrump . . . That could be a real bonus.
“So, are you going to write another one tonight?” asked Minnie.
“Yes. Yes, I think I will. Don’t tell anyone about it, I don’t want it to get out and embarrass Miss Duck,” said Elizabella.
Minnie put her thumb and index finger together and pulled them across her lips like a zipper.
“Using stones to weigh down the plastic lining at the bottom was inspired, Sandy,” said Elizabella. Sandy didn’t seem to be listening.
It was lunchtime and Elizabella was sitting with her friends, reminiscing about Pit Pool.
“I said it was inspired,” she said again, to Sandy, who was completely engrossed in something else.
“Look at the monkey bars!” he said, and pointed to where Minnie sat atop them, her long black hair flying in the wind. She was talking to a small crowd who surrounded her, some on the monkey bars with her, others down below. Even from as far away as they were, it was obvious that everyone was enraptured with whatever she was saying.
“Remember Daphne telling everyone not to run near the pool?” said Elizabella, trying again.
“Shall I go over and see what all the fuss is about?” said Huck.
“No!” Elizabella snapped. Everyone looked at her. It wasn’t like Elizabella to lose her cool. She suddenly heard herself in her own head and realised she was starting to sound jealous.
“I mean . . . yes, you’d better–”
Before Elizabella could even finish the sentence, Huck had bolted away to the monkey bars.
“I thought she was so shy, but Minnie doesn’t seem very shy right now,” said Ava.
“Trust me, she’s not shy,” said Elizabella. “Still, I’m sure it’s nothing. What could be that exciting about Minnie sitting on the monkey bars?”
“She’s very tall,” offered Evie. “Maybe she can stand up and catch cockatoos from there?”
They waited a few minutes for Huck to return with news. He didn’t seem to be coming back. The others were getting restless to find out what excitement was in store.
“I think I’ll go over to make sure Huck is okay,” said Evie.
“Same,” said Ava.
“Double same,” said Sandy.
And with that, all of Elizabella’s little group got to their feet and started to head over.
Sandy turned back to Elizabella. “You coming?” he asked her.
“Nah, I’ll stay here, and mind . . . the hopscotch,” said Elizabella.
“Suit yourself!” said Sandy, while dashing over to the monkey bars, which had suddenly become the new centre of the universe.
Elizabella sat alone on the HOME segment of the hopscotch court, eating a Vegemite sandwich and feeling a bit sorry for herself. Wait, what am I doing? she thought. She had no real reason to be jealous of Minnie. Minnie had done nothing other than try to be friends with Elizabella, really. Minnie was probably just teaching everyone some rude words in Mandarin, which she spoke as well as English. If so, Elizabella should probably learn them too. So she shook off her little cloak of envy and headed over.
At the monkey bars, bits and pieces were being passed up through various hands to Minnie. First a big stick, then a very long piece of string. Elizabella stood by and watched as Minnie attached the string to the stick. What is she up to? Elizabella thought to herself. She couldn’t work it out.
Kids kept passing up strange little objects: a plastic fork, a pair of compasses . . . Minnie would examine each of them, holding them to the end of the string and then dismissing them. More things were passed up to Minnie: a pair of sunglasses, some foil shaped like a big U, the lid of a thick black texta, a plastic spiral from the spine of an exercise book. Each one was briefly considered by Minnie then rejected. Then someone passed up a small metal slinky. Minnie looked at it and nodded. This was what she wanted. She tied the slinky to the end of the string.
“Irma, Code Gob,” she said suddenly. Irma in Year Five nodded at Minnie then skipped across the playground towards Mr Gobblefrump, who (as always) was on duty. Elizabella could see Irma skipping around the man and sort of rounding him up like a sheep.
Without Mr Gobblefrump realising, Irma was positioning him exactly where Minnie wanted. And when he was in place, Minnie swung the stick out into the air and lowered it so that the slinky was just above Mr Gobblefrump’s head. Then, with expert dexterity, she manoeuvred the slinky so that it hooked onto the toupee.
And then she lifted the toupee clean off Mr Gobblefrump’s head!
He spun around, patted his bald top and everyone braced themselves for the incoming storm. Mr Gobblefrump let out a sound . . . What was it?
“Aaah . . . Huh!”
They’d never heard such a sound.
“Huh! Huh! Huh!”
“Is that a . . . laugh?” asked Sandy.
“Hee hee hee!” Mr Gobblefrump continued to make these strange new sounds, sounds he barely recognised himself.
“Excuse me?” Elizabella felt something tugging at her shirt. It was Samuel in kindy.
“Mr Gobblefrump is laughing?” he asked Elizabella.
“Yes,” said Elizabella, stunned. “I actually think he is.”
“Good one, kids!” said Mr Gobblefrump with a big smile. “You got me good!”
Elizabella looked up at Minnie, who was staring straight at her.
See? mouthed Minnie. You’re a genius.
Elizabella smiled up at her.
“Gosh, Minnie has pretty hair,” said Huck, who was now standing next to Elizabella and gazing up at Minnie on the monkey bars.
And as swiftly as it arrived, the smile came clean off Elizabella’s mouth, like drops of rain swept away by windscreen wipers.
Elizabella sat at the dinner table with her dad and Toddberry. Toddberry was there in body alone; his spirit was faraway, deep inside the secret level of Fierce Frogs IV he had just unlocked. He sat with his head bent so low in concentration it was actually resting on the table.
“I think it was kind of mean,” Elizabella said to her dad, having explained Minnie’s prank that day in some detail.
“But Mr Gobblefrump thought it was funny?” asked Martin.
“Yes!”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” said Martin. “Why do you think he was amused?”
“Because–” Elizabella was about to blurt out about the poem and the misunderstanding and the new romance between Mr Gobblefrump and Miss Duck, then thought otherwise. It was better if this secret remained hers alone. Well, hers and Miss Duck’s. And Minnie’s . . .
“Because . . .?” Martin prompted her to finish.
“Because . . . I have no idea, Dad.”
“It does sound like exactly the type of thing to make Mr Gobblefrump very upset, but if he thought it was a good laugh, then I don’t see any reason why you should allow it to upset you, darling.”
“I know, but–”
“You’re just feeling empathy for Mr Gobblefrump, that’s all,” said Martin, smiling and giving the giant knot in Elizabella�
��s hair a pull.
Elizabella felt bad. Empathy meant to see something from someone else’s perspective and to understand how they were feeling. That’s not what Elizabella was doing. Instead, she was feeling jealous. Jealous of the attention Minnie was getting as a prankster and extra, extra jealous that Huck had said something nice about Minnie’s hair.
Still, Minnie needed Elizabella to keep Mr Gobblefrump happy. And so did Miss Duck. There wasn’t actually anyone in the school who wouldn’t benefit from Mr Gobblefrump being pumped full of happiness.
“Thanks, Dad,” she said, finishing the last of her ravioli.
Later that night, Elizabella was sitting in her room trying to compose a love poem for Miss Duck to give Mr Gobblefrump. She was tossing ideas around in her head when she suddenly remembered another fairytale her mother had taken issue with. It was Cinderella.
Her mum had explained to her: “If a girl wants to leave a party before midnight, that’s perfectly fine. And if a prince steals her shoe while she’s trying to leave, well, he’s a jerk.”
Her mum had made a good point. Elizabella jotted it down in a notebook titled Fixytales, where she was noting all the fairytales that could be improved with a little editing. Her mum had even helped her write some of them out before she passed away. Together, they wrote under the pen-name Elizamamabella.
“Okay . . . gross!” Elizabella said to herself as she pulled out a piece of pink paper and drew a giant love heart on it, which would become the border for the poem she was about to write. She started thinking.
Chester, Chester, no one is . . . bester?
Hmmm . . . That sounded more like one of the Bilby Creek Primary School sporting house cheers. And not a good one at that. This was hard.
Then she thought of something:
Real hair is so passé
When you could wear a fine toupee
Who wants frizz or flyaways
Or to get knots or nits or greys?
When atop your head
Where the hairs you’ve shed
Elizabella Meets Her Match Page 6
