Cool School (10 page)

ith a huge swing of the arm you smash the glass in the alarm with the book. Sirens sound, lights flash, bells ring. But a moment later your arm is grabbed from behind. You turn to see who it is. It's a meek and mild looking lady with glasses, and she's holding your arm in an iron lock.

‘How dare you,' she hisses. ‘Using a library book in such a way. Don't you have any respect?'

‘But it's an emergency,' you stammer. ‘The school's burning down.'

‘Don't you back-answer me,' she snarls. ‘You come with me right now.'

She marches you straight to the library and sits you at a desk. Through the window you see the fire brigade arriving and putting out the fire.

But that's not much comfort to you. The librarian's just put piles of books all around you. She tells you that you'll spend every spare minute from now on covering books, until you've finished all these piles.

‘But, but how many are there?' you ask desperately.

‘Eight thousand,' she says, as she walks away.

ou've got to do something!' you stammer. ‘The whole place is about to burn down!'

‘Can't help that,' the cleaner grumbles.

‘What do you mean you can't help that?' You're practically screaming at him.

‘I'm on my lunch hour,' he says.

‘You're on your lunch hour! You're on your lunch hour!' You can't believe what you're hearing. You try to keep control of yourself. ‘Um, may I enquire, when does your lunch hour finish?' you ask politely.

He looks at his watch. ‘Six minutes,' he says.

‘And,' you say, still being super-polite, ‘do you think it may be possible that some time this afternoon, among your many duties, you could find time to put out the fire which is currently burning the bloody school down!'

‘Right,' he says. ‘That's it. Out you go. I'm not having any swearing in this office.'

‘Office?' you say, but before you can say any more he bundles you out of the room back into the corridor.

hat football team do you go for?' the little butter-menthol kid asks you.

You look a bit embarrassed. ‘Um, Norths,' you finally admit.

The kid coughs and chokes a bit. ‘Norths? You actually support Norths? You mean there's someone left on the face of the planet who follows Norths?'

‘OK, OK,' you say. ‘Don't rub it in. Just because they haven't won a match for eight years.'

‘And you would really value a Norths premiership?'

‘Yes,' you say emphatically. ‘They're so depressed about it. No one even turns up to their matches any more. Last time I went, there were so few people in the crowd that they announced the names of the spectators instead of the names of the players.'

The kid spends a moment deep in thought. Then he looks at you long and hard. ‘All right,' he says at last. ‘You won't believe it now, but I do have a special gift when it comes to making things happen. Norths will win a premiership this year, but only if you keep watching them. While you're watching they'll score more than the opposition; while you're not watching they won't. Understand?'

You nearly make a sarcastic comment, but there's a burning look in this kid's eyes that stops you. There really does seem to be something powerful about him. So instead, you thank him and watch him walk away.

Saturday you decide you will go to watch Norths play. They're up against last year's premiers and no one, including you, gives them a chance.

You're about to leave for the match when the phone rings. It's Alex Lee, a kid you met at your old school, wanting you to come to the movies.

Of all the people in the world you'd like to go out with, Alex is number one. But what about Norths? You can't desert them—there's just this faint ridiculous idea that maybe the butter-menthol kid does have some strange power, and you can actually do something for them by watching their games. You try to talk Alex into coming to the football but without success. So off you go on your own.

ell,' you say to this kid, ‘there is something I'd like a lot, and that is to do better at school. I'm not getting the good grades, that's for sure. I keep telling my parents that
F
means ‘Fantastic', but I don't think they believe me.'

The kid looks at you for a long time, shaking his head slowly. ‘Listen,' he says, ‘I can do a lot of stuff, I can bend forks and make clocks stop, I can cure the common cold, I can make a Big Mac taste like food. But getting you better grades . . . I don't know. That's a tough call.'

There's nothing you can say to that. You just look at him until he shrugs his shoulders and walks away. But a week later he suddenly appears at your right elbow, with no warning. You can't work out where he came from, but he hisses in your ear: ‘Come with me.'

You follow him to a white door at the end of a corridor near the office. The staff are having their daily meeting, so there are no teachers around. He opens the door and in you both go. You find yourself in a computer room, with computers and screens and printers everywhere. The kid goes straight to one of the computers, sits down and turns it on. He starts hitting keys on the keyboard like he's playing the piano. You stand behind him and watch.

After a few moments to your amazement you see your own name on the screen. And then, right next to it, a whole string of grades start appearing. It's all the marks from your old school, every mark from every subject, since you got
D
-for fingerpainting way back in kindergarten.

And under that are all the subjects you're doing this year, with spaces for your marks.

As you stand there with your mouth open the kid puts his finger on the
A
key of the keyboard. He looks at you questioningly. All he has to do is hold that button down and you've got straight
As
, guaranteed.

You pause, wondering what you should do. Is it a yes or is it a no?

ook,' you say, ‘I'm not putting up with these threats. This is blatant discrimination.'

Ignoring the shocked Principal and her startled son, you pull your mobile phone out of your pocket and switch it on. Swiftly you dial your lawyer's number.

‘I need you over here,' you say, when your lawyer answers. ‘We've got a major lawsuit on our hands.'

Twenty minutes later your lawyer arrives in her gold Mercedes. After a short conference with her, the two of you go back into the Principal's office. The Principal is sitting behind the desk, with her son beside her. Both of them are white-faced, the sweat gathering in drops on their faces, like hundreds and thousands on fairy bread.

Your lawyer does all the talking.

‘At this stage,' she says, ‘my client would seem to have actions in torts, for assault, defamation, trespass, battery, libel and discrimination. You appear to be in breach of the school's implied warranty to students, and you're certainly in breach of your statutory and common-law duty of care to this unfortunate victim.'

The Principal fans herself with her cheque book.

‘Look,' she says, ‘can't we come to some . . . arrangement? We really don't need this to go to court, surely. Do we?'

Five minutes of fast talking follows, before you find yourself leaving the office with your lawyer holding a cheque for $10,000.

‘Wow,' you say, ‘what a great result. Thanks a lot.'

‘Yes,' she says, ‘terrific, isn't it? Now here's my account. As soon as you pay that I'll be happy to let you have this cheque.'

You glance at the bill she gives you. On the bottom line it says: ‘Total due and payable now' and you read the figure: ‘$10,028.75'. Through the office door you can hear the Principal chasing her son around the room with a hockey stick. Your lawyer pricks up her ears. ‘Think I'll just pop back in there,' she says. ‘That young man sounds like he might need a good lawyer.'