Just Crazy (20 page)

‘Yes,' said the puppy. ‘It's lovely to do lovely things for people.'

‘Now Lovelyville is even lovelier than ever,' said the pony.

And the townspeople gave the kittens, puppies and ponies three cheers and everybody ate their vegetables, brushed their teeth and went to bed early.

The End.

Danny hands the story back to me. He's shaking his head.

‘Well,' I say, what did you think?'

Danny takes a deep breath.

‘You want the truth?' he says.

‘Yes,' I say.

‘It stinks,' says Danny. ‘I hate it.'

‘That's good,' I say. ‘If you hate it then the judges will love it!'

‘I wouldn't be so sure about that,' says Danny.

‘You'll see I'm right,' I whisper. ‘When I win.'

‘No, that's where you're wrong,' says Danny. ‘Because I'm going to win.'

‘What?' I say. ‘With a story about a giant mechanical chicken that goes rampaging
through the streets wrecking everything and killing everybody? You'll never win with that. The judges just don't go for all that action stuff.'

‘How do you know what the judges like?' says Danny.

‘Because I've worked it out,' I say. ‘Every year we write stories about killer robots, killer aliens and killer chickens, right?'

‘Yeah,' says Danny. ‘So?'

‘And have our stories ever won?' I say.

‘No,' says Danny.

‘Exactly,' I say. ‘The winner is always Tanya Shepherd with some cute story about bunnies or teddy bears or elves. Well not this year, because I'm going to beat her at her own game.'

‘Shush!' hisses a teacher standing at the end of our row.

Danny and I sit up in our chairs and look to the front.

But nothing has changed.

Mr Rowe is still going on and on and on. Blah blah blah. I wish he'd hurry up and finish.

I just want to get up there, collect my prize, make Lisa fall in love with me and get out of here.

Mr Rowe pauses, clears his throat, and
pauses again, as if he's forgotten what he's saying. He shuffles some sheets of paper and pulls out an envelope.

‘And now for the winner of the short-story competition,' he says.

At last!

‘We received a record number of stories for this year's competition — more than ten in fact — and the judges had a very difficult time deciding on a winner because they were all of such a high standard . . .'

That's funny. I would have thought mine was so obviously superior that it would have made the judge's job really easy. Perhaps he's talking about the runners-up.

‘However,' says Mr Rowe, ‘in spite of the difficulty, they have decided on a winner . . .'

Yes! Me, you gasbag! Just say my name and let me up there on that stage!

‘. . . but before I announce the winner . . .

Oh come on! Get on with it!

‘I just want to say that as far as I'm concerned, every person who put an entry into the competition is a winner, and whether or not you actually win the competition is not important. The important thing is to have had a go . . .'

In case you're not familiar with Mr Rowe's speeches, what he's actually trying to say is that he's going to announce the winner (that's me) and that we're all going to pretend that the losers (that's everybody else) are winners as well. That's so they won't feel so bad about losing, which is quite pointless really because everybody will know that the losers are still the losers and that I, the winner, am still the winner.

‘But without any further ado,' says Mr Rowe, opening the envelope and pulling out a small folded piece of paper, ‘the runner-up of this year's short-story competition is . . . Daniel Pickett for his entry “Killer Mechanical Chickens From Outer Space”.'

Huh? I don't believe it. Danny can't win second prize. Not with a story like that. The judges never award prizes to stories about robotic killers from outer space. Especially not if they're chickens. It doesn't make sense. Maybe they just felt sorry for him.

Everybody applauds. Danny stands up, walks to the stage, receives his certificate and walks back to his seat, his grin as wide as his face.

I lean across and shake his hand.

‘Congratulations, Danny,' I say. ‘You
missed out on the top prize but don't feel bad — you were up against me, after all.'

‘Thanks, mate,' he says.

‘And now,' says Mr Rowe, ‘the moment you've all been waiting for . . . the winner of this year's short-story competition is . . .'

ME!

ANDY GRIFFITHS!

THE BEST!

THE STAR!

Mr Rowe pauses for dramatic effect and clears his throat.

‘. . . Tanya Shepherd for her story, “The Ballerina Princess”.'

I jump up out of my seat, my hands clasped above my head in victory and start heading towards the stage when I realise everybody is laughing. Except for Mr Rowe. He's frowning. I stop, halfway between my seat and the stage.

‘Excuse me, young man,' he says. ‘Is your name Tanya Shepherd?'

Everybody starts laughing again.

It takes me a little while to understand the question.

Tanya? My name's not Tanya. At least I don't think it is.

‘Well?' says Mr Rowe.

I look at Mr Rowe standing there in front of me.

‘No,' I say.

‘Then sit down, you silly boy,' he says.

There's a fresh round of laughter as I turn around and walk back to my seat.

I can't believe what's happened.

Tanya Shepherd has blitzed me. Again.

She walks up onto the stage and Mr Rowe presents her with my certificate. It's all happening like a dream. No, not a dream. A night-mare. It's crazy, that's what it is. It's all wrong.

Danny leans across.

‘Bad luck, mate,' he says, patting me on the arm. ‘But don't feel too bad about it. Remember what Mr Rowe said? You're a winner too, not a loser. You had a go.'

I pull my arm away.

‘That's crap and you know it!' I say.

‘Yeah,' says Danny. ‘I guess you're right. Your story really did suck. You
are
a loser.'

He's right.

I shouldn't have tried to write a story that the judges would like. I should have written a story that I would like.

In fact that's exactly what I'm going to do.
After assembly we go back to our classroom to get our lunches. Everybody goes outside except me.

I spend half of lunchtime rewriting my story.

I've finished the last sentence when Danny comes into the room.

‘Okay, are you ready to hear it?' I say.

‘Hear what?' says Danny.

‘My story,' I say. ‘I've rewritten it.'

‘The one about the kittens?' he says. ‘Why?'

‘I've fixed it up.'

‘Is there any hugging in it?' says Danny.

‘No,' I say.

‘What about face licking?' he says.

‘No,' I say. ‘I promise.'

‘All right,' says Danny, sitting down. He doesn't look too happy.