Just Crazy (8 page)

I poke a few more times, but my neck's getting really sore from looking up at the balloons. I give up and turn around.

Oh no.

In front of me is the scariest thing I've ever seen.

High-voltage power lines.

There must be at least fifty of them — stretching in front of me like a gigantic horizontal spider web.

And I'm heading straight towards them.

If I don't do something fast I'm going to hit the lines and fry like a mozzie in a mozzie zapper.

I have to get rid of some of these balloons.

I can't pop them but maybe I can untie them.

I pull at the knots tying the party balloons to my pack, but I can't get them undone. They're too tight. It'll take me ages to get them untied. Time I don't have.

Maybe I should just take the pack off and let myself fall to the ground. But that would kill me. But so will the wires.

What to do? Fry or splatter? Splatter or fry?

Actually, I'd rather die of old age.

My only hope of that, though, is to go
over
the power lines. But how? How do I get myself up higher?

I know! I could jettison some stuff. The more I can get rid of, the higher I'll go.

I'll start with this stupid stick. It was no help at all.

I drop it. It falls through the air like a spear. Lucky there's nothing but grass and trees underneath me.

What else can I get rid of?

I look at my runners. The soles alone must weigh at least two kilograms. They're brand-new but they're going to have to go.

I raise my feet up, untie the laces and pull off the runners. My socks as well. They go sailing downwards.

But I'm still not high enough. I need to get rid of more.

I untie the rope from around my waist and let it go. I search through the pockets of my jeans and pull out everything I've got. A used Band-Aid. A half-eaten Jaffa. A chewing gum wrapper A dead cockroach — at least I think it's dead. My wallet. It's got ten dollars in it. I saved it to spend at the fete. But I have
to let it go. It kills me to drop all this stuff, but it will really kill me to keep it.

I rummage deep in my shirt pockets. I pull out a photograph of Lisa Mackney. No, not that. Anything but that. I cut it out of our school magazine. It's not a very good picture, because it only catches her side-on. Well, more like the back of her head — most of which is covered by the back of somebody else's head — but I know it's her. And it's all I have. I can't throw it away.

I look at the power lines.

I've made a lot of progress. A lot of very good progress. I'm a fair bit higher than I was. But still not high enough. I need to lose something else. But I haven't got anything else. Except my pants that is.

I watch as my jeans drop away towards the ground.

I hate to see them go. They're my favourite pair And it's freezing up here. If I don't fry on the wires I'll probably die of exposure.

The wires are getting closer but unless I get a bit higher I'm not going to clear them.

I look at Lisa's photograph in my hand. I'm going to have to let her go.

It flutters and spirals away. It's the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life.

But also the most fantastic.

Because it's saved my life.

Lisa Mackney has saved my life!

I lift my legs, curl my toes and clear the power lines with less than a centimetre to spare. I hear the deadly hum of the electricity as I skim over the top. If this hadn't been such a crazy, bad, dumb, bad, bad, dumb, crazy, bad idea in the first place, I would be very proud of myself.

I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. But not for long. Because now I've got a new problem. Well, an old problem actually but it's getting worse. I've got goosebumps all over my legs and my toes are turning purple. And I'm still no closer to the ground. How am I going to get down and get back to the school before Mr Pickett does?

I'm going to have to try to untie the party balloons again.

I work away at the knots. It's hard because not only are they tied on very tightly, but my fingers are almost numb with cold.

Finally, I loosen the knots and untie the balloons from the shoulder strap of my pack.

There must be at least two hundred of them. They fly into the sky above me like it's five minutes before the siren on Grand Final day at the MCG.

I begin to drop quite quickly. They were giving me more lift than I realised. For a moment I'm worried that I'm going to keep dropping and not stop, but I level out just a bit above the tree-tops. That's better. Not perfect, but a lot better. It beats hovering above high-altitude high-voltage lines any day.

I'm floating slowly over the roofs of houses. I can see into all the backyards. A dog is going nuts. Barking and jumping up at me. It sets off other dogs and soon there's a chorus of barking and howling.

Some kids are pointing and waving at me. I wave back. They run out of their yard and onto the street and begin following me. They are joined by others and within minutes there's a small crowd of people following me. Not just kids, either. There are a few adults as well. One of them is pointing a video camera at me. Probably hoping I'll have an accident so he can flog it to one of those funniest home video shows.

‘Don't just watch me!' I yell. ‘Help me!'

‘What do you want us to do?' yells a woman.

Now that's a very good question.

I don't exactly know.

They don't teach you how to deal with situations like this in school. That's the trouble with school. They don't teach you anything useful. There should be a subject called ‘What to do if you find yourself floating about twenty metres off the ground with no pants on and four large weather balloons attached to your backpack'. Or, even better, they could deal with this and many other situations by lumping them together under one subject called ‘Crazy, bad, dumb, bad, bad, dumb, crazy, bad ideas'. Now
that
would be useful.

I'm heading towards a long row of pine trees. I can hear buzzing and whining. Oh no, not more power lines! No, it's louder than that.

As I float over the top of the pine trees I see lots of people. They are all looking up, as if they've been waiting for me to appear. But it's not me they're looking at.

Gulp.

The air is filled with model aeroplanes. They are looping and diving around each other.

I suddenly realise what this is.

It's the local model aeroplane club. They're putting on a display at the school fete today. They must be practising.

People are pointing and laughing at me.

‘Look out!' I yell. ‘I'm coming through!'

But there's too much noise. And the men flying the planes are too busy twiddling the knobs on their remote control units to even notice me.

I float right into the middle of the action. The planes are swooping and diving and whining around me like a pack of killer mosquitoes. But I can't swat them. They're much too big for that, and their propellers look much too sharp.

I hear a particularly loud whine behind me.