Just Stupid! (18 page)

   It looks vaguely familiar.

   ‘It might be,’ I say. ‘What is it?’

   ‘I’m not sure,’ says Big Ears. ‘Looks like some sort of homemade jack-in-the-box.’

   Ah! This must be the one that boy was talking about.

   Big Ears forces the spring with the doll’s head on it down into the tin and pushes the lid into place.

   He tilts the tin towards me.

   ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ he says.

   I hear someone calling out behind me.

   I turn around. It’s the boy called Danny.

   ‘Hey, Andy!’ he says. ‘Feeling better?’

   ‘Not really,’ I say.

   But the boy’s not looking at me or listening to me. He’s just staring at the tin.

   ‘Don’t open that, Mr G,’ he says. ‘It’s dangerous!’

   Too late. It’s open. Everything goes into slow motion. The lid of the tin shoots off and whizzes past my ear. The doll’s head comes off the spring and hits me right in the middle of my forehead. The spring goes straight up and hits Big Ears in the face.

   Everything comes flooding back.

   I remember who I am.

   I’m Andy. I don’t like doing housework or working in the garden. I don’t like being Jen’s slave. I don’t like helping people. I like annoying them. I like playing tricks on them. I am stupid. And I love it.

   I hear a moan behind me. I look over.

   It’s Danny.

   He is lying in the driveway. The lid of the biscuit tin is on the ground beside him.

   I run across to him.

   ‘Danny,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’

   He rolls his head from side to side and looks at me with a confused cross-eyed stare.

   ‘Danny,’ he says. ‘Who’s Danny?’

   ‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Help me! Danny’s been hurt.’

   But Dad doesn’t answer.

   I look around.

   He is standing in the middle of the yard, his face in his hands.

   ‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Talk to me!’

   He takes his hands away from his face. He looks at me and frowns.

   ‘Dad?’ he says. ‘Who’s Dad?’

‘m drawing an invisible line down the middle of the table.

   ‘Cross that line and you’re dead meat,’ I say.

   Danny puts his finger over the line.

   ‘You mean this line?’ he says.

   I whack my ruler down the line. He’s too slow. The tip nicks his finger.

   ‘Ow!’ screams Danny.

   ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I did warn you.’

   Mr Dobson turns around from the board. He is glaring at me.

   ‘Please stand up, Andy,’ he says.

   ‘But . . .’

   ‘
Stand
up,’ he says.

   I stand up.

   ‘Would you mind telling me what just happened?’ says Mr Dobson.

   ‘Nothing, sir.’ I say.

   ‘Then what was that noise?’ says Mr Dobson. ‘And why is Danny bent over double holding his finger?’

   ‘It’s his own fault,’ I say. ‘He crossed the line.’

   ‘What line?’ says Mr Dobson.

   ‘The line I drew down the middle of the table.’

   ‘Andy,’ sighs Mr Dobson, ‘you are acting like a child.’

   ‘I am a child, sir,’ I remind him.

   ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ says Mr Dobson.

   ‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘It’s a fact.’

   Sometimes I wonder about Mr Dobson. Does he think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t a child? I don’t see too many adults sitting in on his fractions classes for the fun of it. Not that I would ever point this out to him. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. He probably thinks his classes on fractions are the best value entertainment around.

   ‘Facts?’ he says. ‘You want facts? I’ll give you a fact. The fact is that your behaviour is little better than I would expect from a five-year-old,’ he says. ‘In fact, if you don’t start acting your age I’ve got a good mind to take you down to the Preps’ class. How would you like that?’

   ‘But the line was very clearly drawn,’ I say. And I did warn him.’

   Mr Dobson just looks at me. He’s frowning. I don’t think he understands how important invisible lines are in maintaining order in the classroom. The truth is that Mr Dobson should thank me for helping him keep control of the class because he certainly can’t. Mr Dobson is our substitute teacher, but if you ask me, he’s no substitute for Ms Livingstone. She’s been away for the last two months climbing Mount Everest. I wish she’d hurry up and get back.

   Mr Dobson walks up to my table.

   ‘Come on,’ he says.

   ‘Where are we going?’ I say.

   ‘The Preps’ room,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough.’

   Nobody dares laugh. It’s not the first time he’s threatened to send somebody to the Preps’ room, but it’s the first time he’s actually done anything about it.

   I collect my books and pencil case.

   ‘Leave your books,’ says Mr Dobson. ‘You won’t be needing them.’

   Of course! Going to Preps might not be such a bad thing after all. It will be easier— and a whole lot more fun—than fractions. I mean, how hard can a bit of cutting, pasting and colouring-in be?

   I follow Mr Dobson out the door.

   ‘So long, suckers,’ I say over my shoulder to the rest of the class.

   I follow Mr Dobson down the corridor and across the yard to the junior school.

   ‘Wait out here,’ says Mr Dobson at the entrance to the Preps’ building.

   He walks down the corridor and knocks on a brightly coloured door.

   A friendly-looking woman wearing a long dress with red flowers all over it opens the door. Mr Dobson talks to her in a low voice. The woman nods and smiles.

   Mr Dobson motions to me to come closer.

   The woman gives me a very sweet smile. She crouches down slightly so we can see eye to eye.

   ‘Hello, Andy,’ she says. ‘My name is Mrs Baxter. Welcome to Preps. You’re just in time for show and tell.’

   I catch a glimpse over her shoulder of all the kids sitting cross-legged on the floor.

   ‘Cool,’ I say.

   Mrs Baxter nods at Mr Dobson.

   He nods back.

   ‘Behave yourself, Andy,’ he says, and walks off up the corridor.

   I walk into the room.

   All the Preps stare.

   Mrs Baxter closes the door behind me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

   ‘This is Andy, everybody,’ she says. ‘I’d like you all to make him feel welcome.’

   ‘But he’s a big kid,’ says one boy. ‘He’s not a Prep.’

   ‘But he’s welcome all the same,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Sit down, Andy.’

   I poke my tongue out at the kid while Mrs Baxter’s not looking.

   ‘He poked his tongue out at me,’ says the kid.

   ‘I did not,’ I say. ‘I was licking my lips.’

   Mrs Baxter holds up her hands.

   ‘I’m not interested in your stories, Bradley,’ she says.

   ‘But he did,’ says Bradley.

   ‘Did not,’ I say.

   ‘Andy! Please!’ says Mrs Baxter.

   I sit down on one of the tiny tables.

   Mrs Baxter shakes her head.

   ‘No, Andy,’ she says, pointing to the floor.

   She wants me to sit cross-legged? On the floor?

   ‘But . . .’ I say. ‘I’m too big to . . .’

   ‘You’re part of the group,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Just like everybody else.’

   I don’t mind spending a day with the Preps, but being made to sit on the floor is going a bit far.