Just Stupid! (4 page)

   ‘All we know is that the fire appears to have started in one of the escalators,’ he says. ‘Some foreign material may have got in there and shorted the system. Until we can put the fire out we can’t be sure. But to do that we’re going to need back-up units . . . as many as you’ve got.’

   He wipes the sweat off his brow.

   Suddenly I know what I have to do. I can solve my problem and be a hero at the same time.

   ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘you’re not going to need those back-up units.’

   ‘What are you talking about?’ he says.

   ‘You’ve got me,’ I say.

   ‘Huh?’

   ‘Watch this!’ I say.

   I go as close to the burning building as I can. I grab hold of my fly. I take aim.

   Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Relief! Beautiful relief. The fire is powerless against me. It disappears in clouds of steam. People are gathered around applauding. The supermarket manager is there. And the pencil seller. And the hippie. Even the old man. Cheering.

Chanting my name. I don’t know how they know my name but I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is how good this feels. And how warm. It’s so warm.

   I roll over and snuggle down deeper into my blankets. My blankets? What are my blankets doing here? And why am I wearing pyjamas?

   I blink a few times. I rub my eyes.

   There’s no shopping centre. There are no fire trucks. No people.

   I’m in my bedroom. In my bed. Wrapped in my blankets. Putting out a fire. Only there’s no fire either.

   I hate that.

t’s the first day back at school.

   And if all goes to plan it will also be my last.

   I’m sitting up the back corner of the classroom. Well, I’m not really sitting. I’m leaning back on the chair, putting all my weight on the back legs, just like we’re not supposed to.

   And that’s not the only rule I’m breaking.

   My feet are up on the desk. I’m not wearing any shoes. I’m wearing a cap. My T-shirt is ripped. Plus it has a rude slogan on the front. I’ve got my Walkman on. On the table in front of me is a packet of bubblegum, a spitball shooter and some freshly chewed spitballs. On the blackboard I’ve drawn this crazy-looking stick figure with bugged-out eyes and buck teeth. It’s hitting itself over the head with a hammer and saying ‘Look at me—I’m your stupid new teacher!’ And underneath it I’ve written ‘By Andy Griffiths’ so that there’s no chance anybody else will get the blame.

   I figure the new teacher will be like all new teachers. They’ll be wanting to show everybody how tough they are. They won’t be wanting to muck around with warnings or detentions or phone calls to parents. They’ll be looking for a scapegoat to send straight to the principal’s office. Well, they won’t have to look for long. Here I am—ready and willing.

   Danny comes into the room. He looks at me and his mouth falls open.

   ‘Are you crazy?’ he finally says. He’s obviously having trouble taking in the full extent of my badness.

   ‘No,’ I say.

   ‘But your feet . . . your T-shirt . . . the spitball shooter . . .’ splutters Danny. ‘Boy, are you going to cop it!’

   ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I want to cop it. I want to be expelled.’

   ‘Expelled?’ he says.

   ‘I’m sick of school,’ I say.

   ‘But it’s only the first day back,’ he says. ‘And school hasn’t even started yet. How can you be sick of it?’

   ‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘I can’t live like this. Bells, timetables, lessons, rules and regulations—they’re not for me. I had a taste of freedom on the holidays and I decided I’m not coming back.’

   ‘But you’re here,’ says Danny.

   ‘Only long enough to get myself expelled,’ I say. ‘Then I’m out of school for good.’

   ‘But your parents will just send you somewhere else,’ says Danny.

   ‘You don’t get it, Dan, do you?’ I say. ‘If my parents try that I’ll just get myself expelled from there as well.’

   Danny smiles.

   ‘You reckon it’s that easy?’ he says.

   ‘Of course it is,’ I say. ‘What could be easier? It’s not like there’s any shortage of rules to break.’

   ‘You’re not wrong there,’ says Danny, nodding.

   ‘And when you think about it,’ I say, ‘how hard is it to break a rule?’

   ‘It’s not hard,’ says Danny, now shaking his head. ‘It’s not hard at all.’

   ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees,’ I say.

   ‘Yeah,’ says Danny, ‘you’re right. Because living on your knees would be really uncomfortable. Your pants would wear out and your knees would get all scabby, and it would take ages to get anywhere . . .’

   ‘We
are
living on our knees, Dan,’ I say. ‘But not me. Not any longer. I’m walking out of here.’

   Danny looks at me, his eyes shining.

   ‘Can I get expelled with you?’ he says.

   ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Between us we can break twice as many rules as I could on my own. We’ll be out of here in no time.’

   ‘All right!’ says Danny.

   ‘It’s a deal!’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Give me the secret shake.’

   ‘What is it again?’ says Danny, bending over and putting his hand through his leg. ‘Is this right?’

   ‘No, Dan,’ I say, ‘that’s the old one. Honestly, what’s the point of having a secret handshake if you can never remember it?’

   ‘Well it’s been a while,’ he says, ‘what with the holidays and everything.’

   I’m about to show him when a woman comes into the room. She must be our new teacher.