The Girl Who Blew Up Her Brother and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls (4 page)

The two girls sleeping top-to-tail in his bed woke up straight away and, just as Kevin had hoped, raced out of his room and into bed with Belinda.

‘Oh, yuck!' he heard one of them say.

Kevin tiptoed back to the couch and cacked himself laughing.

But that wasn't all. In the morning, as the girls sat down to breakfast, there was a poem on the table written in Cornflakes:

I KNOW WHY
BELINDA'S RED,
TWELVE YEARS
OLD AND WETS
THE BED

Belinda and Kevin fought like cat and dog over the next few years. One day, however, they just suddenly stopped fighting. No-one knows why. Perhaps they both became just too scared of what the other might do next.

These days they get along quite well. Sometimes they even talk to each other. Belinda and her mum are OK too. Her mother doesn't scream at her anymore. Somehow, said her mum, it just didn't seem to work.

Belinda's long since forgotten the poem about her mother's bottom. But her mother hasn't. She's been on a diet ever since.

the
girl
who had
a go

Samantha Lang was the most useless person at sport the world has ever seen. But at least she had a go. Or so her father said, anyway.

‘Hitting Mr Collins with the javelin could have happened to anyone,' said her dad. ‘At least you had a go.'

Samantha had a go at basketball, too, but she could never remember whether to shoot or run or bounce or pass. Most times she tripped. And her father would be there, yelling for the team at the top of his voice. A little too loudly for Samantha's liking.

Sometimes he'd even complain to Samantha's coach about umpiring decisions. ‘This umpire wouldn't have got on the court when I played,' he'd say. ‘Of course, I played top level.'

At the school sports, Samantha was running dead last in the eight hundred metres when her father started yelling out, ‘Here she comes. Look at her. The kid has a go! Samantha, clap, clap, clap. Samantha, clap, clap, clap.'

Samantha was so embarrassed she wished she could turn around and run home. In fact, she was that far behind the rest of the runners that people started walking onto the track. As if the race was over.

Her father was so angry he grabbed some poor kid by the collar and threw him onto the ground. And still he chanted, ‘All together – Samantha, clap, clap, clap. Come on, everybody!'

People pretended not to hear.

The reason poor Samantha had a go at everything was her fear of hurting her father's feelings. She knew he thought of her as a failure, a loser – how could she disappoint him further by not at least having a go?

Her father had been such a fantastic sportsman himself, or so he said, that it was sort of in the family to have a go. Wasn't it? She would have done anything to give sport a big miss and just done the things she liked, but she didn't dare tell her father that.

Samantha didn't have any brothers so her father even wanted her to have a go at football. Apparently, he was a wonderful footballer himself. ‘A wonder,' she'd overheard one man saying. ‘A gutless wonder.'

So every Saturday and Sunday, Samantha would trudge off to tennis and netball and little athletics and whatever else happened to be on during the weekend, to have a go. And her father would mouth off to anyone who would listen about how sport had come so naturally to him, and how he was such a champion of this and a champion of that, and how little Samantha would one day follow in his footsteps because the kid had a go.

A couple of times Samantha heard people say that they didn't remember her father being champion of anything, but Samantha was sure they were just jealous.

One day, Samantha decided she just couldn't take it any more. That morning, she'd played golf so badly that the ball had hit a tree two metres in front of her and bounced back to smash her on the nose. The day before, she would have made the winning run in cricket, except for her silly hat falling onto the stumps. And the morning before that, she had to be rescued from a twenty-five-metre freestyle race.

Samantha went straight up to her father and said, ‘Dad, please don't be mad, but I can't do it anymore. Sport. It's killing me.'

Her father turned, looked her straight in the eye and said,‘Young lady, don't let me ever hear you say that again. You will play sport, you will enjoy it and you will, eventually, succeed.'

‘Daddy, please!' said Samantha. ‘I'll do anything if you let me stop.'

‘I can't believe I'm hearing this,' said her father. ‘All those weekends I give up, all those trips in the car and this is the thanks I get!'

‘Is it for me, Dad?' said Samantha. ‘Or is it for you? So you can tell everyone about how good you were? Or maybe how good you wish you had been?'

‘How dare you!' screamed her father. ‘Let me put it this way. Any daughter of mine who won't have a go is not my daughter! Is that clear enough?'

‘Yes, Daddy,' whispered Samantha. ‘Sorry.'

Things became worse after that. Up until now, Samantha's father had praised her for having a go, but now he wanted success.

He yelled at her for ramming herself in the throat with the pole vault, he made her feel stupid over the ping pong ball flying into her mouth and he screamed at her for riding her horse into the judge.

Her life became a misery. What could she do?

The answer lay in New Zealand.

Samantha and her parents had gone to New Zealand for a holiday and, as if her dreams had come true, her big chance jumped out in front of her.

‘Bungee jumping,' said the sign.

For those of you who don't know, bungee jumping is where you tie a piece of stretchy rope to your legs and jump off a bridge. If the rope breaks, you die. If it doesn't, you feel sick. It's mainly for New Zealanders, Australians and mad people.

Most people who've done it say that your eyes almost pop out of their sockets and it feels as if your butt is about to come up through your mouth. I can think of better ways to have fun.

‘Can I do it, please?' yelled Samantha.

‘I've seen it on TV.'

Her parents looked at each other.

‘Isn't it dangerous?' asked her mum.

‘Very,' said her father with a hint of panic in his eyes. ‘Anyway, I don't think children are allowed.'

‘Yes, they are, the sign said so,' replied Samantha.‘Please. I'll pay. Out of my holiday money.'

‘Well,' said her mother, who really was the boss in their family, ‘I know your father's always keen for you to try everything, and I just want you to enjoy yourself. So, OK.'

Over to the bridge they walked. When Samantha's father looked over the edge he went white, but he tried to hide his fear.

Samantha secretly felt sick, too, but this was her moment.

‘Dad,' said Samantha, with just a glint of naughtiness in her eyes, ‘I want you to jump too, so it's something we can share.'

‘What a nice thought,' said her mum.

‘I'd love to,' said her father, ‘but we haven't really got time. We're due at the motel soon.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' said Samantha's mum, ‘we can arrive when we like. Not chicken, are you?'

‘Me, chicken?' scoffed her father. ‘That'll be the day. It's really the expense, you know. Money doesn't grow on trees.'

‘I'll pay,' said Samantha, trying hard to hide a smile.

‘Look, if you want to do it, you do the stupid thing,' said her father, ‘but don't waste my time. Anyway, the back injury I got when we won –' But Samantha interrupted. ‘Gee, Dad, I thought you'd have a go.'

The words
have a go
hit her father like a bullet. What a terrible fool Samantha was making of him. What a nerd. Her father stood there, went red in the face, went redder still and then turned and stormed back to the car.

Even Samantha's mum found herself smiling.

Samantha didn't bungee jump, either. But she and her mum pretended she did. Just to rub it in.

Samantha doesn't have to play sport these days. No more having a go. And she's such a happy little girl that she didn't mind in the least promising her father not to tell his friends about New Zealand. Unless she needs to, of course.

Beach Boy
Bernie

Beach Boy Bernie, as his mates would sometimes call him, had secretly thought of another name for himself. ‘The King of Craven Cove.' Craven Cove, Queensland.

You see, Bernie thought of Craven Cove as his own. His bit of dirt. His bit of sand. And why not?

He lived only metres from the water's edge. His dad – who Bernie said was easily the best fisherman along the whole coast – had his boat moored there. His grandfather had once owned all the land around the cove as far as the eye could see. And finally, and most importantly, Bernie was tough. Really tough. So who was going to argue with him? No-one. No-one, that is, until big ‘Bossy Bob' Keck arrived in town. But more of that later.

Each morning, Bernie would get straight out of bed at dawn and head into the water. Rain, hail, or shine. And he would swim from his dad's boat to the end of the pier in exactly seventeen minutes. Except for the morning the crab bit him on the bum. That certainly hurried him up a bit. Poor Bernie got such a fright he forgot to check his watch, but it felt like a world record.