Belly Flop (4 page)

Then the idea hit me.

The bus trip to the coast is gunna take about a million hours.

Kids get bored to death on buses.

So I'll have my party on the bus.

Pretty good, eh?

Most of the party food'll keep in the freezer till then and I can get Mum and Gran and Dad to teach me the jokes and card tricks and ping-pong ball juggling.

I'm on my way into class now.

I can't wait to tell everyone.

I reckon they'll be really grateful.

They'd have to really hate someone to knock back the chance of a long bus trip with no boredom and heaps of chocolate crackles and taco dip.

I don't reckon even they hate me that much.

They hate me that much.

I remembered they did the moment I walked into class and saw them all crowded round my desk.

And saw what was waiting for me.

A present, wrapped in shiny paper with a frilly bow.

And a card saying ‘Happy Birthday Webface, hope you had a good party.'

I'd have ignored it if Mr Tristos hadn't walked in at that moment and seen it.

‘Mitch,' he said, looking surprised, ‘you're popular today.'

The kids started chanting ‘Open it! Open it!'

I gave Mr Tristos a pleading look.

He doesn't usually let kids open presents in class and I was hoping desperately he'd stop me.

‘Go on, Mitch,' he said, ‘open it.'

Then I remembered that last year the bank chucked his wife's parents off their farm.

The kids cheered and Mr Tristos said he reckoned it was socks and the kids kacked themselves.

The smell hit me while I was still undoing the ribbon, but I carried on even though I knew before the paper fell open and the kids went hysterical that it was dog poo.

I pretended I wasn't hurt.

Mr Tristos pretended to explode with rage.

‘Whoever brought this into class,' he yelled, ‘will be punished,' but I could see his heart wasn't in it.

If he'd really wanted to punish someone he'd have kept the poo as evidence instead of taking it outside and chucking it in the bin.

In a town where the dogs are as friendly as this one, dog poo can be identified pretty easily.

I only got to look at it for a few seconds before my eyes got hot and my vision went blurry, and even after that short time I had the suspects narrowed down to a shortlist of three.

It doesn't matter.

A party on a bus was a dopey idea.

I'm just grateful I've realised that now instead of on the excursion.

Because now I've got the chance to come up with a better plan.

Doug, help.

We're handing in our permission forms and when I turned just now to give mine to Mr Tristos, I saw them.

Troy and Brent Malley.

They're outside the window, staring at me.

Even their freckles are scowling.

What makes it worse is that their eyes are red.

Jeez, if the bank's made them cry I'm in deep poop.

Everyone knows the Malleys don't cry.

Perhaps it's just dust. Their Dad's ute hasn't got side windows.

Except if it is dust, why are they looking at the playground where we all have to go at lunchtime and then back at me and mouthing words that almost all look like they begin with the letter F?

I'm trying to give them a friendly smile.

It's not easy.

My mouth doesn't want to smile, it wants to shout ‘help'.

Troy and Brent aren't smiling back.

They're swinging their school bags over their shoulders like they probably do with wild pigs they've shot or bashed up and now they're going down to their classroom.

I'm desperately trying to think what to do, Doug.

I could offer to find Mr and Mrs Malley other work, but I don't think that'd calm Troy and Brent down.

Not even if I offer to write to Hollywood and see if they can fit Mr and Mrs Malley into their next movie as hired guns.

I hope you're receiving this, Doug, and I hope you're not busy in seventeen minutes.

That's when the lunch bell goes.

 

 

 

 

The lunch bell's just gone, Doug.

I've squeezed my brain into turnip mash trying to work out how you can save me.

All I've come up with is you appearing in the playground and dazzling Troy and Brent with flying tricks and possibly some juggling.

Which shows how panicked I am.

I know perfectly well you're invisible so you won't show up on air traffic controllers' radar screens and so your work won't be hindered by adoring crowds trying to mob you.

Hang on, what's this?

A Year Two kid sticking her head round the door and yelling that Mrs Stegnjaaic in the office wants to see me.

You're a genius, Doug.

I wouldn't have thought of something as brilliantly simple as that in a million years.

How do you come up with stuff like that?

Do angels have to study and take exams, or is it just a skill that develops naturally like pig shooting?

Either way, it's working.

If I keep my head down and keep on walking fast, in fifteen seconds I'll be in the office and Troy and Brent'll be scratching their heads in the playground thinking I've turned invisible.

Don't stop what you're doing, Doug.

If you're in the middle of something important like finding a kid lost in the desert without a hat, ignore me.

But if you can spare half an ear, you might be interested to hear how things went in the office.

Just like you planned, that's how.

Usually people are only called to the office for family emergencies, so I was half expecting Mrs Stegnjaaic to say something like ‘your mum and dad are being held captive in the bank by a gang of armed farmers' or ‘your gran accidentally set fire to a plate of chocolate crackles and burnt the house down'.

I was quite surprised when all she did was hold up my excursion permission form and say ‘we need more information'.

For a sec I thought she meant more information about the excursion.

I wouldn't have put that past you Doug, getting me away from the Malleys by having Mrs Stegnjaaic send me on a special three-day trip over to the coast to find out if the school there's got lockers.

Then I realised she meant more information about the name I'd put on the form under Next of Kin.

Your name, Doug.

I hope you don't mind.

‘This isn't your dad's name,' said Mrs Stegnjaaic.

My heart started going a bit wobbly.

I explained that Mum and Dad have got a lot on their plate at the moment.

Mrs Stegnjaaic looked sympathetic. She can be really kind and understanding, not like Ms Dorrit the principal.

‘Doug's not enough,' said Mrs Stegnjaaic. ‘We need a full name and phone number.'

‘Um,' I said, ‘that's a bit difficult.'

At that moment Ms Dorrit came out of her office.

‘Are you being a pest species again, Mitch Webber?' she said.

I shook my head and Mrs Stegnjaaic said I wasn't and explained the situation.

‘So what's the problem?' said Ms Dorrit, turning back to me. ‘Why can't you give us this Doug's full name, address and phone number?'

I told her I don't know what they are.

Ms Dorrit's eyes narrowed, which happens when she thinks kids are having a lend of her.

‘Who exactly is this person?' she said in a voice that made my neck prickle.

I tried to swallow but my throat felt even more drought-struck than the district.

‘A close friend,' I said.

Ms Dorrit's eyes narrowed so much I started worrying that if she tried to leave the room she'd walk into the filing cabinet.

‘Perhaps,' she said, in a voice that grated almost as much as the gearbox on the council water truck, ‘he could pop in and give us the information himself.'

I felt sick.

Ms Dorrit's eyes were stabbing into me.

‘It's a bit tricky,' I said. ‘He's invisible.'

Ms Dorrit took a deep breath.

She looked at me for ages.

‘In other words,' she said, ‘he doesn't exist.'

I couldn't help it, Doug.

I had to say it.

‘Yes he does,' I said. ‘He's my guardian angel.'

Ms Dorrit looked like she'd just swallowed a filling.

I explained to her how angels can't hang around all day because they've got other kids to protect and how you're squeezing me into your Schedule as it is.

‘Wouldn't be fair on the other kids to drag him back,' I said, ‘just for paperwork.'

There was a snigger from the doorway.

We all turned.

Gavin Sims was standing there smirking.

Ms Dorrit told him to wait outside.

Then she turned back to me.

‘Alright Mitch Webber,' she said in her death voice, ‘enough of this nonsense. For wasting our time you can stand here, outside my office, silently, for the rest of lunch.'

I know I'm a dope, Doug, but for a fleeting second I panicked.

The awful thought hit me that perhaps you'd had to dash off somewhere so fast you hadn't had time to come up with anything to protect me after all.

Mrs Stegnjaaic gave me a sympathetic look and went back to her typing.

Then I saw Troy and Brent Malley staring at me through the window, their faces bulging with frustration.

Which turned to fear when Ms Dorrit went out and yelled at them and sent them away from the window.

That's when I realised I'm not being looked after by just any old angel, I'm being looked after by the top angel in the whole world, possibly the universe.

Getting me kept in for the whole of lunch is one of the best things anyone's ever done for me.

Thanks, Doug.

Class has only just started after lunch and Mr Tristos has yelled at me already.

For daydreaming.

He was wrong.

I wasn't daydreaming.

I was coming up with another plan.

Doug, when you're keeping an eye on Dad at the Malleys' place this arvo, don't worry about Troy and Brent bashing me up.

I want them to.

It's OK, I haven't gone mental.

I reckon the kids at this school aren't as mean as they make out.

I reckon underneath they've got pretty good hearts.

And when they see Troy and Brent pounding me into dingo bait, I reckon they're gunna feel pretty sorry for me and realise this drought's tough on me and my family too.

OK, perhaps not dingo bait exactly.

Perhaps just a few cuts and bruises, Doug, and possibly a black eye as long as there's no loss of vision.

 

 

 

 

There's a frog that can live under the ground for nine years without coming up once to stretch its legs or have a pee.

We're doing it in class now.

When a drought starts it burrows down into the desert and stays there till things improve.

I wish I could do the same, Doug.

Not cause I'm scared.

Cause I'm ashamed.

Ashamed of my class and my teacher.

I reckon Mr Tristos must have damaged his hearing at the staff karaoke night.

When twenty-seven kids spend a whole afternoon making rude and insulting jokes about a person's guardian angel and the teacher doesn't hear any of them, that teacher should be thinking about major ear surgery.

Please accept my apologies, Doug, for my very rude class and a teacher who's obviously scared of doctors.

I know who told everyone.

Gavin Sims.

I reckon that's crook, eavesdropping on a private conversation between a person and a principal and then blabbing about it.

I‘m turning round now and giving him the look you give ex-friends who've betrayed you.

He's smirking, but I bet he's tortured with guilt inside.

The other kids are still whispering and laughing.

I'm going to ignore them.

And I will, just as soon as Matthew Conn stops singing that dumb song about fairies.

This is only a thought, Doug, because you're the expert, but I reckon he'd shut up pretty quick if he found he'd accidentally stapled his tongue to the desk.

OK Doug, I know I shouldn't have had that thought about Matthew Conn's tongue.

It was too cruel, plus he doesn't have a stapler.

I'm glad you didn't do anything to him, or any of the others.

That means you're ignoring them just like I am.

Which is what they deserve.

It'd be tragic if their mean and vicious behaviour distracted you from doing any medical miracles or freeing any kids from terrorists' hideouts.

Or protecting Dad in a few minutes.

That's why I'm glad you're not letting yourself be distracted at the moment while Mr Tristos is out taking a phone call and Danielle Wicks is standing on my desk flapping her arms.

I reckon she's only doing it to impress Carla Fiami.

Carla's ignoring her, like me.

OK, I have got a few tears in my eyes, but that's normal when you're in a hated family.

No big deal.

Except I am having second thoughts about letting the Malleys bash me up.

I don't reckon these kids are capable of feeling sorry for a person.

Not unless that person's got internal injuries and an ear ripped off, and I'm just not prepared to go that far.

Don't worry Doug, I've worked out how to make it home without Troy and Brent Malley getting me.

I've just remembered a very wise thing Gran once told me.

‘Tough kids,' she said, ‘usually can't run as fast as scared kids.'

She's right, as long as the scared kids get a decent start.

 

 

 

 

As soon as the bell went I was out of my seat, out of the room and first to the pegs.

But even as I was grabbing my bag I heard someone come up behind me.

My heart started thumping louder than a water pipe when the tank's empty.