Billionaire Boy (9 page)
Authors: David Walliams
A few ideas raced through Joe’s mind.
He could invent a time machine and travel back in time and remember not to forget his homework. It might be a bit hard to do though, as if time machines
had
ever been invented then maybe someone would have come back from the future and prevented Piers Morgan’s birth.
Joe could go back to the classroom and tell Miss Spite that ‘the tiger had eaten it’. This would only be half a lie, as they did have a private zoo and a tiger. Called Geoff. And an alligator called Jenny.
Become a nun. He would have to live in a nunnery and spend his days saying prayers and singing hymns and doing general religious stuff. On the one hand the nunnery would give him sanctuary from Miss Spite and he did look good in black, but on the other hand it might get a bit boring.
Go and live on another planet. Venus is nearest, but it might be safer to go to Neptune.
Live the rest of his life underground. Perhaps even start a tribe of below-the-surface-of-the-earth dwellers and create a whole secret society of people who all owed Miss Spite some homework.
Have plastic surgery and change his identity. Then live the rest of his life as an old lady called Winnie.
Become invisible. Joe wasn’t sure how this might be achieved.
Run to the local bookshop and buy a copy of
How to Learn Mind Control in Ten Minutes
by Professor Stephen Haste and very quickly hypnotise Miss Spite into thinking he had already given her his homework.
Disguise himself as a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.
Bribe the school nurse into telling Miss Spite he had died.
Hide in a bush for the rest of his life. He could survive on a diet of worms and grubs.
Paint himself blue and claim to be a Smurf.
Joe had barely had time to consider these options when two familiar shadows loomed behind them.
“Bob,” said one of them, in a voice neither high nor low enough to determine its gender.
The boys turned around. Bob, tired of fighting, simply handed them his slightly nibbled finger of Twix.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to Joe. “I’ve concealed a large number of Smarties down my sock.”
“We don’t want your Twix,” said Grubb number one.
“No?” said Bob. His mind started racing. Could the Grubbs possibly know about the Smarties?
“No, we wanted to say we are very sorry for bullying you,” said Grubb number two.
“And as a peace gesture we would like to invite you round for tea,” prompted Grubb number one.
‘Tea?” asked Bob, incredulous.
“Yes, and maybe we can all play Hungry Hippos together,” continued Grubb number two.
Bob looked at his friend, but Joe just shrugged.
“Thank you, guys, I mean guy and girl, obviously...”
“Obviously,” said an unidentified Grubb.
“…but I am a bit busy tonight,” continued Bob.
“Maybe another time,” said a Grubb, as the twins lolloped off.
“That was weird,” said Bob, retrieving some Smarties that now had a faint taste of sock. “I couldn’t imagine a night when I would want to go and play Hungry Hippos with those two. Even if I lived until I was a hundred.”
“Yeah, how strange…” said Joe. He glanced away quickly.
At that moment, a deafening roar silenced the playground. Joe looked up. A helicopter was hovering overhead. Very quickly all the football games broke up, and the kids raced out of the way of the descending aircraft. Items from hundreds of packed lunches were whisked up in the air by the force of the blades. Packets of Quavers, a mint-chocolate Aero, even a Müller Fruit Corner danced about in the whirling air, before smashing to the ground as the engine shut down and the blades slowed to a stop.
Mr Spud leaped out of the passenger seat and raced across the playground holding the essay.
Oh no!
thought Joe.
Mr Spud was wearing a brown toupee that he held on to his head with both hands, and an all-in-one gold jumpsuit with ‘BUM AIR’ emblazoned on the back in sparkly letters. Joe felt like he was going to die of embarrassment. He tried to hide himself behind one of the older kids. However, he was too fat and his dad spotted him.
“Joe! Joe! There you are!” shouted Mr Spud.
All the other kids stared at Joe Spud. They hadn’t paid much attention to this short fat new boy before. Now it turned out his dad had a helicopter. A real-life helicopter! Wow!
“Here’s your essay, son. I hope that’s OK. And I realised I forgot to give you your dinner money. Here’s £500.”
Mr Spud pulled out a wad of crisp new £50 notes from his zebra-skin wallet. Joe pushed the money away, as all the other kids looked on in envy.
“Shall I pick you up at 4pm, son?” asked Mr Spud.
“It’s OK, thanks, Dad, I’ll just get the bus,” muttered Joe, looking down at the ground.
“You can pick
me
up in your helicopter, mate!” said one of the older boys.
“And me!” shouted another.
“And me!”
“Me!”
“ME!!”
“PICK ME!!!”
Soon all the kids in the playground were shouting and waving to get this short, fat, gold-jumpsuited man’s attention.
Mr Spud laughed. “Maybe you can invite some of your friends over at the weekend and they can all have a helicopter ride!” he pronounced with a smile.
A huge cheer echoed around the playground.
“But Dad...” That was the last thing Joe wanted. For everyone to see how monstrously expensive their house was and how much crazy stuff they owned. He checked his plastic digital watch. He had less than 30 seconds to go.
“Dad, I gotta run,” blurted out Joe. He snatched the essay out of his father’s hands and raced into the main school building as fast as his short fat legs would take him.
Running up the staircase, he raced past the unfeasibly old headmaster, who was making his way down on a Stannah Stairlift. Mr Dust looked at least 100 years old, but was probably older. He was more suited to being an exhibit in the Natural History Museum than administrating a school, but he was harmless enough.
“Walk, don’t run!” he mumbled. Even very old teachers are fond of catchphrases.
Hurling himself along the corridor to the classroom where Miss Spite was waiting, Joe realised half the school was following him. He even heard someone shout, “Hey, Bumfresh Boy!”
Unnerved, he pushed on, bursting into the classroom. The Witch was holding her watch in her hand.
“I’ve got it, Miss Spite!” proclaimed Joe.
“You are five seconds late!” she proclaimed.
“You have got to be kidding, Miss!” Joe couldn’t believe anyone could be so mean. He glanced back behind him and saw hundreds of pupils were staring at him through the glass. Such was the eagerness to catch a glimpse of the richest boy in the school, or perhaps even the world, noses were pushed up against the glass so they looked like a tribe of pig-children.
“Litter duty!” said Miss Spite.
“But Miss—”
“A week’s litter duty!”
“Miss—”
“One month’s litter duty!”
Joe decided to say nothing this time and sloped across the classroom. He closed the door behind him. In the corridor hundreds of little pairs of eyes were still staring at him.
“Oi! Billionaire Boy!” came a deep voice from the back. It was one of the older boys, but Joe couldn’t tell which one. In the sixth form
all
the boys had moustaches and Ford Fiestas. All the little mouths laughed.
“Lend us a million quid!” someone shouted. The laughter was now deafening. The noise clouded the air.
My life is officially over,
thought Joe.
Dog Spit
There is video content at this location that is not currently supported for your device. Caption for this video is diplayed below.
A
s Joe scurried across the playground to the dining room, all the other kids swarmed around him. Joe kept his head down. He didn’t like this instant superstardom at all. Voices whirled around him.
“Hey, Bum Boy! I’ll be your best friend!”
“My bike got nicked. Buy us a new one, mate.”
“Lend us a fiver…”
“Let me be your bodyguard!”
“Do you know Justin Timberlake?”
“Me granny needs a new bungalow, give us a hundred grand, will ya?”
Joe started running. The crowd started running too. Joe slowed down. The crowd slowed down too. Joe turned and walked in the other direction. The crowd turned and walked in the other direction.
A little ginger-haired girl tried to grab his bag, and he thumped her hand away with his fist.
“Ow! My hand is probably broken,” she cried. “I am going to sue you for ten million pounds!”
“Hit me!” said another voice. “No me! Hit me!” said another.
A tall boy with glasses had a better idea. “Kick me in the leg and we can settle out of court for two million! Please?”
Joe sprinted into the school dining room. That was one place that was guaranteed to be empty at lunchtime. Joe struggled to force the double doors back on the tsunami of schoolchildren, but it was no use. They burst through, flooding the room.
