Cool School (9 page)

hat night your best friend chucks gravel at your window to wake you up. You're awake anyway, after a terrible dream about being locked for days in the wrong toilet, while teachers and students crowd around outside waiting for you to come out. When you hear the gravel you tiptoe to the window and look through. It's so late—about 11.30. What's going on?

‘Having trouble with your Maths homework?' you whisper.

‘No, idiot. Get some clothes on and come out here.'

You must be an idiot, because you do it. ‘What do you want?' you ask, when you finally get outside.

‘I'm bored. Let's go have an adventure.'

‘An adventure? Now I know you're crazy. We've got school tomorrow.'

‘Oh come on, don't be boring. Let's go down the cemetery.'

You're too tired to argue so you go along without any more fuss, but yawning all the way.

You get into the cemetery five minutes before midnight. It's quiet in there, too quiet. You're not tired any more, but you wish you were.

‘Let's go home,' you whisper.

‘Nah, what's the matter? Are you a coward?'

A church clock in the distance strikes midnight. As it finishes you see a ghostly figure appear through the wall of the graveyard. You grab your friend's arm: you're both shaking so much you're scared your teeth will fall out. Then you recognise the figure in the distance.

It's Sam Jarre!

‘It's Sam Jarre!'

‘I know, I know!'

Sam goes to a stone crypt in a corner of the cemetery. It's the oldest, coldest, loneliest part of the whole place. Sam seems to float over there, then disappear into the crypt. You know your hair's standing up like it's been gelled.

‘I don't want to be here. Let's go play in the crocodile pond at the zoo,' you say. ‘It's safer there.'

‘Don't be such a wimp,' your friend replies. ‘Let's check it out.'

wenty years have passed. You're now a dentist, living in the suburbs with your dog, three guinea pigs, seventeen goldfish and an albino aardvark.

You haven't married: somehow you've never found the right person.

Life's pretty dull. Your idea of a good time is to video episodes of ‘Mr Squiggle' and watch them in slow motion.

You pick up a newspaper. The front page photo is of Sam Jarre. Sam's been living in Hollywood for eight years. A successful modelling career led to an acting career, playing opposite the biggest names in the motion picture industry. The photo is of Sam accepting another Academy Award: that's three in a row. Sam charges five million bucks to make a movie now, mixes with the most famous people, has holidays in the Bahamas, is in every magazine, and does ads for Nike.

As you cook your evening meal—pumpkin, broccoli, beans and porridge—you start dreaming of what might have been. As Sam's partner, you could have shared that life. You could have been arriving in a limo at those Oscars last night, stepping out of the cars as the crowd cheered, walking up the red carpet, giving a few quick interviews as you went into the theatre . . .

The most annoying thing of all is that you didn't even keep that note Sam wrote you, way back in school. The note suggesting the two of you go steady. If you'd kept it, you could sell it now for around $25,000.

Ah well. That's life. You give a sigh and take a mouthful of luke warm porridge.

ou tie a bit of string round the dog's collar and off you go to West Mitchell. It's a long walk to an area you don't know very well but eventually you find Blundstone Drive, a tree-lined street full of brick veneer houses. It's a quiet street, with a few Volvos and four-wheel drives and station wagons parked in driveways.

Number 26 is different though. Number 26's a dark gloomy house, hard to see through the pine trees that surround it. But the dog obviously recognises it. He trots up the path happily and scratches on the front door. You tag along behind, wondering whether you're doing the right thing.

No one answers for ages, but the dog keeps scratching the door and whining. At last you hear footsteps on the other side of the door. The handle turns and the door starts to slide reluctantly open. It scrapes over the floor until there's room for you to see what's inside. You see an arm then a shoulder, then a leg and the side of a head.

Then you see a face. It's a very familiar face. It's a face that's been haunting you all day. It's the face of the thug who wanted your locker. Yes it's him, and right now he's glaring at you like you're a lamb chop and he's a vegetarian. ‘What do you want?' he says, only he says it all in one growl, like a burp: ‘Waddawan?'

Then he sees the dog, which is looking up at him eagerly, wagging his little tail. And suddenly the big tough Terminator melts in front of your eyes. His face falls apart and little tears scurry down his cheeks.

‘Rex!' he says. ‘Rex!'

He kneels on the ground and hugs the scruffy mutt. Then he looks up at you with unshed tears still shining in his eyes. ‘I'm sorry I tried to take your locker this morning,' he says. ‘It's just that I was so upset about losing Rex and I took it out on you. You see in the last twelve months, our house burnt down, my parents went bankrupt and died in a plane crash, my baby sister joined a street gang, and my budgie got mumps. Rex has been the only friend I've had. So when he went missing, I just felt I couldn't cope any longer . . .'

‘That's OK,' you say, feeling your eyes misting over.

‘Would you like a cup of Ovaltine?' he asks, opening the door wide.

‘Sure,' you say, stepping inside. You know this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. He closes the door behind you. Only then do you notice the bloodstained chainsaw hidden behind the door.

ight now this dog seems to have attached itself to you. You keep on walking and the dog follows you faithfully. But you soon realise that he's no ordinary dog. By the time you get home, the dog has pulled you out of the path of a speeding semi-trailer, killed an escaped tiger that jumped at you from a tree, steered you around an open man-hole that you didn't notice, and saved a couple of babies from a burning house. Yes, this is some dog!

You take him inside and give him afternoon tea. You're feeling guilty about not returning him, but you can't bear to give him up, so you decide you'll keep him overnight. You turn the TV on and stretch out in the best armchair with the dog on your lap.

An hour later your mum comes home. ‘What sort of a day did you have at your new school, dear?' she asks as she goes past the living room.

‘Words can't describe it,' you answer.

‘That's nice dear,' she says.

You go to sleep for a few minutes in the armchair. You're woken by a bright light shining in the window and a voice booming through a loudspeaker.

‘This is the police,' says the voice. ‘We know you have Rex the Wonder Dog in there. Come on out with your hands up.' Horrified you rush to the window. Sure enough the house is surrounded by police cars, TV cameras and a small crowd of neighbours.

With Rex at your heels you walk slowly out. A microphone is pushed into your face and a voice asks, ‘Why did you kidnap the world's most valuable dog?'

You can't think of an answer, but as the police car takes you away to begin your prison sentence—twelve years hard labour—you think, ‘Well, at least I won't have to go back to that terrible school.'