School of Meanies (4 page)
Humphrey’s New Friend
Whatever the grown-up ghosties did, nothing seemed to help.
On Monday I floated to Still-Alive School alone. When I peered through the railings I saw two still-alive boys teasing a girl.
“Fatty-Fatty Pigtails!” the boys yelled. “Fatty-Fatty Pigtails!”
“I’m not fat,” the girl said, rubbing her round
tummy. “And these aren’t pigtails. They’re braids.”
She started to blub, and the boys laughed.
I felt a funny feeling in my tummy. Not the funny feeling I get when I’ve eaten cotton candy on toast. No, this was an angry feeling.
I wisped over the railing and bumped the two boys to the ground.
The girl screamed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The girl dried her eyes and peered at me through her glasses. “You rescued me.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m ever so grateful. But you’re—you’re see-through, and you float.”
“I’m a ghost,” I said, “a real live ghost.” I pinched myself, then added, “Well, a real dead ghost.”
“You’re not like the ghosts in movies. You have a friendly face.”
“Oh, I’m frightfully friendly,” I said, and I wriggled my transparent parts.
The girl tugged her braids. “I have to go now, or I’ll be in trouble.”
“All right,” I said. “My name is Humphrey, by the way. Humphrey Bump.”
“I can see why they call you Bump,” the girl said, glancing at the two bruised boys. “My name is Amelia. I have to run now, or I’ll be late for math.”
When I arrived home I found the girl ghosties baking cakes in the kitchen. Wither floated above the stove reading a spooky cookbook.
“You look happy,” Tabitha said.
“I had a good day at Still-Alive School,” I said, dumping my satchel on the kitchen table.
“Rather a short good day,” Wither said, checking the time on his pocket watch. “School begins at nine o’clock sharp. It is barely a minute after ten.”
“At least he went,” Agatha said. “Humphrey, tell us what happened.”
“I made friends with a still-alive girl,” I said, grabbing a handful of cherries.
Wither frowned. “But the still-alive children are meanies.”
“Not once you get to know them.”
“You should float to school again this afternoon,” Tabitha said, “before your new friend forgets who you are.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and I did.
The trouble was, when I arrived at Still-Alive School there were so many children in the playground I thought I’d never find her.
“Amelia?” I yelled. “Is anyone friends with Amelia?”
Wherever I floated, children yelled mean things and ran away.
I’d almost given up when a familiar voice called out from a group of girl still-alives. I smiled a smile as big as a slice of raspberry pie. “Amelia!”
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, glancing round at her fleeing friends, “I can’t be friends with you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to blub. “Well, I just thought you might like to share this chocolate bar. It’s ghost chocolate, so you won’t be able to eat it, but—”
“This is why we can’t be friends,” Amelia said. “You’re a ghost, and I’m still alive.”
“I wish I was still alive too,” I said, and I wisped off.
Eggs, Bacon, and Porridge
“I may be round,” I muttered as I rolled out of bed the next morning, “but I’m no quitter.”
Charlie passed his head through the bedroom door. “Talking to yourself, Humphrey Bump?”
“Knock before you pass through,” I said. “It’s the polite thing to do, and I might be getting dressed.”
“I tried knocking,” Charlie said, “but it’s rather a thin door and my knuckles passed through the wood.”
At breakfast, the grown-up ghosties asked me about my new friend.
“Is she pretty?” Charlie said, prying the lid from the marmalade jar.
Wither cracked the shell of a boiled egg. “Charlie, for one so polite, you possess frightfully poor manners.”
“Is she charming?” Pamela asked as she buttered the ghostly toast.
“Oh, and is she a nerd?” Agatha said. “I mean, is she clever?”
I didn’t say anything.
“At least tell us your new girlfriend’s name,” Agatha said, and she blew the steam from her porridge.
“Her name is Amelia,” I mumbled into my bacon and eggs, “but she isn’t my—”
“Just good friends,” Tabitha said with a wink.
“That wasn’t what I meant. When I talked to Amelia in the playground yesterday afternoon, she said she can’t be friends with a ghosty.”
“Oh, the meanness!” cried Wither, and he dunked toast into his egg yolk.
“Let’s face it,” Charlie said, “Still-Alive School just isn’t ready for a phantom pupil.”
The grown-up ghosties peered at me over their plates and bowls, and I felt like wisping away to my room and hiding under the bed.
Then Charlie lifted his hat from the table, flicked a crumb from the brim, and placed the hat on his head. “Except that Humphrey isn’t a quitter. Isn’t that right, Humphrey?”
I thought back to how brave I’d felt earlier that morning, when I rolled out of bed. “It’s time I packed my satchel,” I said, and I floated out to the hall.
“Good on you, Humphrey,” Tabitha said.
“What about your breakfast?” Charlie called.
“I want to arrive early,” I called back, “while there aren’t too many still-alives around.”
When I wisped down the ornate staircase, my school tie wafting behind me, I found Tabitha, Charlie, Wither, Agatha, and Pamela floating by the front door.
“We thought we’d come with you,” Agatha said. “If we put our haunted heads together—”
Tabitha clapped her hands, and the front door creaked open.
“I need to solve this problem for myself,” I said as the six of us floated out of the house.
“How mean,” said Wither, and he pursed his lips.
When I looked around, the grown-up ghosties had gone.
Bumping Lessons
As I floated across the empty playground, past the prickly bushes decorated with crisp packets and flowers, an idea struck.
My idea was that I’d wisp into one of the classrooms, find a seat at the back, and float above it doing addition. By the time the lesson started, the still-alives would be used to my ghostly presence, and they wouldn’t be mean to me.
That’s what it’s called when there’s a ghost in
the room. A ghostly presence.
Wither told me that, and Wither is a poet.
I found a classroom with an open window and floated in.
When I opened my spooky satchel, five frightfully friendly ghosties wisped out.
“We’re here to help you make friends,” Agatha said.
“It was my idea,” Charlie said, and he held his hat to his chest.
“Charlie, don’t boast,” Agatha said. “It’s hardly the polite thing to do.”
“I did doff my trilby, Agatha.”
“Anyway,” Pamela said, hiding her eyes, “it was my idea, not Charlie Vapor’s.”
Wither folded his bony arms. “But I was the first ghosty to wisp into Humphrey’s satchel.”
“I’m sure we all thought of it together,” Tabitha said.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t care who thought of it. The idea stinks.”
The school bell buzzed, and Pamela screamed.
“What a frightful noise,” Agatha said, and she plugged her ears with her fingers.
“It’s time for lessons to start,” I said, “and you grown-up ghosties have ruined everything.”
“But we came to help,” Tabitha said.
“I don’t need your help. I just want the still-alive children to like me. If they see you, they’ll hate me more than ever.”
The classroom door opened, and a still-alive girl walked in. When she saw six frightfully
friendly ghosties, she screamed and ran down the corridor.
“Told you,” I said, and I blew a raspberry. Wither held a bony finger to his lips. “Shh! Listen!”
We listened.
“Fatty-Fatty Pigtails! Fatty-Fatty Pigtails!” a voice called.
We turned to the window and could just make out three figures on the other side of the prickly hedge.
“That’s Amelia,” I said. “Those two boys are bullies.”
“You should bump them,” Charlie said with a wink.
“Amelia will certainly want to be friends if you rescue her from bullies,” Tabitha said.
“I’ve already tried that.”
“Then bump them again,” said Wither. “Some bullies need bumping twice.”
“Teach them a lesson!” Charlie yelled as I wisped out through the open window.
As I floated over the prickly hedge, another idea struck. I knew I couldn’t protect Amelia forever. Perhaps I could teach her to protect herself.
I wisped into Amelia’s left ear and whispered, “Bump them.”
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, “is that you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Amelia, you have a round tummy, like me. Put it to good use and bump the bullies into the hedge.”
“I couldn’t, Humphrey. I’d get into trouble with the headmaster.”
Another idea struck, the third I’d had that day. I wisped out of Amelia’s left ear, took a deep breath, and bumped poor Amelia, sending her bouncing into the two boys, who landed upside down in the prickly hedge.
Inside the classroom, the five grown-up ghosties cheered.
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, brushing gravel from her knees, “we bumped the bullies.”
“Next time you’re bullied, you’ll know what to do,” I said, and I floated off, leaving Amelia smiling proudly.
