Paddy T and the Time-travelling Trampoline

by Adam France

  I carefully moved across the rocks and picked up the newspaper before locking eyes with the Beast Box. This was it, I thought. I was going to make a dash for it. I would leave the newspaper on top of the Beast Box, then turn and sprint back to my bike. I would push it up the hill faster than a swooping magpie. And after today, I too would quit this paper route. I was sick of risking my life just to deliver a measly newspaper.

  I took a giant sniff before running as fast as my aching legs could take me along the shifting rocks. My ankles twisted on the uneven surface. I skidded to a stop as I reached the front door. I tossed the paper on top of the letterbox but it fell. I quickly moved forward and picked it up.

  That’s when I heard the lock on the door click. I was just in time to see the doorhandle turn as I swiftly placed the newspaper on top of the Beast Box. My heart stopped. But my legs didn’t. I turned and ran.

  That was when my toes caught the sharp edge of a rock and I fell face down with a crash. I didn’t have time to absorb the pain. I jumped up and continued to run gingerly down the driveway.

  My entire body hurt. I tried to sprint but my legs were jelly. The wind wasn’t helping either. It was pushing me towards the house, almost as if the Beast Box was sucking me towards it.

  I struggled on, my ankles twisting and straining against the uneven terrain. At no time did I look back. For all I knew, there was no one behind me. I didn’t care to find out. I continued to stagger along until finally I made it to my bike.

  I grabbed the handlebars and tried to push my bike towards the road – but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder and harder. Nothing. I looked down to see the pedal tangled up in the rusty chain link fence. The wind pounded the fence against my bike, making it almost impossible to find where the pedal was stuck.

  I quickly sat down and threw my feet against the fence in an attempt to force the pedal free. But it was stuck fast. I gritted my teeth and pulled harder and harder.

  Suddenly the bike separated itself from the fence and pinned me down. I pushed it off me and saw that the pedal had been ripped off and was lying on the other side of the fence. I reached through a metal loop to grab it.

  That’s when a hand grabbed my wrist.

  I froze in fear as a shadow grew over me. I forced myself to look up along the gripping arm to see a small old man with a head of frizzy hair. His giant wire-framed glasses sat tightly against his bony cheeks. The old man loosened his grip and picked up the broken pedal before looking at me with his cold, grey eyes.

  I couldn’t help myself. I SCREAMED at the top of my lungs. It was louder than the wind against the chain link fence. It drowned out the heavy rustling of the swaying trees.

  I stood up and sprinted all the way up the hill. Dogs were barking. Car alarms began to ring. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be as far away from number 71 as possible.

  I ran out of breath just outside my house. Panting, I scurried inside, locked the door and ran to my room, throwing my head back under my pillow. As my heart raced at a million miles per hour I promised myself that I would never return to the bottom of the hill as long as I lived.

  I didn’t leave my room on Sunday, even though Troy kept coming in to annoy me every five minutes. On Monday, I felt embarrassed. Tuesday, disappointed. By Wednesday, I was angry. Angry that I had left my prized possession at the bottom of the hill to rust away like everything else at number 71. By Friday afternoon I had built up enough courage to return.

  I waited until Saturday came around. Paper day. This time, I got out of bed before sunrise. I left the newspapers on the front doorstep and stormed down the hill.

  By the time I had reached the bottom the sun had peeked over the horizon. I decided that I was going to approach the old man and demand the return of my bike. I could see the chain link fence. I could see the jagged path. I could see the house. And that’s when I saw my bike against the Beast Box. Well, I thought it was my bike. There was something odd about it.

  I took a deep breath and walked up the driveway. This time I strode more confidently over the rugged rocks, trying to stay composed. I was going to quickly take my bike and return home.

  As I got closer, I noticed the pedal had been reattached. But in addition, something had been attached to the bike’s frame. It was a giant circle with many small tubes on the outside. Similar to the tubes attached to letterboxes.

  Attached to the giant circle, a thick pipe ran to a box behind the seat. On the box were printed the words ‘LOAD PAPERS HERE’.

  A thin blue wire ran from the box along the frame and up the handlebars. Attached to the handlebars was a smaller box with a keyhole and a red button with a word inked on top: ‘SHOOT’.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The old man had modified my bike. It looked incredible!

  From the corner of my eye, I saw something glimmer in the rising sun. I turned to see a key dangling from the rusty snarl on the Beast Box. I reached over and carefully removed the key from the sharp steel. Hesitantly, I put it in the keyhole on my handlebars and turned.

  Immediately, the giant circle began to rapidly spin. I quickly turned it off. I didn’t want to wake the old man.

  I looked up at the house. That’s when I noticed a smiling face had been scratched into the black paint on the window. An orange light glowed from inside the house, making the smiling face seem warm. Welcoming.

  I smiled back at the window before carrying my bike along the rocks and on to the road. As I stood beside my bike, I looked back at the house. It looked different now. The chain link fence sat still against its posts. The trees surrounding the house swayed gently in the breeze. Number 71 looked peaceful.

  Still smiling, I walked my bike up the hill.

  It took some time to get used to, but my modified bike became a sensation. Once the box was loaded with papers, they would push through the pipe and into the tubes around the giant circle. When the button on the handlebars was pressed, the tubes would shoot a paper into each letterbox. I could shoot papers from fifty metres away without missing a target. And the best part was, I never had to stop pedalling.

  After a short time, the owner of the newspaper, Mrs Chambers, gave me more and more delivery routes. People began to gather out the front of their houses to get a glimpse of the bike in action. Some people even moved their letterboxes to different places to test my aim. Still, I never missed.

  People clapped and cheered every Saturday as I sailed through their street. Other kids on bikes would follow me for kilometres. I had become a celebrity.

  The Basic, Goliath, Artsy Fartsy all felt the full force of the paper-shooter. Even the star-shaped tubes became easy targets. I used the device to deliver every paper.

  All except one.

  At the bottom of the hill at number 71, I hand-deliver the newspaper to the Beast Box. I haven’t seen the old man since that day, but I know he is watching. Watching his magical invention do wonders from the scratches on his black painted windows.

  The Perfect Point

  ‘Samantha Foster, B.’

  Samantha smiled at Tina Vu, both acknowledging their rewarding results.

  ‘Ifraan Ghazali, B.’

  Ifraan high-fived Cameron Bird. Both were happy with their marks.

  I put my head on my desk. I didn’t want to see them all looking at me. I could only hope she wouldn’t read it out.

  ‘Paddy Thompson, E.’

  There were gasps and mumbles around the room. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like it came as a shock. Everyone knows I’m a bad writer. Everyone knows I can’t string two sentences together. It’s not like I can’t read. Or do maths. Or even talk properly. I just can’t write well. I mean, my handwriting is all right. But what use is neat handwriting when the words I write down don’t make sense? And it doesn’t help that Mrs Brown is the most boring teacher I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ve lasted a single writing lesson without my eyelids drooping.

  ‘Quiet please!’ Mrs Brown demanded.

  The bell for
lunch rang. Everyone stood up and started leaving the room. I avoided their stares by pretending to find something in my tidy tray. I was embarrassed. Ashamed.

  I started putting my pencil case in my desk when Mrs Brown approached.

  ‘That’s two Es for writing this term, Paddy.’ Mrs Brown placed my paper on my desk. It was a Picasso of red pen with a giant E circled a dozen times on the top corner of the page, just to rub it in.

  ‘I know, Mrs Brown,’ I replied grimly.

  ‘Well, Mr Thompson, you’ll need at least a C on your next assessment to pass Literacy.’ Mrs Brown’s beady eyes burned into mine.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Brown,’ I replied, my tone still flat.

  ‘And you know what happens if you don’t pass Literacy, don’t you, Mr Thompson?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Brown; I have to repeat grade five.’

  Mrs Brown continued to stare at me with her beady eyes. I was too scared to blink. Too afraid to breathe. It felt like an eternity.

  She finally stood up and started walking back to her desk.

  ‘Go to lunch now, Paddy.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Brown.’

  I stood up and left the classroom as quickly as I could.

  A week passed and any motivation I’d felt about writing something passable had gone out the window. I hadn’t written a thing. I’d come up with every possible excuse to avoid doing the task. But now, it was due tomorrow.

  I sat on my bed and looked at the assessment task Mrs Brown had given us. A two-page argumentative essay on why wood is better than metal. Like I said before, Mrs Brown is the most boring teacher in the universe.

  I felt like Mrs Brown had also sprinkled a little bit of her drowsy-dust on the paper, as I felt my body begging to crawl under the covers and never come out.

  Mum stopped at my bedroom door. She must have seen the worry on my face.

  ‘You feeling crook, mate?’

  ‘I wish,’ I said as I sat back up. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to write this stupid assignment.’

  Mum walked in and sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘You know, if you’re really that stuck for ideas, you could always go and ask Paul next door.’

  My eyes widened. Mum was right. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Paul Paynter was going to save me.

  I jumped out of bed, grabbed the assignment off my desk and hurried out of my room.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I called from the hallway. ‘I’m going next door.’

  According to Mum, our neighbour, Paul Paynter, was once a world-renowned journalist. Back in the 1970s, he used to travel the world writing stories about anything and everything. He got to interview world leaders and famous artists and attend significant events, which resulted in Paul winning heaps of awards. Other journalists even started writing about him!

  But then, Mum told me, without any warning, he stopped writing. He left the high life and disappeared into the normal world.

  Paul was a quiet, friendly neighbour. He rarely left his house unless it was to get groceries or collect the newspapers from his driveway. I have never seen someone buy so many newspapers. Each day, a pile as high as his letterbox would be delivered. Papers from all around the world. England, Japan, Brazil, Iceland. When I delivered his paper on Saturdays, he would always smile and wave as he carried the other twenty from his driveway. Unlike our ‘new’ neighbours on the other side of the house, Paul had lived next to us for as long as I could remember.

  But now, I needed more than a friendly smile. I needed a neighbourly favour.

  I knocked on the door and took a step back. I could hear the muffled sound of a television inside. Thinking that he may not have heard me, I stepped forward to knock again, a little louder. The door immediately swung open.

  ‘Hello?’ Paul’s eyes adjusted to the sunlight. He was dressed in an old pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt that read ‘Happy Easter’. It was December.

  ‘Uh, hello, Mr Paynter,’ I stumbled. ‘It’s me, Paddy from next door.’

  Paul pulled his glasses down from his head. He instantly recognised who I was and opened the screen door.

  ‘Well, good morning, Paddy. It is still morning, right?’

  ‘It’s um, about three-thirty,’ I politely corrected.

  ‘Ah, it’s morning somewhere around the world.’ He chuckled. ‘Come on in.’

  I stepped into the house. It was now me who had to adjust my eyes. It was dark. All the blinds were closed. Other than a few old dusty lamps, all the lights were off. Paul’s room was lit up by not one, not two, but five giant television sets. Each TV played a different news station with headlines in all different languages.

  ‘So, how can I help you, Paddy?’ Paul asked as we dodged the thousands upon thousands of newspapers stacked on the floor.

  ‘I, um, have an assignment due tomorrow…’

  ‘Is it on politics? Hollywood movies? Alien invasions?’

  ‘Actually, it’s on wood.’

  Paul stopped and turned back with a confused expression.

  ‘Wood?’

  ‘And metal,’ I stated.

  ‘I see,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Well, that sounds a little boring.’

  I chuckled. It was true. He was right.

  ‘My biggest problem is I don’t know how I should write it,’ I continued. ‘And Mum said you’re a pretty good writer, and—’

  ‘So you need help writing it, then?’ Paul interrupted.

  ‘Could you?’ I asked.

  Paul rubbed his grey beard before clicking his fingers.

  ‘Hang on two ticks. Let me grab a few things.’

  On that note, Paul mazed his way around the newspapers and disappeared into another room.

  I stood there looking around at the house. At all the old newspapers covered in dust. All the television screens sharing pictures from around the world in languages I had never seen before.

  And that’s when I saw the glass cabinet. The light from the televisions flickered on rows of shiny objects. I walked over to see it up close. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Trophies and medals. Old photos of Paul with celebrities dressed in fancy clothes. In a frame was the front page of a magazine with Paul’s face in the middle. The caption ‘Greatest Writer of All Time?’ was underneath. Mum was right; Paul was famous!

  But among all his prized possessions, on a shelf of its own, sat a glass box. And inside the glass box sat a lead pencil. A lead pencil unlike any pencil I had ever seen. Its body was bright green. A green so bright it appeared to glow. Spiralling around the illuminating pencil was a pink stripe. My eyes followed the line all the way to the tip of the pencil. To the sharpest lead I had ever seen. The perfect point.

  I could hear Paul sifting through papers in the other room. I couldn’t help myself. I had to hold the pencil.

  I carefully reached into the cabinet and opened the glass box. I lifted the pencil off its perch. It was heavier than I expected. I studied it in awe. It was the most beautiful pencil I had ever seen. Its pink stripe hypnotised me. Its green glow shone warmly into my unblinking eyes.

  I was so captivated by the pencil that I didn’t see the stack of newspapers behind me. I bumped into them, overbalanced, and slipped. Papers flew into the air. So did my legs. I felt like I floated in mid-air before finally hitting the floor hard. My bottom hurt, but not as much as the searing pain in my right hand.

  ‘Everything all right out there?’ Paul called.

  I quickly stood up and shook my hand.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘Just some newspapers fell over.’

  ‘Ah, that’s okay,’ Paul replied, continuing to rifle through his drawers. ‘Happens all the time.’

  I looked frantically for the pencil. Thanks to the glow of the televisions, the pink stripe of the pencil reflected behind a sheet of newspaper. I snatched it off the ground and quietly sat it back inside the glass box. I took a step back from the cupboard. And that’s when I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. The tip of the lead pencil was m
issing. It had been snapped off.

  I knew instantly what had happened. I knew exactly where the tip of the pencil had gone. I looked down at my throbbing right hand. Deep in the palm between my pinky and ring finger was a dot. A dot that flashed green and pink under my skin.

  ‘Rightio.’

  Paul wove his way back into the living room. I quickly threw my hand behind my back.

  ‘This is an old journal made from recycled wood and these two pens are aluminium. Let’s get started.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Paynter, but I just heard Dad calling for me,’ I lied.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t hear a thing,’ Paul said. ‘But then again, these ears don’t work like they used to.’

  ‘Thanks anyway, Mr Paynter.’

  I turned and hastily made for the door. I needed to escape before he found out.

  ‘Hey!’ Paul called.

  I froze in fear. He knew. I was in a world of trouble.

  ‘Let me know how you go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, then bolted back to my house.

  I ran my hand under the tap for almost an hour. Eventually, the throbbing stopped. I tried using tweezers to pull the glowing lead from my hand like a splinter. But it was no use. It was lodged too deep.

  I looked at the clock. It was already past five and I hadn’t even started my assessment. I was doomed.

  I couldn’t eat dinner. My stomach was in a mass of knots. The combination of knowing I was about to fail Literacy and the fact that I had ruined my neighbour’s prized possession made me feel ill.

  I went up to my room and sat at my desk. I opened my exercise book and stared at the blank page. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up my pen. I dropped my head on the book and gave up.

  I woke to the sound of the newspaper delivery truck taking off after dropping a hundred papers on Paul Paynter’s driveway. I was still at my desk. My back ached from sleeping in my hard desk chair. But that pain was forgotten the moment I remembered what day it was. Assessment day. The day I was going to fail Literacy. The day I say goodbye to going to grade six.