Paddy T and the Time-travelling Trampoline

by Adam France

  I looked down at the closed exercise book. I decided the only thing I could do was write a quick apology to Mrs Brown for not finishing my assignment. Maybe she would be understanding. Maybe she would let me off with a warning. Deep down I knew that was impossible.

  I opened my book and gasped.

  The paper was no longer blank. There was page after page of handwriting. My handwriting. I knew it was my handwriting because of the particular way I write my Zs and Fs. And the way I dot my Is a little to the right. I quickly read a few lines to find it was the essay I needed. It was all there. All mine.

  But how?

  I was startled by a knock on my door.

  ‘Time to get up, Paddy,’ Mum called.

  ‘I’m awake,’ I replied, still staring in disbelief at the essay.

  I didn’t have time to think about how it got there. I had to go – to hopefully pass my Literacy class.

  I was about to find out my future. I had handed in my assessment without reading it. And ever since, Mrs Brown had been staring at me with her beady black eyes. I could see her reading it. I could see her face twitching. Her head shaking. Her long wiry fingers tapping the table. And then I saw her red pen making circle after circle.

  Mrs Brown stood from her desk.

  ‘Class, your writing assessments have been marked and I have your results.’

  Everyone sat up tall in their seats. Everyone except for me. I just wanted to get this over with.

  ‘But before I begin, I must acknowledge one student who has stood out from the rest. One student who has written an assessment so good, it could be published in Australian Scientific magazine.’

  The class started mumbling to one another. Students started to shrug their shoulders. Some pointed at Jessica Goldwin. She was by far the best writer in our class. By the smile on her face, even Jessica thought Mrs Brown was referring to her.

  ‘This piece of writing is so good, it could change the way we think about the relationship between wood and metal.’

  The mumbling continued to grow. Mrs Brown started walking towards me.

  ‘This piece of writing is so good,’ she continued as she approached my desk, ‘that it is too good to be true.’

  Mrs Brown slammed the paper on my desk.

  ‘And for that reason, Mr Thompson, you have failed Literacy.’

  Everyone gasped. Then the room was silent. I looked down at my paper. Circled at least a dozen times in red pen was the word ‘CHEATER’.

  Mr Gill, the school principal, sat at his desk reading through my assessment. Every now and then he looked up at me with a confused expression. Mrs Brown sat beside me with her arms crossed, her eyes darting between my paper and me.

  I tried not to sink into my chair. I didn’t want Mr Gill to think I had copied my assignment. I had written it. I don’t know how, but it was definitely my handwriting. There was no way anyone else in my house could have written it. I’ve seen my parents’ shopping lists. There must not have been spelling back when they went to school.

  Mr Gill lifted his head from the paper and looked me in the eye. The deep wrinkles on his forehead formed a stern arrow.

  ‘So, Mr Thompson, where exactly did you copy this from?’

  I could feel Mrs Brown’s beady eyes burning into the side of my head.

  ‘I didn’t copy it.’ I could hear the desperation in my voice. ‘I swear, Mr Gill, this is my work.’

  Mr Gill looked over at Mrs Brown. The wrinkles on his head didn’t move.

  ‘According to your past results, Mr Thompson …’ He stood up from his desk with the paper in his hand. ‘This seems almost impossible.’

  Mr Gill tossed my assignment on his desk. I didn’t know what to say. He was right. It was impossible. I couldn’t explain how the writing got there. How ten pages of beautifully crafted work appeared overnight.

  I looked up at Mr Gill.

  ‘I can prove it,’ I stated.

  Mr Gill and Mrs Brown looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘I can prove that my writing is amazing.’

  Mr Gill scratched his bald head.

  ‘And how do you intend to prove this?’ he asked.

  Mrs Brown started tapping her foot on the floor. Mr Gill put his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Give me a topic,’ I answered. ‘Anything at all. I’ll prove to you both that I am a fantastic writer.’

  Mr Gill looked over at Mrs Brown, then back at me.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything,’ I repeated.

  With her arms still crossed, Mrs Brown stood up and walked over to Mr Gill. Smirks appeared on their faces as they looked at each other.

  ‘All right, Mr Thompson,’ said Mrs Brown, the smirk still spread across her face, ‘I want you to write about a flying cane toad.’

  ‘And the flying cane toad has a sausage dressed as a ballerina for a friend,’ Mr Gill added.

  ‘And the cane toad is allergic to insects.’

  ‘And the sausage has a purple moustache.’

  ‘And together, they save the day,’ Mrs Brown finished.

  I was stunned. I mean, this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. How did they expect me to write about that?

  ‘And you can do it right here,’ Mr Gill insisted. ‘In my office after lunch.’

  I was done. Dead meat. But I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  I sat at a small table in the corner of the office while Mr Gill sorted through piles of papers on his desk. I kept my pencil busy to avoid gaining his attention. If he looked closely, he would see that I was writing the words ‘flying cane toad’ over and over.

  The only good thing about being in Mr Gill’s office was the air conditioning. It was set at the lowest temperature possible – just low enough to stop the nervous beads of sweat from dripping down my face.

  ‘How are you going, Mr Thompson?’ Mr Gill asked, making me sit up straight in my chair.

  ‘It’s sounding great,’ I lied.

  That’s when he stood up.

  ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  Mr Gill started walking around his desk. This was it. The moment I was found out. The moment that I, Paddy Thompson, become known as the biggest cheater of all time.

  But just as Mr Gill drew closer to my table, his office door swung open, making a loud bang as it hit the wall. Mr Gill and I turned our heads like a shot. Mrs Beaman, the school administrator, stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, breathing heavily. I felt the heat of the summer day invade the room.

  ‘Mr Gill, we have a Code Two,’ she gasped between heavy breaths.

  Mr Gill started towards the door.

  ‘Code Two?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Jaden is on the roof again!’

  Mr Gill hurried out the door. Mrs Beaman followed, closing it behind her. I was all alone in the principal’s office.

  I didn’t know what to do. I sat and looked at my paper. It was a mess. I scrunched it into a ball and tossed it in the bin.

  I picked up my pencil and stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me. At all the empty space between the blue lines. As empty as the thoughts in my brain. I had nothing. I dropped the pencil onto the desk and put my head in my hands.

  I decided to give up. When Mr Gill returned I would tell him I didn’t write my assignment. I would lie and tell him I found it on the internet.

  I could feel the cool breeze of the air conditioning on the back of my neck. There are no air conditioners in the classrooms. We don’t even have one at home. The feeling of the cold air hitting my skin made me relax in my chair. It made my brain stop worrying about my problems. It made my eyes heavy. And before I knew it, I fell asleep.

  ‘I didn’t do nuffin!’

  I was startled awake by the loud voice of another student. I looked across to see Jaden Jackson enter the office. His school shirt was covered in dirt and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  Behind Jaden was Mr
Gill. His shirt was saturated and also covered in dirt. Beads of sweat were dancing down his forehead wrinkles.

  Jaden threw himself on the floor in the corner of the room and leaned his head against the wall. Mr Gill walked over and stood under the air conditioner. He aimed his red, bald head at the vents.

  ‘All right,’ he said, and turned towards me. ‘You finished?’

  My eyes grew wide. I had completely forgotten why I was here. I had forgotten about being exposed as a ‘cheater’.

  I turned around to grab my paper and hand it to Mr Gill. But when I saw it, my heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Sitting on the table was the paper. But it wasn’t empty. There was page after page of neat handwriting underneath my pencil. The high crossed Ts and the Is dotted to the right. My handwriting. My work. My story.

  Mr Gill leaned over and grabbed the pages.

  ‘Well, Mr Thompson, it seems you have been busy.’

  All I could do was nod. It was more of a nod of disbelief than agreement.

  Mr Gill sat at his desk and started reading my story. I sat in my chair twiddling the pencil. I was nervous. I had no idea what I had written. No idea whether it made any sense.

  Every now and then I could see a twitch in Mr Gill’s wrinkles. I could see his face turning pink like Jaden’s sunburn. Eventually he stopped reading. He stood up from behind his desk.

  This was it.

  This was when I would fail grade five.

  Mr Gill’s face continued to grow red. His lips were pressed tightly together. His eyes started filling up with water. I could feel it. He was about to explode with anger.

  But then he did something I never expected. Even Jaden jumped up in fright. Mr Gill burst out in a hysterical laugh. So loud it knocked the pencil out of my hand.

  ‘Mr Thompson!’ he cackled, holding the pages above his head. ‘This is the funniest thing I have read in my entire life! Pure genius!’

  That’s when I smiled. I knew I was bound for grade six.

  I walk onto the red carpet. Cameras begin to click and flash in my direction. ‘Paddy, can I get a selfie?’ says one of my fans, who has come out to celebrate the release of my twentieth bestselling book, The Perfect Point. I lean in and give a smile.

  I look around at the thousands of people all holding a copy of my latest novel, waving them in the air as a desperate plea to get me to sign them. Among the crazy parade of people stands someone familiar.

  It’s Paul Paynter. He gives me a wink. I wink back. We know how this writing works. How to use the pencil’s magic. Our secret is safe.

  I continue to walk down the red carpet. Standing at the end is a reporter holding a microphone.

  ‘Paddy, Paddy!’ the reporter calls for me. She too has stars in her eyes. ‘You must tell us, what is the secret to your success?’

  I look back to where Paul Paynter was standing. He has disappeared.

  ‘The secret,’ I begin, ‘is to have a good night’s sleep.’

  The Nudge

  Some people have pools. Others live near the beach or a river. We had a lousy hose and sprinkler. And on days like this, they just didn’t do the job. To say it was hot was like saying Godzilla is tall. It was scorching. Droplets of my sweat hit the concrete slab and sizzled. There wasn’t a single patch of shade, not even under the verandah.

  We live on one of the tallest hills in all of Australia, so you’d think there’d be some breeze, but it was as still as a rotting cane toad.

  And of course, Mum decided today would be the best day to BUG-BOMB the house.

  Mum sometimes does things without thinking them through. For example, she made Dad move all the lounge room furniture around last month, before realising there weren’t any power points near the television. So for a week, we had an extension lead running right through the middle of the room. It was back to its original layout the following weekend.

  So it was no big surprise when Mum decided to send us all outside in the blistering summer heat while the cool indoors was filled with poisonous gas.

  Troy and I sat cross-legged on the lawn beside the sprinkler, waiting for it to rotate to our faces. We were disappointed when the water that hit our heads was hot. Not warm. Hot.

  Nina decided to make the most of the sun and squeezed an entire lemon onto her head to bleach her hair and make her look like a beach person. I’m pretty sure her almost see-through skin was enough to show she wasn’t a beach person. But there she sat, on a towel on the lawn, smelling like a citrus tree.

  Mum had set up a giant umbrella for her and Bella to sit under. Bella sat naked in her shell pool with all her bath toys. Mandy, our Maltese dog, had her head in the pool slurping up the water. Mum sat beside Bella reading one of her gossip magazines and drinking an iced coffee that she had just poured from her thermal mug.

  Troy and I jumped to our feet as Dad pulled into the driveway. He’d texted to say he was bringing home something exciting. I hoped it was an outdoor air conditioner or a giant ice cube to lie on. But it wasn’t. Dad opened the boot of the car and pulled out a giant roll of black plastic.

  ‘What are we going to do with that?’ I asked, annoyed.

  Dad didn’t say anything. He shuffled past me and dropped the roll onto the front lawn. He wiped his forehead with his shirt before giving me one of his ‘whatcha-reckon?’ nudges.

  Troy dropped his shoulders and returned to the sprinkler.

  Before I could say anything, Dad found the end of the roll, pulled two tent pegs from his back pocket and pushed them through the black plastic into the ground. He checked that it was secure, then pushed the rest of the roll down the hill. I watched as it unfurled over every driveway in our street. It continued to roll until I could no longer see it.

  Dad returned to the boot and came back with a bottle of fluorescent green liquid. I read the label on the bottle.

  Kevin’s Kwiklid: The Kwikest Liquid in the Southern Hemisphere.

  Below that was a warning label with big bold lettering.

  Dad opened the cap and poured the entire bottle onto the plastic.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ he said, again with his signature nudge.

  ‘What, down there?’ I responded, pointing down the steep face of Hellman’s Hill.

  ‘Look.’ He walked over to the pool, picked up Mandy the dog, and brought her back. He put her on the plastic. She took off at the speed of light without blinking an eyelid. ‘She loves it!’

  Dad was crazy if he thought I was going to follow Mandy down.

  I turned to walk away and trod on a bindy. I yelped and began hopping on the spot. It was the perfect opportunity for Dad to give me one more nudge, and before I knew it my bum hit the black plastic and I was travelling faster than an air force jet down Hellman’s Hill.

  I could feel my cheeks pressing hard against my teeth. I wanted to close my eyes but the sheer speed of my descent wouldn’t allow my eyelids to shut. Everything around me was a blur. My feet flicked up droplets of Kevin’s Kwiklid into my eyes, up my nostrils and down my throat. It tasted horrible!

  I slid past Marty’s house and Debbie’s house and Trent’s house. Then past number 71 at the bottom of the hill, before entering the laneway at the end of the street. I wasn’t slowing down. In fact, I was certain I was gaining speed.

  I tried to look ahead to see how much further this nightmare slide had to go. Through my blurry vision I could just make out where it ended.

  Unfortunately, it ended right at the summit of the giant BMX jump Rossco’s dad had built him last year. It was so big only Rossco had tried it and he broke both his arms. It looked like I was going to be victim number two.

  I tried to brace myself, but all I could do was make fists and scrunch up my toes. Rossco’s jump was growing larger and larger, like a tidal wave wrapped in black plastic. I held my breath and waited for the impact.

  I hit the jump at such speed that my body was rocketed into the sky. I was ascending at the velocity of a ballistic missile. I felt the
hairs on my head catch alight. Even my eyebrows were smoking!

  I still couldn’t move my arms or legs. Or close my eyelids.

  The sky around me was growing darker. The air that I struggled to breathe was getting thinner and thinner. I was higher than any plane had ever been.

  Gradually, I felt my cheeks loosen away from my teeth. I could move my arms and legs. My eyelids were beginning to flutter. I was slowing down.

  I should have felt relief, but at thirty thousand metres in the sky I remembered something Mrs Brown once said to me.

  ‘What goes up must come down.’

  I shouldn’t have, but I looked down. Big mistake. I could see the entire east coast of Australia. Although it was the most beautiful sight my twelve-year-old eyes had ever seen, I was overcome with fear as I felt myself start to fall.

  I picked up speed as I dropped towards the ground. My arms and legs became stiff once more. My teeth met the inside of my cheeks and my eyelids locked themselves open. I was now travelling faster than I had in my ascent.

  My eyebrows began to smoke again. My hair, or what was left of it, went back up in flames. This was it, I thought. I, Paddy Thompson, was about to hit the ground like a meteorite. I could only hope that I wouldn’t feel the impact.

  I forced my eyes to the right. I could see the Opera House in the distance. I forced them back to the left and thought I could see the Gateway Bridge in Brisbane. What was certain was that I was getting closer and closer to land.

  Or maybe, just maybe, the sea.

  I was beginning to notice less land and more ocean ahead of me. If I wasn’t going to become a pancake on the land, I was definitely going to make the biggest splash known to humankind.

  I fell and fell, and the ocean grew larger until it filled my field of vision. Again, I braced myself for impact. I made fists and scrunched up my toes.