by Tim Harris
I don’t have time to work out what’s going on because all of a sudden I’m swamped with customers.
Mr Sternblast taps the assembly microphone. ‘Quiet, students,’ he says. ‘Teachers, you may now take your seats.’
PRRRRVT!
An embarrassingly loud squelch cuts across the hall.
Mr Vincent goes red in the face. ‘Pardon me … I … er … I must have eaten … er … too many caramel donuts.’
One of the year six girls is stifling her laughter and pointing to the floppy end of a whoopee cushion that’s poking out from underneath Mr Vincent. She must have put it there before he sat down.
PRRRRVT!
Miss Klemmer has fallen for the same trick.
‘Yuck!’ says Buster, Albert’s kindergarten buddy who has a liking for toilet humour. ‘Lots of poo-poos.’
PRRRRVT!
A third whoopee cushion explodes beneath Mrs Paige, the librarian.
‘Bum-bums going off everywhere,’ says Buster.
Mr Sternblast is furious. But he’s none-the-wiser for the prank. ‘Teachers, control your bowels this instant!’
The whoopee cushions were the first item to sell out at my shop. I’m not surprised they’re being used straightaway.
Gabby is sitting next to me, laughing. ‘Is your school always this funny?’
Grace just smiles. She’s very quiet.
The gangster kindy kids are sitting at the front of the hall. They turn around and look directly at me. Do they want revenge for my rip-off with the twenty-cent coins?
A man-sized blow-up plastic giraffe suddenly drifts into the assembly hall from outside. It’s another one of the novelty items I sold. A draught pushes it gently towards the stage and it bounces up the steps, landing upright next to Mr Sternblast.
The principal is as furious as he is confused. He whips his car keys out of his pocket and stabs the giraffe in the chest to deflate it.
PRRRRVT!
The deflating giraffe sounds like one of the whoopee cushions.
‘Poo-poo giraffe!’ giggles Buster.
Air rushes out of the puncture, sending the animal flying over the heads of the students. It eventually lands on Mr Vincent, wrapping around his neck like a shiny giraffe-coloured scarf. He’s not having a very good day, but at least he looks stylish … in a retro-zoo kinda way.
Other giant blow-up animals start floating in from outside. A pink flamingo is followed by a goggle-eyed frog. They swirl in the wind and follow the same flight path as the giraffe. They tumble slowly towards Mr Sternblast, who starts swatting at them with his arms.
In a matter of seconds, the stage is swamped with enormous plastic animals. An octopus has its tentacles coiled around the principal’s leg. A gorilla bounces up and down on his head. The flamingo is pecking at his bottom.
‘It’s biting his bum-bum,’ squeals Buster.
Miss Frost steps out from behind the curtain and coolly slices the animals with her keys. The cuts deflate the toys so quickly they don’t have time to hiss and fly away.
Mr Sternblast’s moustache is trembling violently. It looks as though there’s an earthquake on his face. He spits and splutters. ‘Somebody, tell me what the devil is going on!’
I wanna squeeze your cheeks, you cutie pie-pie.
I wanna dance with you, let’s dance all night.
A year two boy is frantically trying to stop his novelty toy dolphin from singing. It’s blaring out across the hall. He’s fumbling around with the buttons. The dolphin changes tune.
The open sky, Victoria in a tent nearby.
She cuts a hole in her tent, turns on the torch she rents …
‘That’s my song from camp!’ Damon is grinning from ear to ear.
Mr Bambuckle, who has been thoroughly enjoying the assembly, winks at him. ‘I told you I’d send it to my rockstar cousin in Iceland,’ he whispers.
The year two boy finally flicks off his singing dolphin, though not before the whole assembly bursts into laughter.
Mr Sternblast has had enough. He points to Miss Frost. ‘Take charge of this assembly immediately!’
Miss Frost musters her iciest stare and the entire hall falls silent.
Mr Sternblast growls and takes a seat on the stage.
PRRRRVT!
After assembly, I find myself surrounded by an angry mob of kindergarten mafia. They press me against the wall behind the toilet block, pinning my arms and legs to the bricks.
‘Hey, I only came here to pack up my shop before class starts,’ I say. ‘You have no business with me.’
I feel like I’m in a gangster movie.
‘No business with you?’ says the pack’s leader, shaking her head. She has dark red hair and flaming green eyes. ‘We represent kindergarten. You ripped off fifty of us yesterday. You owe us three hundred bucks.’
‘Three hundred bucks?’ I say. ‘Don’t you mean one hundred? It was fifty two-dollar coins.’
‘We charge interest,’ sneers the girl. ‘Triple.’
‘I’ve been thinking about repaying you,’ I say. ‘Honest.’
‘Thinking isn’t the same as doing,’ she snarls. ‘It’s triple payback time.’
The girl pulls what looks like a homemade lollypop from her coat pocket and holds it close to my face. It smells disgusting. ‘Where’s the money?’
‘I don’t have it on me,’ I say. ‘It’s somewhere else.’
She presses the lollypop against my neck. ‘You want me to shove this fish-flavoured treat down your throat? Tell us where the money is.’
I gulp. ‘My bag.’
A boy who must be second in charge steps forward. ‘She’s lying, Boss. It’s too obvious.’
‘Where’s the money?’ demands the red-haired girl.
‘I already told you – it’s in my bag.’
The girl lets out a wicked laugh and thrusts the lollypop into my mouth. Salty, grainy bits of fish food sting the back of my throat. It’s disgusting.
‘Wait – we can make a deal!’ I splutter.
The girl pauses. ‘A deal?’ She pulls the lollypop out of my mouth. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘I can give you one hundred dollars, but not three hundred. The rest has to go back to the kids who bought stuff from my novelty shop. I want to do the right thing by everyone.’
The girl’s green eyes ignite. ‘That’s not a deal!’
‘Hang on,’ I plead. ‘I haven’t finished. There’s something else I can offer you.’
The kindy mafia hold on to my wrists and legs. They’re not letting go until they’ve got something they want.
‘Go on,’ says the leader. ‘What else have you got?’
I take a deep breath and look her in the eye. ‘I will give every kindergartener free access to the app RichMeUp. It launched last night and kids around the country are already making serious cash on it. I won’t charge you any fees either. It’ll be one hundred per cent free for all of you.’
The girl nods to her offsiders, who loosen their grip.
‘I heard someone talking about that app this morning,’ she says. ‘They say it’s the next big thing. How do we know you can get us access?’
‘Because,’ I say proudly, ‘I invented it. I own the company.’
The leader holds out her hand. ‘Okay then, we have a deal.’
‘Deal,’ I say. ‘And I promise I’ll get the hundred dollars to you as soon as you let me go.’
I walk into room 12B, just in time for Mr Bambuckle to hand me the last pancake from his frypan. ‘Good morning, dear Myra,’ he says. ‘I trust you enjoyed that utterly wonderful assembly as much as I did.’ There’s that knowing look on his face again.
‘I suppose so,’ I say, still puffing from racing around the school to return everyone’s money.
‘Tell us, Myra,’ says the teacher gently, ‘did you learn a thing or two about yourself this morning?’
I nod. There’s no point fibbing. ‘Like you said, Mr Bambuckle, I had to be honest with my
self. And that meant doing the right thing by others. I made some bad decisions, so I had to make up for them.’
Mr Bambuckle slaps his thigh. ‘It’s amazing how we learn from our adventures.’
I smile. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I definitely learned from that one. There’s something else I learned this morning too.’
The class looks at me expectantly.
I glance around the room and lower my voice. ‘Don’t. Mess. With. Kindergarten.’
Mr Bambuckle, still marvelling at Myra’s new-found honesty, asked the students to take their seats. The children did so with haste. It had been a full day since they realised their classmate was missing, and they were keen to begin the search. Being Thursday morning, it also meant they only had until the following afternoon to locate the runaway. For all they knew, he could be somewhere as far away as Ecuador.
‘Vinnie and I are ready to catch a taxi to Vex’s workshop at the car yard,’ said Ren.
‘That reminds me,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Myra, how are we for transportation funds?’
Myra shook her head. ‘As you know, Plan A didn’t work out so well.’
Ren and Vinnie sighed. ‘Myra, we were counting on you for our taxi fare.’
‘Never doubt someone as thoughtful as Myra,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘She said Plan A backfired, but knowing her as I do, I suspect there’s a Plan B.’
Myra beamed as though she half expected her teacher’s prediction. ‘You’re right. There is a Plan B.’
Ren and Vinnie high-fived each other.
‘You may remember Mr Bambuckle asked us to design apps on his first day teaching our class,’ said Myra. ‘Well, my app – RichMeUp – sounded like such a good idea, I decided to make it in real life.’
Mr Bambuckle’s entire face radiated a warm glow. It was as if he had planned the app lesson knowing it would someday pay dividends.
‘The app has been going gangbusters since it launched last night,’ said Myra. ‘It’s made me hundreds of dollars already.’
‘You are very humble,’ said the teacher.
Myra smiled. ‘Well … hundreds and thousands.’
‘I love sprinkles,’ said Damon.
Myra stood up and turned to face the class. ‘I’d like to donate the proceeds from RichMeUp to help find Vex. You can use my company credit card for all your taxi needs.’
Mr Bambuckle was deeply proud of his student. It was the birth of Myra’s generosity.
Miss Frost entered the room, looking calm despite the chaotic assembly. ‘Mr Sternblast will be no threat today,’ she said, her voice surprisingly amiable. ‘Between chasing blow-up animals around the playground and confiscating whoopee cushions, his hands are well and truly full.’
‘There’s something else you’re not telling us, Miss Frost,’ said Mr Bambuckle, laughing.
‘Yes, well, I may or may not have told the principal that I spotted Peter Straya hiding somewhere near the oval.’ Miss Frost smothered a smile. ‘He’ll be occupied for hours trying to find him. Where is that boy, anyway?’
Mr Bambuckle clapped his hands together. ‘What fun! Ren and Vinnie, you know where to start looking for Vex – Vron Motors on Hailey Street. Make sure you report back to school at the conclusion of morning tea. I’ll send Dodger along to look out for you in case there is any trouble.’
‘There’s no time to lose,’ said Vinnie.
Myra handed a credit card to Ren. ‘Use that detective brain of yours to find our friend,’ she said.
‘Before you go,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘Carol has kindly agreed to let us stock up on any necessary supplies.’ He threw a key to Vinnie. ‘This will let you into the canteen. I’ve agreed to pay the ever delightful Carol double for anything we take.’
Miss Frost was impressed. A few more strands of her hair shone golden amber. ‘Just how did you manage to get a key to the canteen?’
‘I spoke with Carol this morning,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘She’s always up for a good conversation.’
Ren and Vinnie returned to Blue Valley School after recess, buzzing with excitement and energy. Fuelled by a scrumptious range of snacks from the canteen, the girls had powered through the morning, their trip a success.
‘We visited the car yard on Hailey Street,’ said Ren. ‘I found footprints around the back of the workshops that matched Vex’s shoes.’
‘Ren was amazing,’ said Vinnie. ‘Although Vex was nowhere in sight, she put us hot on his trail.’
‘We slipped inside Vex’s workshop without being seen,’ continued Ren. ‘I noticed a bike catalogue on the workbench. It was open to a page with a picture of a unicycle circled in black marker. It was drawn the same way Vex writes his Os.’
Vinnie twisted one of her long, brown curls of hair. ‘That’s when we knew he must have gone to the bike shop. We caught another taxi into town to check things out. The lady at the bike shop told us she’d sold a unicycle to a boy with dark hair yesterday. It must have been Vex! She told us he rode away in the direction of the supermarket.’
‘But that’s when time got the better of us,’ said Ren. ‘We knew we had to come back to school, so we left it there.’
‘Splendid work,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would swear you two were professional detectives.’
The girls beamed.
‘What do we do now?’ said Carrot.
‘The question is … What do you do now?’ said Mr Bambuckle.
Carrot grinned. ‘I think I’m following. Do I get to choose a partner?’
‘A wonderfully perfect assumption,’ said the teacher.
‘I pick Slugger,’ said Carrot.
‘Be sure to report back by lunchtime,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘We’ll share the fun around. Just as Vinnie and Ren had a time limit, so you and Slugger will have yours.’
While Ren had her heart set on continuing the investigation with Vinnie, she understood – deep down – that Mr Bambuckle had a plan for each of the students. It was the way he operated. He had a knack of knowing what to do, who to choose, and how to bring out the best in each of them, so she handed Myra’s credit card to Carrot. ‘Go get ’em, tiger,’ she said. ‘Sorry, that sounded cliché. You know what I mean.’
‘Roar!’ said Carrot.
‘What he said,’ said Slugger.
The boys raced through the classroom door, ready to slip out of the school and hail the next taxi to town.
‘What will we do while we wait for them to come back?’ asked Gabby Wu. ‘Will we learn new spelling words? Will we explore writing techniques? I don’t like wallpaper.’
‘Dearest Gabby,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘now is as good a time as any for the rest of us to learn about our new classmates.’
Gabby stared blankly at her teacher. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He wants you to tell us your story,’ said Albert. ‘Trust me, it’ll be worth it. Always is.’
Gabby glanced around at the welcoming faces of her new peers. There was no judgement in the room, only a sense of expectation. She looked at her sister. ‘What do you think, Grace? Should I tell them what happened at our old school?’
Her sister nodded.
‘Okay,’ said Gabby. ‘Here goes nothing …’
Everybody knows someone who can’t shut up. There’s always one person who dominates a conversation, who talks through class, who won’t listen because they’re too busy speaking, whose mouth is constantly producing words.
That person is me.
I learned to talk at a very young age. Mum says I was speaking fluently before I could walk. She says I was given the gift of the gab while I was still in nappies.
My first words were different to most other babies. I bypassed the usual ‘Mumma’ or ‘Dadda’ and went straight for something more sophisticated.
Mum was practising the piano and I crawled into the music room to listen to her play. She was talking to herself about the chords. ‘C minor … G … D … back to C min–’
‘I love the way the
sun shines off the black lacquer of the piano at this time of the afternoon,’ I said.
‘Gabby!’ gasped Mum, her fingers slipping from the keys. ‘You can talk!’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Talking is an essential form of communication. Dialogue shapes individuals like water shapes a stone. Conversing is how nations pull together and rise through turmoil. My nappy needs changing.’
Mum was clearly shocked. I had to poke her leg to get her to respond.
Grace was always the quiet one. She rolled into the music room – wearing an identical onesie to mine – and made faces at me. She wasn’t jealous. She was just different.
Dad returned home from work later than usual that day and flopped down on the lounge. ‘It’s been a bad few weeks,’ he told Mum. ‘Things aren’t great in my section and –’
‘You need more sleep, Dad,’ I said. ‘I can tell by the dark rings under your eyes that you’re tired. Make sure you get enough rest and drink lots of water. Our family needs you performing so you can pay the bills. Could you wipe the drool from my chin?’
Dad was gobsmacked. ‘I … I don’t believe it …’
Mum crossed her arms. ‘She hasn’t shut up all day.’
‘It’s astonishing,’ said Dad. ‘It’s incredible. It’s fantastic. It’s –’
‘A pain in the backside,’ said Mum.
‘I’ve got a pain in the backside,’ I said. ‘That new brand of milk you keep buying is clogging up my baby innards.’
Grace clapped her hands.
‘Thanks, sis,’ I said. ‘You’ll pick up this talking thing in time.’
Mum looked at me with an intense stare, like she was sizing me up. ‘An early talker … very interesting. I have high expectations of you, young lady.’
I first learned about exams and tests in preschool. Mind you, back then we were only getting assessed on the way we held crayons, or our ability to step through hoops. Even so, it was stressful because Mum had her expectations.
‘Gabby,’ said Wendy, my teacher, ‘could you come and sit at this table, please? I need to watch you write.’