I can hear the boys croaking inside the Lego box on the table. I hope they are still okay in there.
‘Seven?’ I say to Pinky.
She sings, ‘Seven flowers, make a wish.’
I pull open the front door and dash out into the yard. Our garden hasn’t got many flowers, it’s mainly full of broken toys and busted-up bikes and all that. But there are sometimes daisies in the grass. I find one, pick it and shove it into the bottle. One. There’s a bush with little white flowers. Two. There’s a straggly plant near the letterbox that has yellow flowers. I grab one. Three. There are no more flowers in our garden, so I push open the gate and run out onto the footpath. There are some orange flowers poking through the fence of Mrs Mac’s house. Four. A little purple flower. Five. Mrs Mac has some roses, and we’re not allowed to pick them, but it’s an emergency, so I look to make sure she’s not watching from inside her house and I quickly grab one of the little buds. Six.
Then I hear voices and I look up to see some girls on the other side of the road. It’s that Cate Marconi, from school, and three of her friends. She says something and they all giggle. I look down at my huge, sparkly dress. Pinky is twinkling and flying around and singing, but they don’t see her at all. They only see me, dressed up like a sparkling, pink lunatic. No wonder they’re laughing. I feel my whole head go red.
But there’s no time to waste, because there’s Mum’s car! At the end of the street, waiting at the lights.
I spy a yellow flower on the nature strip. I yank it out of the ground and shove it into the bottle and then I sprint back into the house.
‘What next?’ I gasp.
‘One is pretty, two are blue,’ sings Pinky.
‘Yes, yes. I know. Quick!’ I yell. But there’s no stopping her.
‘Three are precious just for you,
Four are sparkly, five are pink,
Six are something you can drink,
Seven flowers, make a wish.
Drink it up and give a kiss.’
Make a wish. OK. I open the Lego box and look at the three frogs sitting inside. ‘I wish these frogs turn back into my brothers,’ I gabble. I shake up the bottle and take a sip. It’s really revolting. It mainly tastes of Love Mist, but there’s also vinegar, soy sauce, milk and various flowers. It’s beyond foul.
‘Okay?’ I look at the frogs. They look back at me. I take another drink, and almost puke. I hear Mum’s car pull into the drive. ‘It’s not working!’ I yell.
‘You have to kiss them!’ giggles Pinky.
I don’t waste a second. I grab the first frog and give it a kiss. There’s a wet, popping sound and suddenly I’m clutching Max. Max the human, I mean, not Max the frog. He wriggles away from me. I grab the second frog, kiss it quickly and, pop, there’s Will. Frog number three, quick kiss, pop, there’s Olly.
I never thought I’d be happy to see my brothers. But as Mum’s key turns in the front door, I’m so relieved I almost want to kiss them again.
But, looking at them, I wonder if their eyes are a bit more goggly than usual?
Mum comes into the room with the shopping and the three boys hop towards her and Will’s tongue shoots out and snatches a fly from the air.
• • •
So that’s what happened. And, like I say, I don’t expect you to believe me. But it’s true, all the same.
It all happened a few weeks ago now, but I’m still grounded because of the Love Mist and the brooch and the mess and because glitter is so hard to get out of the carpet.
Mum’s taking the boys to their long jump training. They’re doing really well, everyone says.
But don’t worry, I’m not alone. Pinky’s still here. She’s always here. Because we’re best friends, forever.
Forever and ever and ever and ever.
I have to go, now. I have to have a tea party and make some daisy chains.
NITPLAN
by
Tristan Bancks
I plunge my arm deep into the forest of Lewis Snow’s hair and scrape my fingernails across his scalp. When I withdraw my hand it is crawling, teeming, seething with head lice.
‘I dunno if this is the epic-est thing I’ve ever seen or if I’m going to vomit,’ I whisper to Lewis and Jack.
‘Maybe both,’ Lewis replies with a smile.
There aren’t just dozens of nits on Lewis’s scalp. Or hundreds. There are thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe. It doesn’t even seem possible that this many nits exist in the world, let alone on one very small head.
‘Just don’t hurt them,’ Lewis says. ‘Nits are people, too.’
Lewis has had nits since he was three years old. He reckons he can’t remember not having an itchy head. He’s had nits for so long he sees them as pets. He reckons they speak to him, that all his best ideas come from his nits. Lewis was expelled from his last school for having too many nits, but our school will take anybody.
I proceed to release the minibeasts into the wild, depositing 50 to 100 extra-large nits into each blue hat on each peg outside each classroom in the main school corridor. We even get the teachers’ hats. All the other kids are in assembly so the place is deserted, apart from me, Jack and Lewis. And the nits.
‘Pace yourselves,’ Jack whispers, delving his own hand into Lewis’s wild blond afro. ‘We’ve still got a bunch of classes to do.’
‘It’s okay,’ Lewis replies. ‘Plenty to go round.’
Jack and I continue to spread the nit love until we make it to the end of the very long corridor. We look back. Hundreds of blue school hats are wriggling with lice.
‘Good job, men,’ Jack whispers. ‘Only our class left to do.’
‘Four minutes,’ Lewis confirms, checking the timer on his watch, which is in sync with the school bell.
Just enough time to finish sowing the seeds of our terrible plan: complete school shutdown before next week’s dreaded national standardised tests, when we face the hardest exams of our lives.
Jack, Lewis and I reckon that our talents can’t be measured by a test. So we figure that if there were, say, a plague of head lice and every kid in school had to be sent home . . .
Boom.
No exams.
We’ve been hatching the plan for three weeks. The idea came to us on the day that Lewis Snow, the kid with the worst case of nits in world history— Jack’s and my new best friend and hero—wandered into our classroom, scratching like mad.
• • •
Lewis, Jack and I slip into three empty seats at the back of assembly next to a sleeping Mr Carter, just as the recess bell sounds.
‘STAY in your seats!’ Mr Skroop demands from centre stage. He seems to be staring right through me with those charcoal eyes. Walton Skroop is not my biggest fan, which is unlucky because he recently landed the job of deputy principal. And he’s my next-door neighbour.
As you know, we have examinations next week and I expect you all to be using your preparation time wisely. The reputation of this school, our funding and even your teachers’ jobs depend on these results. I will be very, very disappointed if we do poorly. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Skroop,’ we all say in unison.
‘Now please leave the hall in a calm and orderly fashion, one class at a time, beginning with 6A!’
We slowly file out of the hall, across the playground and into the main school building, where everyone grabs their food and hats for recess. Jack, Lewis and I stand at the end of the corridor, near the library, watching as our scheme unfolds.
‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ I say.
‘We are great humanitarians,’ Jack agrees.
‘I love nits,’ Lewis says dreamily.
• • •
By the afternoon everyone is scratching.
Everyone.
Kindergarten kids, primary kids, teachers—even Mr Barnes, the maintenance guy.
‘Please stop scratching and concentrate on your work,’ Miss Norrish snips. ‘You heard what Mr Skroop said this mor
ning.’
We are at our desks doing last year’s maths test, preparing for next week’s exam. Apart from Jack, everyone around me is scratching. Miss Norrish is up the front, marking papers. She’s usually calm and fun, but today she’s on edge. I think she’s as scared of Mr Skroop as we are.
‘Excuse me,’ Raph Atkins says.
‘Yes, Raph.’
‘I’m itchy.’
‘Just ignore it,’ Miss Norrish snaps.
‘But it feels like my head’s about to explode.’
‘I will make it explode if you don’t stop scratching.’
‘I think I have zombie nits,’ he says.
SLAM!
Miss Norrish throws a textbook down on her desk, stands and says, ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t know what’s got into you all this afternoon.’
‘I’m itchy,’ a small voice says at the back.
‘I know that! So am I!’ Miss Norrish shouts and then scratches her head like a wild woman, turning her usually dead-straight hair into a haystack. ‘Get out, all of you! Go outside and scratch yourselves silly. Go on, GO!’
At first we’re not sure if she’s serious, but eventually we head out into the playground.
‘This is awesome,’ Jack whispers.
• • •
The next two days whirl by in a storm of school-wide scratching and teacher meltdowns, but it’s Friday before the nits really hit the fan. Jack, Lewis and I skate to school together. As we roll through the top gates, we stop and stare.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘I dunno,’ Jack says.
‘My nits have a bad feeling about this,’ Lewis mutters.
There is a queue of about 40 parents on the stairs leading up to the front office. All the kids in the playground are being rounded up by teachers and marched towards the hall.
‘The bell hasn’t even gone,’ Jack says.
We pick up our skateboards and walk down the driveway. Pretty soon, we are swept up in the tidal wave of kids pouring into the hall.
Inside, everyone is lined around the walls in class groups, scratching. Kindergarten is up near the stage. Years One and Two are against the side wall and Year Three is at the back. The line-up of kids wraps right around to Year Six at the front of the hall again, under the basketball backboard. Lewis, Jack and I take our places.
Mr Skroop stands in the centre of the hall with a microphone. Even from this distance his brown, gappy teeth and fluorescent white skin make me shiver.
‘This,’ Mr Skroop begins as the last few kids straggle in, ‘is a great inconvenience.’
He turns slowly to look at each and every child, his eyes boring into us.
‘This,’ he goes on, ‘is a source of great antagonism and frustration for me. Someone in this room is responsible for the unprecedented outbreak of Pediculus humanus capitis, commonly known as head lice.’
How could he know? I wonder. How could he know the nits didn’t just naturally invade the school?
‘You,’ he says, ‘know who you are.’
Lewis’s leg is shaking. I can see it out of the corner of my eye. I don’t look at his face. Jack picks the scab on his nose. He does that when he’s nervous. I remember the time I was in hospital and Mr Skroop ate Jack’s knee-scab. I’m still annoyed with him about that. It was the biggest in my collection.
‘I have had some very unhappy parents in my office this morning,’ he says, ‘and when I have unhappy parents in my office, that makes me unhappy and when I am unhappy, that means you should be unhappy, too, because I am the captain of this ship.’
Lewis’s leg is really jittering now. And Jack’s nose is bleeding. Kids all around whisper nervously to one another.
‘SILENCE!’ Mr Skroop howls. Four hundred kids and 12 teachers snap to attention. He slithers towards the kindergarten kids, just to my left. He’s so close that I can smell the stink of his beastly cat, Mr Fatterkins, on his shredded maroon jumper.
The kindy kids cower before Dark Lord Skroop as he walks by. A blond boy wets himself. Mrs Rodgers lifts him out of the puddle and helps him over to the side doors.
Mr Skroop continues around the large rectangle of fear, past each and every child. He regards them with deep suspicion before moving on. The only sounds are the ominous clops of Skroop’s footsteps and the constant shooka-shooka-shooka of head scratching. Skroop examines first grade, second grade, third grade.
‘The nits think we should confess,’ Lewis says.
I shush him. ‘Just act normal.’ But it’s hard to act normal when you’re trying to act normal. You keep thinking, Just act normal, just act normal, until you don’t even know what the word ‘normal’ means any more.
Mr Skroop stops and stares at a fourth grader until the kid starts bawling. He passes the halfway line on the basketball court, moving towards us. My bladder is bulging at the seams. I hope I don’t end up in a puddle, too.
Just act normal, just act normal, just act normal.
Skroop is 10 metres away and he still hasn’t bagged the culprit. Why isn’t he stopping? Why doesn’t he suspect any of these kids? What about Jonah Flem? What about Brent Bunder? How suspicious do those guys look? They’re about the most suspicious-looking guys I’ve ever seen. They would steal an old lady’s porridge faster than they’d help her across the street. They rip the wings off flies for fun. They almost have moustaches. They should be in high school already. They—
He’s here. Skroop.
Walton Skroop.
He looks deeply into Lewis’s eyes and even more deeply into mine. I can’t look away. His stare is a straw, reaching in through my eyes to suck out my soul. Skroop sniffs. He can smell the lies seeping from my skin, I’m sure of it. I reek of fibs. I am a wanted criminal and this is the end of the line. I’ll be expelled and my mum will send me to Brat Camp, where we’ll be the stars of a reality TV series and people all over the world will know me as the Nit Bandit, the kid who used head lice as a biological weapon to shut down his school. Maybe Lewis’s nits are right—we need to fess up now. Criminals on TV always get off lighter when they admit they’re guilty. I open my mouth, ready to confess . . .
He moves on.
He takes a quick look at Jack and says, ‘Your scab is bleeding. Get yourself a bandaid.’ Then he walks past.
Gone.
It’s over.
We’re off the hook.
Free as birds.
Total school shutdown before Monday’s exams becomes a real possibility once more. I try not to smile. Lewis’s leg stops shaking so badly. Jack dabs at the blood on his nose with a tissue. I can breathe again. I feel good. Mum always tells me I’m a worrywart, and I guess I am. I really am. I had noth—
Mr Skroop stops and looks back over his shoulder at us. At me. But I’m not worried because I don’t feel so guilty any more. I feel relaxed. I give him a pursed-lip smile that tells him just how seriously I’m taking this and that I know how hard it must be for teachers to have scallywags like these nit bandits on the loose.
Skroop turns, tilts his head to the side slightly and sniffs the air again like a dog considering attack. His dead-black eyes are trained on us. I must admit, I do feel a little nervous again.
Jack whispers, ‘Oh no,’ in my ear and I whisper, ‘Shhh!’ without moving my lips. I do it pretty well. I decide that if I make it out of this alive I might become a ventriloquist.
Skroop slides back towards us. The entire school looks on. Fire burns behind his eyes. He stops in front of me. He is the Voldemort to my Harry. I’m pretty sure I can see a drop of unicorn blood at the corner of his mouth.
Lewis’s leg starts dancing again.
‘Look around the hall,’ Skroop says, keeping his eyes locked on me.
I look around.
‘What do you see?’ he asks.
‘K-kids,’ I say.
‘And what are they doing?’
This feels like a trick question. They just seem to be standing there but I don’t want to say, ‘Standing
there,’ because he’ll think that I’m trying to be smart. See, I know how teachers’ minds work. But the kids really do appear to just be standing there.
‘Um . . . Standing there?’ I offer.
‘What else?’ he says, stretching the ‘s’ on ‘else’ as though he might be part snake.
I look around. I feel like the exams have started early. I wish it were multiple choice. I have no idea what he wants to hear. After a long time he snaps, ‘They are scratching, you imbecile. Don’t you see?’
I look around. And I do see. They are scratching. All of them.
‘But you and your little friend here—’ he looks at Jack ‘—are not. Tell me why.’
‘Um.’ I can’t believe we forgot to scratch.
Just act normal, just act normal.
‘Is it because,’ Skroop asks, ‘for some reason, you were not infected with head lice while every other child and teacher in the school was?’ He scratches his head just behind the ear.
‘I saw the two of you—and the new boy here, with the ridiculous hair—slip into the back of this week’s school assembly late. Is that correct?’ Skroop asks, a hint of a smile crawling across his sickly lips. He looks like the cat that got the cream. And I am the cream.
‘Is it or is it not true,’ he snarls, ‘that the three of you infected the entire school with head lice in a feeble attempt to avoid the upcoming examinations?’
‘What does “feeble” mean?’ Jack asks.
‘ENOUGH! Not only will you be present for next week’s exams, but you will handwash every hat in the school. And—’ he raises his voice so that everybody can hear ‘—you will all spend Saturday at school in the hall at a boot camp in preparation for the national standardised tests, under my supervision, to make up for the disruption of the past few days.’
Kids gasp and call out ‘Nooooo!’, but Skroop doesn’t mind at all. He’s enjoying it. Jonah Flem says, ‘But I’ve got soccer!’ Miss Norrish shakes her head, disappointed. Jack and I have really done it this time.
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