by Tim Harris
The television flicks on.
A lady is reading the news. “To repeat this morning’s main story, the government has announced a drastic reduction of the legal age. The shock decision means the previous legal age of eighteen has been slashed to eight.”
The camera shows an enormous line of children lining up for car and motorcycle licenses.
The screen flashes back to the newscaster. “There have already been a number of accidents this morning, and we urge all drivers to take care. And now, to other news: shares in Canly Candy are skyrocketing—”
Mr. Bambuckle throws his orange bouncy ball at the television, and it turns off. The ball shoots back and zips into one of the inside pockets of his blue suit.
I look at Mr. Bambuckle and remember my dad’s words from the night before: I made a mistake today, Sammy. A big one.
“It was my dad, wasn’t it?” I say.
Mr. Bambuckle is honest. “Indeed, it appears he may have made a slight error on the computer system—a typo, if you will.”
“What did he do?”
“My guess, dear Sammy, is that he forgot to type a one in front of the eight. It seems eight-year-olds now have the same rights as eighteen-year-olds.”
“Will Dad get in trouble? I don’t want him to lose his job. He’s the only one who can look after me.”
Mr. Bambuckle offers me a piece of bacon. “It’s never too late to right a wrong, Sammy.”
I hear car horns blasting in the distance. I don’t want to imagine what’s happening. “It’s bananas out there,” I say.
“It most certainly is,” says Mr. Bambuckle with a reassuring smile. He is always so calm.
But I want answers. “How can I fix it? How can I help Dad keep his job?”
Mr. Bambuckle’s smile turns mischievous. He rubs his hands together and looks around the empty room. “Well, Sammy, the solution you’re looking for is not in here.”
“Where is it?”
He points to the window. “Out there, of course.”
• • •
I’m standing outside the entrance to Dad’s office building. There are a lot of people scurrying in and out the front doors. They are frowning and carrying fat folders overflowing with pieces of paper. I look for Dad, but I don’t see him. I hope he hasn’t been fired already.
I try calling Dad on my phone. He’s not answering. He’s probably inside being yelled at by hundreds of government officials for making such a catastrophic mistake.
I walk up to a guard at the main entrance of the building. He’s wearing a black suit and has very short hair.
“Can I come in, please?” I say.
“Nah, kid, government representatives only.”
“But my dad—”
“Government representatives only.”
I am not one for giving up easily. How else would I win all my running races? “Listen, I urgently need to see my dad because he—”
The guard holds his hand up to quiet me. “Look, kid, you’re not getting in.”
“I have to see my dad about fixing—”
“It’s not happening.”
I’m a fast runner, so I try to run past the guard.
He casually sticks out his arm and grabs the back of my shirt.
“I have to get in!” I protest.
The guard spins me around so I am facing him. “There are only two ways into this building, and you’re not getting in either of them.”
I glance at the busy doorway. There are three more guards checking the ID cards of everyone who goes in and out. “What’s the other way in?” I ask.
The guard laughs. “Forget it, kid. It’s a rooftop entrance. No chance.” He lets go of my shirt and nudges me toward the sidewalk.
I look up and see a plane flying overhead. It’s swaying from side to side like a kite in a windstorm.
A lady holding a pair of binoculars dashes past me, yelling up at the plane. “Be careful, my little dewdrop. Fly straight, fly straight!” She stops running to peer through the binoculars, then holds her hand over her heart.
The plane disappears behind some clouds, and the lady runs after it.
Looking up into the sky has given me an idea. Perhaps the rooftop entrance is my best bet after all.
• • •
I walk down the main street of Blue Valley, keeping my eyes peeled. I’m probably the only child not driving a vehicle of some kind. A little girl whooshes past me on a motorcycle. She’s singing about new rules and no school.
I spot what I’ve been searching for—a sign in a restaurant window. It says WORKERS WANTED.
I knock on the door, and a kind-faced man wearing a white apron lets me in. He is holding a bowl filled with chopped carrots.
“I’d like to work for you,” I say. “I need a job to help my dad save his.”
The man looks me up and down. “I’m after a new kitchen hand,” he says. “Are you old enough?”
“I’m nearly ten.”
The man shrugs his shoulders. “Apparently, that’s plenty old enough, nowadays. The job’s yours.”
“There’s just one thing,” I say. “I need a cash advance.”
The man scratches his head and stares at me for a while before handing over some paperwork. “Sign these, and I’ll see what I can do.”
I fill out the forms and give them back.
The man takes the paperwork into another room and returns with an envelope full of cash. “I don’t usually do this,” he says, “but you remind me of me when I was a boy. I like your spirit. That’s your first month’s pay. You start tonight at six. Don’t be late.”
I head back out to the main street of Blue Valley. A dairy truck has lost its load, and there is milk all over the road. The driver of the truck—a little boy—is yelling at a man who is standing next to a red car. “It’s called a stop sign for a reason, you nincompoop!”
The argument fades behind me as I head to my next stop—a place I have only ever dreamed of entering. Dad used to warn me about going inside. “You have to be eighteen to buy what they sell,” he would say.
I push the door open and walk in.
• • •
Before I leave the shop, I place my supplies into a backpack and very, very, very gently put it on. I keep walking down the main street of Blue Valley to my next stop: rental cars.
There is one car left in the car lot. It’s old and covered in dents and scratches.
A lady hands me the keys. “Sorry, it’s the only vehicle we have left,” she says. “The new laws have been great for our business. You’re about the hundredth kid we’ve dealt with today.”
I very, very, very gently take off the backpack and put it on the passenger seat. I clip the seatbelt over it for good measure. You can’t be too careful with these things.
The lady walks back through the empty car lot to her air-conditioned office.
I start the engine and press my foot down on the accelerator. The engine roars, but the car doesn’t move. I try to remember what I’ve seen in movies—something about an emergency brake?
I release what must be the emergency brake and press the accelerator again. The engine screams, and the tires skid across the gravel car lot. I screech out onto the main road and turn left, following the signs to the airport.
• • •
Sometimes I get scared before a big game. My stomach feels as though it’s been turned inside out. Miss Frost made me feel like that too.
Right now, my gut is practically doing somersaults, because I’m scared of more than just a game. The first thing that terrifies me is Dad losing his job. The second thing is the fact that I am twelve thousand feet in the air. I suppose you could throw a third in—I’m about to jump out of an airplane!
The pilot—a teenager with pimples—gives me a thumbs-up. I make sure th
e parachute is strapped securely to my back before I edge closer to the open door. It’s so windy, it feels like a thousand invisible hands are slapping me. The previous age restrictions made more sense. Nobody under eighteen should be doing this on their own.
I clutch the backpack very, very, very carefully to my chest. I close my eyes and jump.
My stomach lurches with the sudden drop. All I can hear is wind pounding in my ears.
I hope the backpack is okay. I hold it tightly.
My face feels like it’s about to be ripped off.
I can’t see, because my eyes are closed.
I open them.
Blue Valley is far, far below. The sports field where I train every second afternoon looks like a little green matchbox. The buildings that line the main street are tiny stamps.
I can just make out the government building where Dad works. That’s my target. Somewhere on the roof is a way into his office. It’s a doorway to helping him not get fired. If he hasn’t been fired already, that is.
I feel like I’ve been fired out of a cannon.
One that’s pointing at the ground.
I hold the backpack with one hand and yank the ripcord with the other. The parachute opens and slows my fall. The wind stops slapping at my face.
The backpack is getting heavy, but I can’t let go of it. I hold it tight against my chest with my elbows and use my hands to steer the parachute. I’m heading straight for Dad’s building.
The building is getting bigger. It doesn’t look like a stamp anymore. It looks like a building. A hard, concrete-roofed building.
Suddenly, the roof of the building is charging up at me. I bend my knees, ready for impact. I land on the roof, half running, half falling, half celebrating. That’s three halves, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to be alive.
I unclip the parachute and run to the safety of a large air-conditioning duct. I don’t want to be seen. Not yet. Not until I’ve opened my backpack.
I unzip my pack and start unloading the precious cargo.
Firecrackers.
Dad’s typo meant I could buy them. Hundreds of them. Small ones, big ones, blinkers, flares, crossettes, sparklers, rockets, and palms.
All unpacked.
All ready to be lit.
• • •
I crawl through the air-conditioning duct on my hands and knees, placing firecrackers every few feet before wriggling farther along. The firecrackers are connected by a thin metal wire that I unravel as I go.
I occasionally hear snippets of conversations from the offices as I pass over them.
“The children are overrunning us.”
“The country’s in a mess.”
“That Bamford should be fired immediately if he doesn’t fix it.”
“Other countries are following the trend.”
“How could one typo cause so much chaos?”
I place my last firecrackers inside the air duct on the lowest floor, then quietly crawl back to the fourth floor—Dad’s level.
I open a hatch and poke my head through. I can see Dad at his desk, frantically typing away. He is also on the phone, and I can hear the voice at the other end of the line yelling, “You caused this problem, Bamford! You fix it!”
I slide through the hatch and land silently on the carpeted floor. Soccer has taught me to be light-footed.
“Dad?”
He spins around. “Sammy... What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to help you. I don’t want you to lose your job. You need the money to look after me. To look after us.”
Dad’s face drops. “You know about my mistake?”
I want to laugh. “Everybody knows. It’s wild out there.”
Car tires squeal down on the street below. A siren fills the air.
“I don’t know what to do, Sammy.” Dad’s eyes are tired. “I’ve tried everything, but the computer system needs a total override. All I did was leave out a one in front of an eight…”
My moment has come. My life has been building up to this point in time. “I know what to do,” I say. “I know how to override it.”
“But how—”
“Just trust me, Dad.” I sit down at the computer and start typing away.
Those countless lessons in the computer lab. The email links from Mr. Bambuckle. He knew. Somehow, he knew it would help me now. My fingers work hard as I type code even Albert would be proud of.
“Well, paint me red and call me a firecracker,” says Dad.
• • •
Dad passes me a napkin. “Thanks for what you did today, Sammy. I’m glad I still have my job and that things can go back to normal now.”
“I’m glad too,” I say.
“Tell me again, where did you learn to code like that?”
I wipe my face with the napkin. “Let’s just say that Mr. Bambuckle sent me a few pointers.”
“He’s a clever man, that teacher of yours,” says Dad.
We put our dishes in the sink, then plop down on the couch. Dad flicks on the television to catch the end of the news.
“In finance, shares in Canly Candy have crashed after reaching an all-time high earlier this morning…”
Dad laughs. “Don’t tell me you invested in that garbage?”
“No. I spent my money on saving your skin, remember?”
“Recapping our main stories,” says the newsreader, “the government has dramatically reversed itself on new laws allowing eight-year-olds to have the same rights as eighteen-year-olds. The move comes just twenty-four hours after the controversial change to legislation.”
The television shows hundreds of adults dancing in the streets. Fireworks explode out of the government building’s air vents, painting the sky in dozens of bright colors.
“Couldn’t help myself,” I said, looking at Dad sheepishly. “I knew I’d only have one chance to legally buy fireworks before I turn eighteen. Besides, a celebration was in order.”
My phone rings.
“Who is it?” says Dad.
“I’m not sure,” I say, picking up the phone. “Hello?”
Dad sees my face drop. “What’s wrong, Sammy?”
“I’m late for work!” I grab a clean shirt and run for the door.
“Where are you going?” Dad calls after me.
“Like I said—work!”
I slam the door and run outside, jumping onto my bike. I start pedaling for the main street in town.
I’ll tell Dad the whole story tomorrow. I’ll tell him how I signed papers that mean I have to work to pay off my advance no matter how the laws change.
I’ll tell him how I had just enough time to get a tattoo of a soccer ball on my ankle after I bought the firecrackers.
And I’ll tell him the worst part.
I’ll tell him how I accidentally got the one and the eight mixed up. I’ll tell him before he finds out that eighty-one is the new legal age instead of eighteen.
It’ll be easy to tell Dad the truth. Because technically, he’ll still be a kid.
8
Mr. Sternblast’s Announcement
The students in room 12B were the only kids in Blue Valley to walk into school with a spring in their step the next morning. Despite the outrageously exciting adventures of the day before, the students knew that their classroom was the real starting point for all things remarkable.
Mr. Bambuckle greeted them on his unicycle, though to their surprise, he wasn’t holding his familiar frying pan. Instead, he held out a tray full of mini pizzas. “My dear students, please try one of these rather delicious breakfast pizzas.”
“Yum!” said Vinnie.
“Double yum!” said Ren.
“I detect a slight hint of rosemary…and saffron,” said Slugger.
“I had a really old bus
driver this morning,” said Carrot, changing the subject. “He must have been almost a hundred.”
“Yeah,” said Myra. “The line at the supermarket this morning was unbelievable. The checkout lady had to be at least eighty. She kept asking me if I had exact change—whatever that means!”
Victoria laughed.
“That reminds me,” said Damon. “I bought you these.” He handed Victoria a bunch of neatly arranged flowers. “They only cost me five dollars.”
“I saw an old lady getting a tattoo,” said Scarlett. “She was a total punk gran!”
Sammy exchanged glances with Mr. Bambuckle and grinned. “I’ll fix it at lunch,” he mouthed to the teacher.
Mr. Bambuckle winked and took the last bite of his pizza.
Just when the children finished licking their fingers, an announcement blasted over the school loudspeakers. “Attention, all students, please report to the gymnasium immediately for an urgent assembly.” Mr. Sternblast’s voice carried a triumphant tone. The students knew this meant trouble.
“Let us not be late,” said Mr. Bambuckle, gesturing toward the door.
While the teacher’s face showed no sign of fear, he recognized the tone in the principal’s voice too. It was enough to stop him sending out Dodger for one final mission. He would simply have to wait before he shared the exciting news with the students.
The students filed through the door and made their way to the gymnasium, followed by their cherished teacher.
Mr. Sternblast was waiting on a podium, tapping his foot impatiently. His moustache was freshly trimmed, and there was a look of victory in his eyes.
The students took their seats and waited.
Mr. Sternblast tapped the microphone. “I have called this assembly to share some important news with you.”
Evie fidgeted nervously with her dress.
“The school board has made a decision to help boost the grades here at Blue Valley School. They have elected to permanently appoint an extra member to our staff—one who will be in charge of…discipline. With better behavior, we can expect better grades. Discipline is the new order.”