Worst Ever School Trip

by Hutchinson Barry

  He’d read the whole thing aloud to the family when Aunt Jas had come to visit and by the end of it I’d wanted to cut my ears off. He’d insisted I give him my thoughts on it and I’d spent the next few minutes explaining just how utterly terrible it was in every way.

  Since then Dad had been furiously rewriting it on the computer. Considering it was only two days since he’d started, though, I had serious doubts it was going to be much better. Even Mrs Dodds didn’t deserve being subjected to it.

  “Run, Mrs Dodds! Run while you still can,” I cried.

  Once again, all eyes turned to look at me.

  “I think,” began Dad, “that perhaps Dylan should wait outside.”

  Ten seconds later, the classroom door closed behind me with a bang. I strolled along the corridor, whistling quietly and spinning the car keys round on my finger. Sitting in the car by myself wouldn’t exactly be a barrel of laughs, but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to them all talking about me. Or about Dad’s book.

  I strolled towards the exit, marvelling at how tidy everything looked. They’d really pulled out all the stops to make the place look respectable for the parents. There was no litter or worrying blood stains to be seen, and even the random jackets which had been hanging in the cloakrooms for months had been taken away.

  Rounding a corner, I saw a couple of proud-looking parents making their way outside. Wayne held the door open for them.

  “Well, thank you,” said the dad.

  “My pleasure, sir,” said Wayne. “Always happy to help.”

  “Such a lovely young man,” the mum said, as she and her husband headed down the steps.

  I slowed as I approached the door. Wayne still held it open, but the simpering smile had gone from his face, replaced by the sneer he wore whenever there were no grown-ups around to see.

  “Well, hurry up then,” he barked. “Are you leaving or what?”

  Nodding, I picked up my pace and hurried for the exit. Just as I got there, Wayne let go of the door and it slammed into me. I stumbled backwards, clutching my nose.

  “Ow! Dat hurt! I think you broke it!” I protested.

  Wayne cracked up laughing.

  “Bullseye!” he said, then he put on a show of looking concerned when another parent passed us on the way to the exit.

  “Are you OK, Dylan?” Wayne asked, as the woman walked by. “That was quite a knock you took. On your massive nose,” he added, when the parent had left. “You’re lucky you didn’t break the door.”

  “My nose is bigger than average,” I admitted, rubbing it tenderly. “But at least it’s honest.”

  Wayne snorted. “You have an honest nose?”

  “I’ve got an honest everything,” I said. “Unlike you.”

  Wayne stepped closer and eyeballed me. He’s only a little taller than me, but he still manages to give the impression he could snap you in half any time he wanted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled.

  There was a very good chance that the next words out of my mouth would be my last, so I tried my best to keep them from escaping. Unfortunately my best wasn’t good enough. Try as I might to stop them, the words tumbled out all on their own.

  “You’re a bully when there are no adults around but too much of a coward to show the real you when there are,” I announced.

  “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say you resent all the other kids for taking away your dad’s attention, so that’s why you’re always trying to punish them,” I continued, despite the voice at the back of my head shouting, Shut up, shut up, shut up! over and over again. I smiled weakly. “But, you know, I’m no expert. And even if that is true, it’s completely understandable…”

  WHAM! Wayne drove a punch into my stomach, doubling me over. I steadied myself on the wall, half expecting my lasagna to come back up and splatter all over Wayne’s shoes. Part of me would have quite liked that, actually.

  “You’d better stay out of my way, Malone,” Wayne warned. “And if I hear you’ve been lying to people and telling them I’ve got –” he scowled – “daddy issues, then I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Understand?”

  I nodded. “Understood,” I wheezed. “Yep, definitely understood.”

  “Say it,” Wayne snarled. “Promise me you’re not going to say anything.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “But I can’t.”

  Wayne frowned. “You what?”

  “I can’t promise I won’t say anything,” I said truthfully. “Because I probably will.”

  Wayne stepped in closer, drawing back his fist. I braced myself for another bash on the nose, but then Mum and Dad appeared round the corner and Wayne stepped back.

  “I’ll get you later, Malone,” Wayne said, then he changed his expression into one of complete innocence and practically skipped past Mum and Dad.

  I let out a sigh of relief. I was saved!

  “Get to the car, Dylan,” Mum snapped. “You’re in big trouble.”

  Or maybe not.

  I spent the whole car ride home getting an earbashing from Mum and Dad about how I had to apply myself more, how I had so much potential that was going to waste and how – above all – I needed to stop making up stories all the time.

  Except in English, where I needed to make up stories more. Then write them down.

  By the time we were home, I was beginning to feel like a parrot repeating the same few words over and over. “But it’s not fair. I can’t lie. I haven’t lied since Saturday!”

  “Saturday,” said Mum. “Remind me, was that the day you told us that castle was haunted?”

  “And used to be owned by pigs,” added Dad, closing the front door behind us.

  “That was in the morning,” I protested. “I meant Saturday afternoon!”

  Jodie looked up from the dining table at the far end of the front room, where she was writing her George Washington report. “You lied every day for years before that,” she said. From her tone I could tell she was still angry with me. “Are you really surprised people don’t believe you now?”

  I slumped on to the sofa and sighed. “But it’s not fair,” I groaned again.

  It was ironic, really. I had been an excellent liar just a few days ago. Truly magnificent. Yes, I’d made up some absolute whoppers over the years – how I’d been sent to Earth from a dying alien world; that there was a giant butterfly called Harold living in my shed. But those were just a smokescreen for all the little, convincing lies that had got me days off school, extra helpings at dinner and – after excelling myself one day – a new bike.

  I could lie all day long and everyone believed I was telling the truth. Now, when I could only tell the truth, everyone thought I was lying.

  “They didn’t even believe me when I told them Wayne sucker-punched me in the guts,” I said.

  “Well, he didn’t,” Mum said. “Wayne Lawson wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “See!” I yelped.

  I almost had to admire Wayne. In his own way, he was as good a liar as I ever was. He had all the teachers and parents convinced he was the nicest kid in school, when really he was like one of those Bond villains who pretends to be a friendly businessman, while secretly building a death ray out of a volcano.

  I sat bolt upright on the sofa. “Bond villain!” I cried.

  Mum, Dad and Jodie all looked at me. Even Destructo looked up from the table leg he was chewing on and tilted his head to the side.

  “Goldfinger!” said Dad, in a terrible Sean Connery accent. “Ding! Point to me. Next question.”

  “What? No, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Back in a bit,” I announced, then I ran upstairs to my room, dragged a cardboard box out from under my bed and tipped its contents on to the floor.

  An avalanche of LEGO, broken action figures, coloured pencils, trading cards, bouncy balls and other random rubbish spilled out. I dug through it, raking at the pil
e with my fingers, searching for the one tiny chance I had of proving I wasn’t a liar.

  “Where is it? Where is it?” I muttered, foraging through the old toys.

  I pushed aside a Matchbox Batmobile with one of the wheels missing and let out a cry of triumph. There, half covered by a pack of Top Trumps, was a button-sized piece of black plastic and glass.

  Carefully I picked it up. It didn’t look like much but that little gadget was exactly what I needed. I’d begged for a spy camera for months in the run-up to Christmas a couple of years back, only to get bored of it about forty minutes into Boxing Day. Now, though, it was my favourite thing of everything I owned. That little camera was going to change my life.

  Before I had a chance to try it out, my bedroom door flew open and Jodie charged in. “You spoke to Michael?” she said, her face stuck midway between anxious and furious. “Mum said she saw you speaking to Michael from my year.”

  My heart sank. I’d hoped Jodie wouldn’t find out about that.

  “I did, yeah,” I said. “I bumped into him when Mum and Dad were seeing my music teacher. He’d been at woodwind practice or—”

  “What did you say to him?” Jodie demanded.

  I swallowed. “Things,” I said.

  “What kind of things?”

  “Just things,” I said, trying to sound casual. Maybe I could get away with this. “Things you’d written in your diary,” I added, blowing my chances of getting away with anything.

  Jodie’s fists clenched. “Which specific bits?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Just about him being in your list of Top Five Boys you fancy, and how you used his cheeks and elbows in a weird Frankenstein’s monster-like mash-up drawing that still haunts my nightmares,” I blurted out, all in one breath. I smiled weakly. “That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Jodie growled. “That’s everything! Now he knows I like him!”

  “It’s OK, I told him he only scraped on to the list in fifth place,” I said. “He looked a bit disappointed actually.”

  Jodie hesitated. “Did he?”

  “Yes,” I replied, nodding. “Well, maybe not disappointed,” I said truthfully. “What’s the word for when you’re disappointed, but relieved at the same time?”

  Jodie’s fingers balled into fists again. “There is no word for that,” she said.

  “Well, we should make one up!” I suggested, desperately trying to change the subject. “Disalieved. Reappointed. Or is that already a word?”

  Jodie lunged for me, then let out a sharp yelp of pain as she trod on a piece of LEGO with her bare foot. I scrambled up on to my bed, kicking more of the bricks out between us, forcing her to keep her distance.

  “Just wait until I get my hands on you, Beaky!” Jodie snarled.

  “I didn’t mean to tell him!” I said. “I just couldn’t keep it in.”

  Jodie bent down and started to shove the LEGO pieces aside, clearing a path to me. “I don’t want to hear it!” she said.

  “You think I do?” I yelped. “You think I want to hear the words coming out of my mouth? You think I want to say these things?”

  Jodie hesitated, mid-sweep. “Probably,” she said.

  “I don’t! It’s torture,” I told her. “I humiliate myself a hundred times a day. I’m amazed Theo’s still speaking to me, since I’ve told the world just about every secret he ever shared with me. I can’t open my mouth without getting myself into trouble but that’s OK because pretty soon no one is going to want to talk to me anyway.”

  I sighed and slumped back against the wall. “They say honesty is the best policy. Not from where I’m sitting, is isn’t.” I looked at her and shrugged. “If you want to beat me up, go ahead. It can’t make me feel any worse.”

  Jodie straightened up and folded her arms. “Nice speech,” she said begrudgingly.

  “Thanks. I’ve been rehearsing it for just this sort of situation,” I admitted, and to my surprise Jodie almost smiled at that.

  “I still can’t believe you told Michael,” she sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “A bit.”

  For a fleeting second, I thought she was going to try to grab me again but instead she just nodded at the button in my hand.

  “What’s that?”

  I held up the device. “It’s a spy camera. I was thinking about James Bond earlier when I remembered I had it. You clip it on to your clothes,” I explained, attaching it to my school jumper to demonstrate. “Then it sends video to your phone by Bluetooth.”

  I opened the app on my phone and held it up. A pixelated version of Jodie looked back at herself from the screen.

  “Oh yeah. I remember that. What did you want it for?” Jodie asked.

  “I’m fed up with people not believing me,” I told her, sticking the phone back in my pocket. “With this I can record everything. Everything. Then, when someone thinks I’m lying, I can play back the footage and prove I’m not.”

  “Great plan,” Jodie said. “Except you can’t use it in school. You’re not allowed to record anyone or take photos of them without their permission.”

  I winced. That rang a bell. I vaguely remembered a kid in Year 9 being suspended for taking a photo of one of the teachers smoking in the car park.

  “Great,” I muttered. I pulled my jumper over my head and dropped it on to my bed. “Well, so much for that plan.”

  Jodie closed the bedroom door. Against her better judgement, she was clearly feeling sorry for me. “Want to do some lying practice?” she asked.

  I nodded glumly. “Yeah. Might as well.”

  Jodie bent down and picked up a bouncy rubber ball from the mound of toys. “What shape is this?” she asked.

  “A sphere,” I replied.

  “Try again.”

  “A sphere,” I said, then I shook my head. “No, what I’m trying to say is, it’s a … a…” I tried to wrestle the word into submission but it was too slippery. “Sphere.”

  “Square,” Jodie urged. “It’s a square. Go on. You can do it.”

  “Sssss. Sssss,” I hissed. I could feel the word “square” inside me somewhere, trapped like a sneeze that refused to come out. I filled my brain with it, reciting it over and over like a chant. Square, square, square, square.

  “It’s a sphere!” I yelped. “A three-dimensional geometrical shape with every point on its surface equidistant from its centre!” I drew in a deep breath. “It’s no use. I can’t do it.”

  Jodie let the ball drop back on to the floor.

  I forced a smile. “Worth a try, though,” I said. “Thanks. But it looks like I’m stuck like this, unless we can find Madame Shirley and her shop.”

  “We’ll find it,” Jodie said, doing her best to sound convincing. Madame Shirley’s shop had vanished shortly after I’d been put through the truth-telling machine, leaving behind only a To Let sign and a packet of pickled onion crisps.

  We’d gone back a few times since Saturday, trying to find any trace of where Madame Shirley might have gone, but from what we could tell she’d just vanished into thin air, along with her shop, her truth-telling machine and her extensive collection of pickled-onion-flavour potato-based snacks.

  “Madame Shirley is definitely the key to turning me back to normal,” I said. “We’ve got to find her, or no matter how much practice I do, I’ll be stuck telling the truth forever!”

  Next morning, I was back to being my positive old self. Mum and Dad had sorted out the permission slip at parents’ evening, so I was allowed to go on the school trip after all. A day of zooming around on roller coasters was just what I needed. It was hard to be worried about much else when you were hurtling towards the ground at a hundred miles an hour in a little car.

  First, though, there was something else to take care of.

  “Whoa, Destructo!” I yelped, half stumbling, half flying along behind the dog. It was my turn to take him for his morning walk but he’d never really grasped the idea that I was supposed to be the one lea
ding the way.

  He powered ahead, zigzagging across the pavement, while I had his lead wrapped round my wrist and was frantically trying to keep up.

  “Wait! Stop! Slow down!” I yelped as he dragged me across the road. Behind us, there was a screeching of tyres and some angry shouts. “Sorry!” I called over my shoulder.

  Destructo panted excitedly as he took a sharp right, dragged me through a hedge and stopped on the pavement on the other side. An old man with a face like over-cooked pastry scowled at us over his fence.

  “Oi!” he said. “Are you the one whose dog keeps leaving deposits on the pavement?”

  Destructo ran in a circle, sniffing the ground.

  “Deposits?” I said. “Like … money?”

  “Not that kind of deposit. Dirty leavings,” the old man said, screwing his face up in distaste. “Soilings. Excrement.”

  “Oh, you mean does Destructo poo on the pavement?” I asked. “Yes. Definitely. Loads.”

  “I knew it!” yelped the man. “Why don’t you pick it up?”

  “Because it’s disgusting,” I admitted. “Though sometimes I nudge it into the drain with my shoe. Next time he does it, though, I’ll pick it up. I swear.”

  The old man nodded past me. I turned to see Destructo adopting a squatting position. “Now’s your chance,” the man said.

  “Right. Yeah,” I groaned, trying to shut my nose against the smell. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a carrier bag, have you?”

  The old man smirked and slowly shook his head.

  I sighed. I looked down at the rapidly growing mountain of poo.