Just Stupid!

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Hello, Andy,’ she says. ‘My name is Mrs Baxter. Welcome to Preps. You’re just in time for show and tell.’

  I catch a glimpse over her shoulder of all the kids sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘Cool,’ I say.

  Mrs Baxter nods at Mr Dobson.

  He nods back.

  ‘Behave yourself, Andy,’ he says, and walks off up the corridor.

  I walk into the room.

  All the Preps stare.

  Mrs Baxter closes the door behind me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘This is Andy, everybody,’ she says. ‘I’d like you all to make him feel welcome.’

  ‘But he’s a big kid,’ says one boy. ‘He’s not a Prep.’

  ‘But he’s welcome all the same,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Sit down, Andy.’

  I poke my tongue out at the kid while Mrs Baxter’s not looking.

  ‘He poked his tongue out at me,’ says the kid.

  ‘I did not,’ I say. ‘I was licking my lips.’

  Mrs Baxter holds up her hands.

  ‘I’m not interested in your stories, Bradley,’ she says.

  ‘But he did,’ says Bradley.

  ‘Did not,’ I say.

  ‘Andy! Please!’ says Mrs Baxter.

  I sit down on one of the tiny tables.

  Mrs Baxter shakes her head.

  ‘No, Andy,’ she says, pointing to the floor.

  She wants me to sit cross-legged? On the floor?

  ‘But . . .’ I say. ‘I’m too big to . . .’

  ‘You’re part of the group,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Just like everybody else.’

  I don’t mind spending a day with the Preps, but being made to sit on the floor is going a bit far.

  I look for a spot with the boys but there are no free spaces. I have to sit between two girls.

  ‘All right,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Now where were we?’

  ‘It was my turn,’ says Bradley.

  ‘Oh that’s right,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘What would you like to tell us about, Bradley?’

  Bradley stands up.

  ‘My grandma,’ he says.

  ‘And what would you like to tell us about your grandma, Bradley?’

  ‘I don’t like her,’ he says. ‘She smells funny.’

  All the kids laugh.

  ‘You smell funny,’ whispers the girl on my right. She pinches her nose.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I say. ‘Well you smell funny too.’

  The girl starts crying.

  ‘Mrs Baxter,’ says the girl next to her. ‘Wendy’s crying.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Wendy?’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘He said I stink,’ she blubbers, pointing at me.

  ‘Is that true, Andy?’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘What did you say?’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘I said she smelled funny,’ I say. ‘But she said it to me first.’

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘You should know that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, ‘but . . .’

  ‘I think you owe Wendy an apology,’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Apologise!’ says Mrs Baxter, flashing me an ice-cold stare.

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Wendy,’ I say.

  She sniffles.

  ‘Good boy, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter, all sweetness and light again. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now perhaps you’ve got something you’d like to share with us for show and tell?’

  Talk about being put on the spot. I put my hand into my pocket. All I have is my handkerchief, and judging by its hardness it hasn’t been washed in a while. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I pull my hand out.

  ‘No, Mrs Baxter,’ I say. ‘I don’t have anything. Well, nothing you’d want to see, anyway.’

  ‘Of course we would, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  ‘I’m not being shy,’ I say. ‘I just don’t have anything to show.’

  Mrs Baxter flashes me the icy stare again.

  ‘I think you do,’ she says.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  I stand up and pull out my handkerchief. It’s moulded into a hard crusty ball. It makes a cracking sound as I unfold it. I hold it up in front of my chest.

  The kids screw up their faces and groan. Wendy looks like she is going to cry again.

  ‘Ooooh—yuck,’ says Bradley. ‘Yuck! Yuck!

  ‘Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!’ the Preps chant. ‘Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!’

  ‘Quiet please, everyone,’ commands Mrs Baxter. They stop chanting.

  She turns to me.

  ‘Put it away now, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘It’s not funny. Nobody wants to see that.’

  Well, I did try to warn her. I crush it back up into a ball and sit down.

  ‘All right, show and tell is over,’ says Mrs Baxter, obviously keen to move on. ‘Everybody please go to their tables.’ She looks at me. ‘You can sit here today, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter, pointing to a seat next to Bradley.

  ‘Why does he have to sit next to me?’ says Bradley.

  ‘Because I know you’ll look after him,’ she says.

  I sit down. I feel ridiculous in this tiny chair at this tiny table. My knees don’t even fit underneath it. Bradley runs his finger down the centre.

  ‘Cross this line and you’re dead meat,’ he whispers.

  ‘Grow up,’ I whisper back.

  ‘All right class,’ says Mrs Baxter, ‘we’re going to sing the alphabet. One, two, three.’

  The class starts up a monotonous chant.

  ‘A . . . B . . . C . . . D . . . E . . . F . . . G . . .’

  I chant along with the rest of the kids. This is more like it. This is the sort of easy work I came for. Bradley’s chanting is the loudest.

  ‘H . . . I . . . J . . . K . . . ENNEL-MENNEL-BEE . . .’ he sings.

  ‘What did you say?’ I ask him.

  ‘Ennel-mennel-bee,’ he says.

  ‘It’s not ennel-mennel-bee,’ I say.

  ‘Yes it is,’ he says. ‘That’s the words.’

  ‘It’s LMNOP,’ I say. ‘It just sounds like ennel-mennel-bee when you say it fast.’

  ‘No it’s not, you dum-dum,’ says Bradley.

  ‘Don’t call me a dum-dum, you little shrimp!’ I hiss back.

  All of a sudden he comes at me. He knocks me out of my seat. I can’t believe it. I’m fighting with a Prep. And even worse, he seems to be winning. Somehow he manages to get to a sitting position on top of my chest. He’s about to punch me in the nose when Mrs Baxter grabs his hand.

  ‘Stop it, you two!’ she says. ‘Andy! You should be ashamed of yourself!’

  ‘Me? What about him?’ I say. ‘He started it.’

  Mrs Baxter is restraining Bradley. He is like a little wild animal. Snorting and hissing and kicking.

  ‘Bradley is only young,’ she says. ‘You’re old enough to know better. Get back in your seat.’

  The rest of the class is whispering and pointing.

  This is so unfair. I feel like crying.

  ‘Maybe you’re not ready for whole group work yet,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Why don’t you try doing these by yourself?’

  She puts a pile of Spot The Difference cards in front of me.

  ‘There are four pictures on each card,’ she says. ‘Three are the same. One is different. See if you can tell which is the odd one out.’

  I look at the cards. The top one has four aeroplanes on it. I know one is supposed to be different, but as far as I can see they are all the same.

  The rest of the class goes on chanting the alphabet. Every time they come to ‘LMNOP’ Bradley leans towards me and whispers ‘ennel-mennel-bee’ really loudly in my ear. He’s making it very hard for me to concentrate on my cards.

  I’m still trying to figure out which plane is the odd one out when the bell rings for recess. I get up to
go.

  ‘Hang on, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Not so fast. Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They’re all the same.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ she says.

  I look again. The same four planes. All red. All with a little blue circle on the wings.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The same.’

  ‘What about that one?’ she says, pointing to the plane in the bottom right-hand corner. ‘Is it going the same way as the others?’

  I can’t believe it. It’s going a different way!

  ‘But how . . . when . . . why . . . ?’ I stammer. ‘It wasn’t like that before . . .’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Mrs Baxter, making a mark in her notebook. ‘Looks like another area to work on. Run along now and get some fresh air.’

  I go out of the building and am about to cross the yard back to the senior school when Mrs Baxter calls after me.

  ‘Andy! Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Back to the senior school, Mrs Baxter,’ I say.

  ‘No, Andy, that’s not allowed,’ she says.

  ‘Preps have to stay in the area bound by the building and the big tree.’

  ‘But I’m hungry,’ I say. ‘I have to get something to eat.’

  ‘Sorry, Andy,’ she says. ‘But you should have thought about that before you came here.’

  I look over at the senior school. All my friends are there. Danny and Lisa are sitting next to each other. Lisa has a bag of chips and Danny is shoving a pie into his mouth.

  I can’t stand it.

  I turn around and go and sit under the big tree with the Preps. They are all eating as well. Biscuits, cheese sticks, muesli bars, donuts—you name it, they’ve got it. Bradley is eating an enormous piece of chocolate cake. It’s almost bigger than his head. And he’s got a pretty big head.

  ‘You’re not going to eat all of that, are you?’ I say.

  ‘Probably not,’ he says.

  ‘Can I have some?’ I say.

  ‘If you can run fast enough,’ he says. He throws it into the middle of the yard.

  I run to pick it up. I’m just about to grab what’s left of the cake when the dog that hangs around the schoolyard comes out of nowhere and wolfs it down. I feel like I’m going to cry again.

  The bell rings and we all go back inside.

  In the classroom there are counting blocks laid out on a table. There are two different types of blocks—elephant blocks and chicken blocks.

  ‘Now it’s time for maths,’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘I have two elephant blocks and three chicken blocks. If I take one elephant away what do I have left?’

  Oh that’s so easy! I put up my hand but Bradley beats me to it.

  ‘One elephant and three chickens,’ he says.

  ‘Very good,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘And if I take one chicken away, how many do I have left?’

  Easy again! I shoot my hand up.

  ‘Andy?’ says Mrs Baxter.

  ‘One elephant and no chickens,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t you mean one elephant and two chickens?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You might think you would have two chickens left, but it’s a bit trickier than that. See, even if you took only one chicken away you’d still end up with no chickens because the elephants would stomp on them.’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Andy,’ says Mrs Baxter, making another note in her book. ‘We’re not talking about real elephants and real chickens. These are just counting blocks.’

  Everybody laughs. I hate Preps.

  After a bit more counting it’s time for art.

  We have to draw a picture of our house and family. Now this is something I can do.

  I look across at Bradley’s picture. It’s really bad. Wonky walls. Stupid colours. The sky is green, the people are all the wrong size and shape, and he’s even got a purple dog flying around in the sky. I could do a better drawing than that with my eyes shut, but I’m not going to take any chances. I’m going to do something really impressive.

  I use my ruler to draw the sides of my house so that they are dead straight. I rule a perfectly pointed roof with a chimney sticking out the side. I draw a little curly wisp of grey smoke coming out of the chimney and colour the sky blue, the grass green and the sun yellow. It’s the best drawing I’ve ever done. Good enough to hang in an art gallery, I reckon.

  ‘Mrs Baxter,’ calls Bradley. ‘Andy’s copying me.’

  ‘I am not,’ I say.

  ‘Are too,’ he says.

  ‘That will do,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Copying somebody else’s work is very naughty, Andy.’

  ‘I wasn’t copying,’ I say.

  ‘He was,’ says Bradley.

  Mrs Baxter picks up the two drawings and studies them. They look nothing like each other. Anyone can see that.

  ‘See?’ I say. ‘I didn’t copy his.’

  ‘No,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘You’re right. You didn’t copy. Your picture is very different to Bradley’s.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s got stupid purple dogs flying around a green sky. And his walls are wonky! Look how straight mine are! And everything is the right colour. Mine is much better than Bradley’s.’

  ‘Both of your pictures are very good,’ says Mrs Baxter. ‘Bradley’s picture may not be strictly realistic, Andy, but it’s very creative. You could learn a lot from Bradley. Try to work more from your heart and less from your head.’

  I feel like crying again. But this time I don’t just feel like crying. I actually burst into tears.

  Mrs Baxter puts her arm around me,

  ‘You haven’t got off to a very good start today, have you?’ she says. ‘Maybe you’ll do better tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t be here tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I’m just here for the day.’

  Mrs Baxter looks concerned.

  ‘The day?’ she says. ‘Mr Dobson didn’t say anything about this being just for the day. He said I was to keep you here until you were ready to go back up. And, quite frankly, Andy, I just don’t think you are ready yet. In fact, I’m not sure how you got up there in the first place.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . but . . .’ I blubber.

  ‘Now come on, Andy,’ she says. ‘Cheer up. If you apply yourself and work really hard, you’ll be back up with the big children before you know it. And, meanwhile, I’m sure Bradley will enjoy looking after you and being your special friend. Won’t you, Bradley?’

  Bradley nods.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Baxter,’ he says. ‘I’ll look after him.’

  I look around at all the colourful posters on the walls and the cheery decorations. There’s a big pink octopus in the corner and two teddies in a hot-air balloon hanging from the roof. And at the side of the room there’s even a little hook with my name on it. I guess there are plenty of worse places I could be.

  I sit down. I wait until Mrs Baxter’s back is turned and I draw a line down the centre of the table.

  I grab Bradley by the collar.

  ‘Cross that line and you’re dead meat,’ I say.

  He nods.

  There are going to be a few changes around here.

  t’s Lisa Mackney’s birthday party. Lisa and all the girls are in the corner of the room looking at her presents. Danny and I are standing at the food table staring at the biggest bowl of marshmallows we have ever seen.

  ‘Bet I can fit more marshmallows in my mouth than you can,’ says Danny.

  ‘Bet you can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Wanna make a million dollar bet?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ says Danny, looking disappointed.

  ‘You haven’t got a million dollars.’

  ‘I don’t need a million dollars,’ he says. ‘Because I’m going to win.’

  ‘As if!’ I say.

  ‘Am too,’ says Danny.

  ‘Are not,’ I say.

  ‘So are you in?’ says Danny.

  ‘No way,’ I say.

&nb
sp; ‘Suit yourself,’ says Danny. ‘You’re out!’

  ‘But I wasn’t in!’

  ‘All right,’ says Danny, ‘if you’re going to whinge about it then you’re in—but I’m warning you, you’re testing my patience.’

  He picks up a marshmallow from the bowl.

  ‘Danny!’ I say. ‘For the last time, I’m not playing Chubby Bubbies.’

  Danny’s face drops.

  ‘You’re just trying to act mature in front of Lisa,’ he says.

  ‘Am not,’ I say. But he’s right. I’ve been trying very hard to be mature and grown-up since I ended up in my undies in front of her at the school social. It’s been going pretty well too. Not that she’s talked to me that much, but she did invite me to her party, which is a good sign.

  ‘Know what else I think?’ says Danny.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You’re a wuss.’

  ‘Am not,’ I say.

  ‘Wussy boy, wussy boy,’ chants Danny. ‘Andy’s a wussy boy.’

  ‘Quit it,’ I say.

  But Danny doesn’t let up. He’s getting louder and louder. There’s only one way to stop him.

  I take a marshmallow from the bowl and put it in my mouth.

  ‘One Chubby Bubby,’ I say.

  Danny looks me in the eye and smiles. He takes two marshmallows from the bowl and puts them both in his mouth.

  ‘Two Chubby Bubbies,’ he says.

  It’s on.

  I take two marshmallows from the bowl and put them in my mouth. The marshmallows are making my mouth water but there’s no way I’m going to swallow them. I can’t afford for Danny to start singing the wussy boy song again. Lisa might hear him.

  ‘Three Chubby Bubbies,’ I say.

  ‘Four Chubby Bubbies,’ says Danny.

  I look across at Lisa and the other girls. They are busy with the book I gave Lisa for her birthday. It’s called How To Find Your Perfect Partner Through Palm Reading.

  It’s not a very good book because when I checked my palm against the picture of the perfect lover’s palm it looked nothing like it. It does now, though. I fixed the picture up with a black pen. When Lisa comes to check my palm—which I know she will because girls are very curious about that sort of stuff—she’s going to discover that I’m her perfect partner!