Cartoon Kid

by Jeremy Strong

  But this time it was nothing to do with my big sis or Mum. It was Colin, my chameleon. He had

  DISAPPEARED. It was Abbie’s fault. She had found a dead fly and decided to feed it to him. Unfortunately she left the lid loose on his tank!

  Huh! That sister of mine is a big diddly-dozy brain, if you ask me. She just does not THINK. Well, she does sometimes but it’s always the same. She only thinks about face cream, hair, lipstick and BOYS. I bet her brain is stuffed full of them and nothing else.

  Anyhow, I went to see Colin and he was – gone! I raced round the house like my pants were on fire.

  ‘He’s gone! Colin’s vanished!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ smirked Abbie. ‘Has your only friend in the whole wide world packed his suitcase and left you all alone? I’m not surprised.’

  I could feel my face turning into a red-hot radish. ‘Colin is NOT my only friend. There’s Pete and …’ My mind went blank. Who else was there? ‘Anyhow, it was YOUR FAULT.’

  Dad looked up from the TV. ‘Abbie, that’s rather unfair. You could at least apologize.’

  ‘Apologize?’ squawked Abbie. ‘To a ginger biscuit?’

  ‘I AM NOT A GINGER BISCUIT!’

  ‘Abbie!’ snapped Dad. ‘Now you can apologize for the loose lid AND for calling Casper names.’

  Abbie’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. I knew what that meant. It meant she was dreaming up umpteen different ways of killing me. Well, no probs, because I was thinking up umpteen different ways of killing HER.

  Abbie muttered ‘Sorry’ through gritted teeth and stamped off to her bedroom.

  Result! I felt pretty pleased. I had a sun-sized grin on my face, which was a lot better than an Australia-sized spot, I can tell you.

  Dad turned to me. ‘Actually, Casper, your room is in such a mess it’s no wonder you can’t find Colin. He’s probably sitting on top of that mountain of smelly clothes on your floor, looking like a dirty sock. Go and tidy your room and you’ll probably find him. And don’t forget it’s your mother’s birthday tomorrow,’ he shouted after me.

  Mum’s birthday? Already? How old was she this time? Mum had been twenty-nine ever since I’d known her. And what about a present? I was as skint as a hippo. (Well, have you ever known a hippopotamus with a bank account?)

  Typical. Just when I thought I was winning I get sent off to tidy my room AND I have to think of something to give Mum for her birthday. Huh.

  Hooray! Saved by the bell – the doorbell. It was my big pal Pete from next door.

  You see, Pete’s parents split up three years ago and now his mum has got this massively dull boyfriend. His real name is Derek.

  ‘You can call me Uncle Derek if you like,’ he told Pete when they first met. And he gave Pete a big, cheerful smile that showed his goofy teeth, not to mention the gap where one was missing. He wears brown suits and big, flappy ties. That Uncle Derek is about as interesting as a plate of liver and onions.

  So whenever Uncle Boring comes round, Pete usually escapes to our house. ‘Cos your parents are cool,’ he told me. Well, that was news to me. I’d always thought of them as being lukewarm. Anyhow, I had important news for my pal and I told him about Colin’s great escape.

  Pete shook his head sadly. ‘I know how you feel. My hamster Betty is always escaping. Don’t worry,’ Pete announced, ‘we’ll go on a chameleon hunt! We’ll need food, a tent and a telescope to spot elephants.’

  ‘There aren’t any elephants,’ I told him, puzzled.

  ‘That’s because they’re still in Africa and that’s why we need the telescope.’

  ‘But it would take the elephants ages to get here from Africa,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Not if they catch the bus,’ Pete said.

  ‘Which bus?’

  ‘The number 53,’ Pete answered.

  I thought for a moment and grinned. ‘Anyhow, the elephants won’t be a problem. All we have to do is turn the telescope round and look through the wrong end. Then the elephants will look teeny weeny tiny. Like ants.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ cried Pete. ‘I’m definitely not scared of elephant ants.’ He clasped me on the shoulder. ‘You do realize that you are a Grade One Ginger Twit Person, don’t you?’

  Now, here’s a weird thing – when Pete calls me names, I don’t mind. I guess it’s because we’re best friends. (If it had been Abbie calling me names, or anyone else, I would have boiled over, like Mum’s jam did once. What a mess! It looked as if a mega-gigantic strawberry had exploded on top of the stove.)

  I grinned back at Pete. ‘We need some food. Let’s raid the kitchen. Keep an eye out for Colin the Chameleon.’

  ‘Not to mention the elephants,’ added Pete.

  On the way to the kitchen I told Pete about Mum’s birthday and he suggested I should make something.

  ‘Like I should knit her a sock or something?’

  ‘Only if you want her other foot to get cold. It would have to be at least two socks.’

  ‘How about three socks?’ I suggested.

  Pete shook his head. ‘You mustn’t spoil her,’ he said as he started searching the kitchen cupboards for food. Suddenly he got very excited and his eyes went springy. Pete’s eyes are really bulgy, especially when he’s excited. He grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me.

  ‘Totally fantastic idea coming! It’s getting bigger and bigger. I can feel it in my head. It’s like a ginormous glittery balloon in there, all shiny and new and amazing!’

  ‘Pete, just say what it is, will you?’ (He was still shaking me.)

  ‘Right. It’s not one thing – it’s TWO for the price of ONE!’ cried Pete. ‘You know we’ve got that homework to do for Horrible Hairy Face?’

  ‘Yeah. Make something. That’s all he said. Pretty boring.’

  ‘I agree, but why don’t we make your mum a birthday cake? So at the same time we will also be making our homework! See?’

  Actually it was a pretty neat idea. Two jobs done in one. You see, Pete isn’t totally stupid, he’s totally brilliantly stupid.

  ‘OK, I admit it’s a good idea.’ I said. What kind of birthday cake shall we make?’

  Pete pulled a large bag of flour from the cupboard.

  ‘A cakey-kind of cake, of course! It could even say “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MUM!” on it,’ he raved. ‘It would be a brilliant surprise. She’s always making cakes, but now you will be making – for her!’

  I thought about it. My parents had gone to the supermarket. Abbie was in her room with her friend Shashi, which probably meant they were putting on make-up and talking about boys. We had the kitchen to ourselves.

  Pete looked at me, his eyes still jumping with excitement.

  ‘You must know how to make cakes. Your mum does it all the time and you help her.’

  I thought about that too. Hmmm. Yes. Pete was right. I did know.

  ‘There’s icing too,’ I added.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll do that bit when we get to it,’ Pete said confidently.

  Mum’s big mixer was already set up on the side. I got a box of eggs and some milk from the fridge. Pete tipped in the flour.

  ‘Is that enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ I said, and he tipped in some more. ‘Still not sure.’

  So just to be certain we put in the whole bag. I started on the eggs. Those eggs were the wibbly-wobbliest eggs I have EVER come across. They rolled everywhere. Eggs are such a useless shape. Why can’t they be square or oblong? I managed to drop the first one on the floor, and the second one fell out of its shell before I could even get it into the bowl.

  ‘You’re a knobbly-kneed nincompoop,’ said Pete. ‘Let me do it.’ He put the last four eggs into the bowl and hit them with a rolling pin until they broke open. ‘See? That’s what you do.’

  ‘But now there are bits of eggshell in there. How do we get them out?’

  ‘You’re so fussy. Lots of animals eat eggshells. Dogs, pigs – ’

  ‘Pete, I’m not a pog – I mean a dog or a pig. I’m a huma
n being. And so is my mum.’

  So Pete fished about with his fingers and got out most of the shell. I tipped in a pile of sugar and added the milk. Pete put in the butter.

  ‘Right-ho,’ said Pete. ‘Let’s go!’

  I looked at the settings on the mixer.

  ‘I think Mum always puts it on HIGH,’ I said and I switched it on. The machine roared into terrifying life.

  That is the noise an electric mixer makes when all the contents of the bowl come whizzing out and start splattering against the walls, floor and ceiling. Not to mention when the beaters go twirling off at high speed, while the bowl itself comes loose and goes clattering towards the floor. I caught it just in time. I clutched it to my belly while the last remaining blobs of gloop trickled down the front of my trousers.

  Pete switched off the mad machine and we stared at each other in horrified silence. And that was when we heard the car pull up outside.

  Pete and I went straight into FULL PANIC MODE. ‘What are we going to do?’ he yelled.

  ‘Only one thing for it,’ I shouted back.

  Yeeeess. Well, of course we didn’t escape and the police elephants, cleverly disguised as Mum and Dad, didn’t exactly arrest us, but they didn’t exactly congratulate us either. In fact we were in DEEP DOO-DOO. You might have thought my mum would be happy that I was trying to make a cake for her birthday, but she wasn’t – no way.

  ‘Whose idea was this?’ Mum demanded.

  ‘Mine,’ admitted Pete. ‘It’s meant to be our homework.’

  ‘Homework?’ cried Mum. ‘This is a home-wreck!’

  I think she was a little bit upset.

  Pete was sent straight home while I was made to clear up every bit of the mess. It took me about sixty gazillion and a half years.

  Abbie came downstairs with her friend Shashi to see what all the noise was about, and they both stood in the kitchen doorway, mocking me.

  They were still laughing at me when I saw a wasp land on Abbie’s cheek. She froze with horror, grabbing Shashi’s hand and squeezing it in terror. Abbie began to make a strange squeaky-leaky noise.

  ‘Urrrrrrrrrgh, it’s a wasp! There’s a wasp on me! Save me! Someone stop it! Urrrrrrrrrrrrgh!’

  And then Shashi started moaning too. ‘Abbieeeeeeeeee, you’re breaking my hand! Stop squeezing it so hard! Aaaaaargh!’

  We all stood there like statues, wondering what to do. And then guess what? No, you never will, so I will tell you what happened next. A long, VERY sticky tongue shot out of a kitchen cupboard and

  It grabbed the wasp and flicked back into the cupboard!

  I dashed across, threw open the cupboard door and there was Colin, munching on the wasp and looking VERY pleased with himself. I don’t think the wasp was pleased, but at least Colin was happy – and I’d found him!

  So the next day was Mum’s birthday and all I could give her was a homemade card. It said SORRY in big letters and I had drawn a picture of a birthday cake. Inside there was another drawing. It was a slice of the kind of cake I thought she’d like. I’d cut it out so it looked a bit like a real slice of cake.

  At school on Monday Mr Butternut arrived with a big plaster on his forehead. He asked everyone to show the class what they had made over the weekend. One by one we stood up and displayed our work.

  Hartley Tartly-Green (aka Snotbox – ha ha!) had made a model of the Eiffel Tower. It was good, VERY good. In fact it was SO good it had obviously been made by his parents. So that was CHEATING. Typical. Everyone knew, even Mr Butternut, but nobody said ANYTHING because we were all too polite.

  Sarah Sitterbout showed us a big stripy knitted square. ‘I’m going to make lots of them,’ she explained. ‘Then you stitch them together to make a rug and you give it to a very old person like Mr Butternut’s mum to keep them warm in the winter.’

  Mr Butternut told Sarah that actually his mum was only fifty-seven. Noella Niblet’s jaw almost fell off.

  And Mr Butternut burst out laughing, though I’m not sure why.

  Finally Pete and I had to stand up and do our bit and it was obvious we didn’t have anything to show at all.

  The class fell about, all except for Hartley Tartly-Snotbox-Green. ‘No, you weren’t,’ he whined. ‘You’re making it up!’

  ‘And you didn’t make that Eiffel Tower,’ Pete shot back. That silenced him!

  I looked at Mr Butternut and shrugged. ‘So basically the cake got spread all over the place and we couldn’t bring it to school.’

  Mr Butternut smiled and started to chuckle. ‘What a brilliant excuse, and you’ve got a story out of it. You’ve given me a good idea, boys. Let’s all write a story about what we made. You can illustrate it too.’

  Pete stuck his hand up. ‘Mr Butternut, you just said let’s write about what WE made, so YOU must have made something too. What did you make?’

  Mr Butternut turned pale and he clasped a hand to his head. Suddenly his face brightened. ‘Yes, I did make something. I made a mess of my head by walking into a glass door. I had to go to hospital and I was superglued together again.’

  That Mr Butternut is very funny sometimes. We fell about.

  ‘People don’t get superglued,’ Mia giggled.

  ‘They do,’ said Sarah Sitterbout, who knows everything.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Mr Butternut. ‘The nurse used superglue to mend my cut. I felt just like Humpty Dumpty. And now we’re all going to write.’

  And that’s what we did – the whole class. Every one of us wrote about what we had made. But Pete’s and mine was the best!

  This is the noise my class makes when half of us fall off our chairs, which is what we had just done. We had toppled over because Mr Butternut had just shouted at us. Mr Butternut can shout louder than an earthquake. He was reminding us that we were all superheroes. When Mr Butternut jumps on his chair and shouts like that it makes me feel powerful enough to do ANYTHING. I could probably balance the whole world on my head!

  Mr Butternut had been telling us about a very special competition in our school. It is called:

  That is a very long title for one competition, which is why it had to trail down the page like that. I have no idea who Ethel Snufflebottom is.

  Whenever my class hear Ethel Snufflebottom’s name they start giggling. Mr Butternut says my class sounds like a box of squirrels being tickled. And when he says that sort of thing, my class giggle EVEN MORE.

  Anyhow, Mrs Ethel Snufflebottom (snigger snigger) had given the school a big, REAL silver cup for the competition.

  Most competitions are just for one thing, like running or swimming or dancing (yuck-urggh-choke-choke) or maths (aaaargh!) and so on. But this competition was for EVERYTHING. You could win points for story-writing, art, football, science – even drawing cartoons like I do because I’m Cartoon Kid!

  The class with the most points wins the cup, and that means any class can win, even the tiny tiddly toddlers who get points just for tying their shoelaces properly.

  Or for going to the toilet before it’s TOO LATE! (Which is very embarrassing and happened to me once, but only because Mrs Dinosaur, who was my teacher when I was five, went rabbiting on and on about making sure we asked to go to the toilet in good time. She droned on for so long I wet myself. Mrs Dinosaur was not her real name. It was Mrs Dine, but we called her Mrs Dinosaur because she seemed a bit like a diplodocus if you squinted your eyes up tight and then looked at her.)

  Pete and I had never been in a winning class but Mr Butternut reckoned we had a good chance this time. That was why he was telling us we were superheroes and we had all done some extra-super-dooper work, even Noella Niblet, otherwise known as The Incredible Sulk (because she moans about EVERYTHING!). However, there was one big problem and that was – well, to put it simply, the problem was Masher McNee and the Monster Mob.

  They come from the class above mine and they had never won the trophy either. Masher is built like a bulldozer, behaves like a bulldozer and makes bulldozer-y noises.

&nb
sp; Masher and his mob like terrorizing smaller kids and they were out to make sure they won the Ethel Snufflebottom trophy. Strange things were happening round the school. Half the models that the eleven-year-olds had made for Technology disappeared from the display in the hall and were never seen again. Creepy!

  Miss Trimm’s class of six-year-olds had painted some great portraits of each other. But someone had sneaked into their class when it was empty and drawn moustaches and beards on the faces. Or put arrows through their heads!

  ‘I think Masher McNee and his gang did it,’ Mia declared, trying to stop her massive curls getting in her face. She sits at our table and Pete is in love with her. He says he isn’t, but he is really.

  Pete agreed with Mia. ‘We’ll have to be careful Masher McNee doesn’t try to nobble OUR work.’

  ‘He knows about the stories we wrote,’ Mia pointed out. ‘Because Mr Butternut read some of them in assembly and your one about the messy cake was really funny. I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt.’

  Pete grinned with pride. And I thought, Just a minute, Pete and I wrote that story TOGETHER! It all happened in MY house!

  And do you know, MIA BLUSHED!

  Good grief! It was so disgusting! I felt as if I was about to be invited to a wedding. And they’re only nine! I had to take Pete to one side to warn him. I looked at him VERY SERIOUSLY.