Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  What had happened? How did I get there?

  I looked at my watch. Half past four. Where had that half hour gone?

  Suddenly it all fell into place. I was the boy who could travel in time. I must have been run over by the truck and badly injured. Maybe people had carried me over to the bench. I would have wished that I could go back in time to just before the moment I stepped in front of the truck. And that’s what happened. For just a second there would have been two of me on the footpath. The injured me would have grabbed the hand of the other me before he was hit. And wished ourselves half an hour in the future.

  But then the injured me would never have been injured. In fact he would have missed those thirty minutes too. So he never did any of it. He never happened. He must have disappeared as soon as I landed on the seat where he had started from.

  And the old man saw a boy appearing out of nowhere. I had come from half an hour in the past.

  I had gone back in time. And saved myself by bringing me into the future. I could travel in time just by wishing it to happen. There was no doubt about it. Thirty minutes. If I could do thirty minutes I could do eighteen years. I could go back to the time when I was watching ‘Inspector Gadget’. I could stop my mother going to the shop. Then she wouldn’t be killed and I wouldn’t have to live with Grandma. I would be happy growing up with my mother.

  But what if it went wrong? What if I made a mistake and arrived too late? Something deep inside was warning me. I felt as if I had been in this situation before. I was cautious. Then it struck me.

  I had been there before.

  I remember me at age five watching ‘Inspector Gadget’. It was just as the closing credits were rolling. The end of the show. A big boy had just appeared out of nowhere. He was upset. He was searching around the house calling out ‘Mum’. He looked out of the window. There was a policeman coming up the drive.

  Suddenly I realised what had happened all those years ago. The fourteen-year-old me had gone back nine years in time. But I had arrived too late. ‘Inspector Gadget’ was over. My mother was dead. A policeman was coming up the drive to tell the five-year-old me that his mother was dead. I wouldn’t have let that happen. I wouldn’t have left him to live all those years with an old grandma who didn’t want him. That’s when I would have panicked. When I didn’t think clearly.

  I must have grabbed my hand. The big me must have grabbed the hand of the little me. And wished us nine years into the future. I wanted to take the five-year-old into the future and look after him.

  ‘Poof.’ The five-year-old me landed nine years into the future. The fourteen-year-old me just vanished. By taking his five-year-old self nine years into the future he ceased to exist. He had missed all those nine years and hadn’t grown up. He was the boy who never was.

  Suddenly a five-year-old child landed in the future. On his own. He didn’t know how he got there. And neither did anyone else.

  That’s what I think happened anyway. That’s my explanation of how I jumped nine years.

  5

  I went home and sat in my room. Grandma was taking a rest. She was tired. Much too tired to be worried about me.

  What if I went back again? What if I was really careful? What if I went back to the front gate just as my mother reached it? At the beginning of ‘Inspector Gadget’. I could tell her not to go to the milk bar. Then she would not be run over.

  I closed my eyes and wished myself back.

  Mrs Booth closed the exercise book and stood up. She could hear the strident voices of ‘Inspector Gadget’ floating through the window. She looked at the fourteen-year-old boy carefully. She was sure that she had seen him before. But she was a little cross. ‘Why have you picked on our family?’ she said. ‘You have described me and my mother and my child. You’ve been snooping around. Why didn’t you do your assignment on your own family?’

  The fourteen-year-old boy was crying. ‘You are my own family, Mum,’ he said.

  She still gripped the exercise book tightly in her hand. Her mind was in a spin. The boy was crying real tears.

  ‘Your story doesn’t make sense,’ she said. ‘If I go back inside, obviously I won’t get run over. And none of what you have written will happen.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘And you will never have been here.’

  The boys lips trembled just a little. ‘That’s what I want,’ he said.

  Mrs Booth turned and walked back to the house. When she reached the door she turned and looked back. She felt as if she had been talking to someone.

  But there was no one there.

  One-Finger Salute

  Every day after school Gumble sticks his finger up at me. Every day. He sits on the fence at the end of our street and gives me the one-finger salute. He has a bunch of toughs for friends and they all laugh like crazy every time he does it.

  It might not sound like much. A one-finger salute. I mean it doesn’t actually cause pain. Not like getting your ear twisted or your arm shoved up behind your back. But it hurts all the same. It hurts my feelings.

  I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like a stone in my shoe. Or a dog barking in the night. All day at school I’m thinking about the one-finger salute Gumble will give me on the way home tonight.

  My dad says it’s extremely rude to stick your middle finger up in the air at someone.

  And I personally have never done it.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m no angel. But there are a number of reasons why I don’t stick my middle finger up at Gumble.

  He’s bigger than me.

  He has really mean mates who would make my life even more miserable than usual.

  I don’t have any middle fingers to stick up at him. The last reason it the main one I don’t do it.

  So here I am. Walking home from school. And there are Gumble and Smithy and Packman sitting on the fence, waiting.

  ‘Hey, Digit,’ yells Gumble. ‘Cop this.’ He sticks his middle finger up in the air and starts moving it up and down in a very insulting way. Smithy and Packman start doing it too. They laugh like crazy.

  I walk by, hating them as usual. What can I do? I could stick my little finger up at them. I could stick my thumb up at them. But it’s just not the same. You have to stick the middle finger up. The big finger is the one that gives the big insult.

  I hurry off down the street. I’m mad and embarrassed. Their insults follow me down the street like a cloud of flies. Even after I reach home I can hear their laughter ringing in my head.

  2

  I look at my hands. Eight fingers. Or six fingers and two thumbs if you want to look at it that way.

  I started off with ten fingers but lost two of them when I was a little kid.

  I was only three at the time. Mr Watson, the guy next-door, was cutting his lawn. He left the motor of his lawn-mower running and went round to the backyard to empty the grass clippings. I wandered over to the lawn-mower and stuck my hands underneath to see what was whizzing around under there.

  That’s what I was told I did anyway. I actually don’t remember anything about it. But my mum and dad do. They rushed me to hospital. Nothing could be done. My two middle fingers were cut right off. They were so mangled that they couldn’t be sewn back on.

  Mr Watson moved away to another house. It wasn’t his fault, but he felt bad every time he saw me. He couldn’t bear to think about it.

  I don’t really blame him. You shouldn’t go putting your hands under lawn-mowers.

  3

  So here I am back in school. Another day with the long walk home at the end of it. Another day to get the one-finger salute from Gumble.

  I should feel happy. I got eighteen out of thirty for maths today. That’s good for me. And Mrs Henderson put my science project up on the wall. So I should be smiling. But I’m not.

  Instead I spend every second thinking about paying back Gumble for picking on me. I’ll get even with him if it kills me.

  I can’t stick my middle finge
r up at him so I’ll have to think of something else.

  It’s free-reading time and I start to leaf through my scrapbook. I’ve read it a thousand times.

  But I read it again.

  I start with the bit about worms. It’s really interesting. You know what happens when a worm sticks its head out of the ground and a bird grabs it? The worm hangs on. It doesn’t want to be breakfast for a bird. So the bird pulls and the worm squirms. The bird pulls more and the worm starts to stretch like an elastic band. Something has to give. And it does.

  Twang, the worm breaks in half. The bird eats its end and flies off.

  And then. Wait for it. This is the good bit. The worm grows a new tail.

  I turn the pages. Now this is really weird. There is a type of frog that can grow new toes. I look down at the pictures and shake my head. I wish I was a frog like that.

  See, I have all these clippings in my scrapbook.

  And I have something else as well. In my bedroom at home. In an empty ice-cream container. Yes, I have a drop-tail lizard. A live one.

  If a kookaburra grabs a drop-tail the lizard drops its tail. The kookaburras just can’t catch the whole drop-tail lizard. All they get is its tail.

  Drop your tail and run away – live to fight another day. That’s the drop-tail lizard.

  But, even better than that. The fantastic thing is –

  The lizard grows another tail.

  Now, why can’t people be like that?

  Just imagine it. I mean it would change history. Henry the Eighth chops off his wife’s head. And she grows a new one. Ace.

  4

  It’s time to walk home, but today Elaine walks with me. She’s the girl next-door. She moved in when Mr Watson moved out.

  Elaine’s not bad for a girl. When she smiles her freckles all bunch up and I feel like reaching out and touching them. With my eight fingers.

  Thinking about Elaine makes time fly for once. Before I know it we’ve come to our street. There’s no sign of Gumble. I start to feel good, like I’m walking on air. For once I’ll get home without any hassle.

  But wait. What’s that sticking up over the fence? It’s an arm. And a hand. And a finger.

  He’s doing it again. He’s giving me the one-finger salute.

  There’s another arm. And another. There’s laughing. And sniggering. My face goes red. How I’d love to do it back. How I’d love to grab Gumble’s arm and shove it behind his back until he squeals. But there are too many of them. I don’t have the guts.

  Elaine does though. She jumps up and grabs one of the fingers. Then she twists it. She twists it real hard.

  There is an enormous scream. ‘Ow. Ouch. Let go. Let go.’

  She’s got Gumble. I’d know that voice anywhere.

  She twists his finger until she can’t twist it any longer. Gumble’s head pops up over the fence. I start to run.

  ‘You’re history, Digit,’ yells Gumble. ‘You’re dead meat.’

  Elaine runs after me, laughing. It’s all right for her. They think I did it. I’m the one who’ll be dead meat.

  ‘That showed ’em,’ she says. She laughs and all her freckles bunch up. My stomach turns over.

  I wish I could impress Elaine. I wish I could pay Gumble back. But I don’t have the fingers for it.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say. I walk inside with love and hate buzzing around inside me. And the love isn’t for Gumble, I can tell you that.

  5

  No one’s home. Mum and Dad aren’t back from work yet. My cat, Slurp, is there, looking for something to eat as usual. I love Slurp partly because she has a similar problem to me. Missing parts. She has no ears. They were ripped off by the dog next-door in a fight. A big mongrel with no tail.

  I go to my bedroom and lock Slurp out. Then I take my lizard out of the ice-cream container. His name is Droplet. I make sure that I don’t pick him up by the tail. I don’t want him dropping it on me.

  No, really I don’t.

  I put him on the floor and watch him run around. He really is the cutest lizard. Outside, Slurp starts to meow. She would love to get in and eat Droplet. She’ll eat anything. I open the door and peer out.

  ‘No way,’ I yell. ‘Go and find yourself a mouse.’

  Flash. Whizz. Pow. Oh, no. Slurp shoots across the room after Droplet. Quick as a flash she pins him down by the tail.

  And quick as a flash Droplet drops his tail and runs under the bed. The tail squirms and squiggles under Slurp’s paw.

  I grab Slurp and lock the silly cat in the laundry. ‘Bad girl,’ I say.

  Then I crawl under the bed. Poor Droplet is hiding under a pair of underpants. I gently grab him and hold him in the palm of my hand. Now he has a stumpy little tail instead of a long pointed one.

  It doesn’t hurt them when they drop their tails, though. Drop-tail lizards are meant to do that. It’s just nature.

  All the same, I decide to give the little lizard his freedom. I walk out into the garden and put Droplet in the flower-bed. ‘Bye, Droplet,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re going to grow a new tail.’ He wriggles off into the bushes. ‘Drop in any time,’ I say.

  I go back to my bedroom and shut the door. I look at the lizard’s tail lying there on the floor. It’s still wriggling and jiggling like a crazy worm. After a bit it stops. I get an idea.

  No. Look, I’ll be honest. The idea came to me a long time ago but I couldn’t pick Droplet up by the tail on purpose. Not pull off his tail. I just couldn’t. But now it’s happened anyway. By accident. So I might as well give my idea a try.

  I carefully pick up the lizard’s tail and take it into the kitchen.

  I put it on a plate and stare at it. Can I do it, though?

  I get out some pepper and salt. And a bit of bread. I shake the tomato sauce all over the tail. This isn’t going to be easy. Or pleasant.

  But I have to do it. It’s the only way.

  I take out a very sharp knife.

  No. No, no, no. I can’t do that. I can’t cut it up. Not when it’s still wriggling around. It’s too awful.

  Suddenly I grab the tail. I close my eyes. I shove the tail onto my mouth and swallow. Straight down without chewing. The tail has gone to a better place.

  Oh, wow. My stomach turns over. And it’s not because of Elaine because Elaine isn’t even here. The tail gives a couple of squiggles inside me. Then it lies still.

  What have I done? Why have I done it? Will it work?

  I don’t know the answer to all these questions. But I do know one thing. I will never ever tell anyone that I ate Droplet’s tail.

  6

  I go to bed early and I toss and turn and have a terrible dream about an octopus.

  When I wake up my whole world has changed.

  At first I think it’s still the dream. Then I wonder if I’ve gone crazy.

  I look at my hands. I just can’t believe what I see. I have ten fingers. Yes. Ten fingers. I’ve grown a new one on each hand. Both of them are perfect.

  Gently I touch them. They feel normal. They look normal. I bend one, very carefully. Yes, it works. I touch my nose. I scratch my ear.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ It worked. The lizard’s tail has done the trick.

  I want to rush out to tell Mum and Dad. I want all my friends to know. I want to scream it to the world. ‘I’ve got new fingers.’

  But then I stop and think.

  No. There’s one person I want to see my fingers first. And he’s not a friend. No way.

  I get dressed, bolt my breakfast and race out of the door. If I’m quick I’ll be able to catch Gumble.

  There he is, sauntering along with his mates. Elaine’s on the other side of the street.

  Gumble hears me coming up behind him. He turns and grins.

  Then he does it. Yes, just like I knew he would.

  ‘Cop this,’ says Gumble.

  He gives me the one-finger salute.

  And…

  And…

  Oh, yes.
>
  I give it back.

  I stick the new finger on my right hand up and give the first one-finger salute of my life. Brilliant. Elaine’s eyes nearly pop out of her head.

  Gumble doesn’t think it’s brilliant.

  He scowls. He growls. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. He thinks it’s a trick. He thinks I’ve made fake fingers out of clay or plastic or something.

  I hold up both of my new middle fingers and wiggle them around. I put them right up under his nose.

  Oh, this is good. All my life I’ve wanted to get even and do this back to Gumble.

  Quick as a flash Gumble moves. He grabs my new fingers to see if they’re fakes.

  I grin. ‘They’re real,’ I say. ‘Real, real, real.’

  Gumble yanks my fingers.

  Splot.

  My new fingers break away.

  Gumble looks at his hands and grins. He thinks that he has pulled off fake fingers. But he hasn’t. They’re real. Flesh and blood. Two knuckles on each. And little bones sticking out of the end. Gumble stares at them carefully. Then he starts to scream. The fingers are squirming and worming around in his hands. Just like the lizard’s tail.

  Gumble’s mates start to scream too. They shriek like they’ve just seen a headless ghost. Gumble throws the fingers into the air and watches in horror as they land on the ground and twist around with a life of their own.

  Gumble and Smith and Packman turn and run. They just run screaming down the road to school. I pick up my new fingers. They won’t go back on no matter what I do.

  I look at my hands. The stumps have already healed over. I’m back where I was before. Eight fingers. Useless.

  By the time I get to school I feel a bit better. After all, I don’t think Gumble will give me the one-finger salute again.

  And I’m right. He’s terrified of me. He knows that he’s ripped my fingers off. He thinks he’s going crazy. He’s too scared to come near me.