Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  Alan is feeling tired. He is thinking about how he is not smart like everyone says. He is remembering how he stayed up all night doing his homework. He wishes that he really was a brain like everyone says.

  You start to feel a bit mean.

  Reading minds may not be as good as you think. And there are other problems. Everyone is thinking. Everyone.

  The thoughts of all the class start to crowd in on you. Kids are thinking about sore feet, peanut-butter sandwiches, the flies on the ceiling, the swimming pool, what they had for breakfast, putting out the garbage bin and how they need to go to the loo.

  Most of the thoughts are boring. Some are sad. Some are things that you know you should not know. You block your ears but that is no good. The thoughts still come pouring in. It is almost painful. You want peace from all the thoughts. It is so much of a babble that it starts to drive you crazy.

  Everyone’s daydreams come pouring in. Most of them are about nothing important. Shoe polish. Clouds. Drains. Lollies. Fleas. The beach. Stomach-ache. Hardly anyone is thinking about the lessons. Mr Richards is wishing the bell would go so that he can have a cup of coffee.

  Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Noisy, nice, nasty, private and painful. You can’t stop the thoughts. The room is quiet but your brain is bursting with it all. You clap your hands over your ears but still the thoughts buzz inside your brain like a billion blowflies.

  You can’t stand it.

  ‘Shut up,’ you yell at the top of your voice.

  Everyone looks up.

  ‘Stop thinking,’ you yell.

  The room was already quiet. But now it is deadly silent.

  The kids all think you have gone crackers.

  Mr Richards gives you a lecture. ‘Thinking,’ he says, ‘is what school is all about. You could try it more often, Bomber.’

  You are sent out into the playground to pick up papers until you learn some manners.

  At least there are no thoughts out there in the yard. Except your own.

  You think about all the private things you have learned. It is like spying. It is dangerous. You find out things that you don’t want to know. It is like peeping through keyholes. It is like cheating in an exam.

  There is only one thing to do. The witch bottle is not to be trusted. It could cause fights. Or wars.

  The bottle must never be given to another person. You are certainly not going to suck it again and neither is anyone else. Maybe you should smash it up.

  You hold up the bottle in your right hand. You swear a little promise to yourself. ‘I will never drink from this bottle again,’ you say. ‘Or I hope to die.’

  You are called back into class. The thoughts grow fainter and fainter. By home time you can’t tell what anyone is thinking. You are glad that it has worn off. There is no way you are going to break your oath.

  Dad picks you up at the school gate.

  You wonder what he is planning. It is probably about how he is going to sell your calf.

  When you get home you go down and visit Moonbeam. Oh, he is lovely. Slipped-in-the-Mud gives him a lick.

  You try to think of a way to save Moonbeam. Should you suck the bottle again and try to work out what Dad is up to?

  No, never. And anyway, you have sworn a sacred oath.

  But Dad will catch him. And sell him. To the abattoirs. You think of veal. It is too horrible. If you suck the bottle you will know what Dad is up to. You can save your calf. But you can’t do it. Tears come to your eyes.

  You go down to the paddock to say your last goodbyes. After tea Dad tries to catch Moonbeam.

  He has him cornered in the barn. He approaches with a rope. He holds out the loop.

  But Moonbeam slips past him and runs into the darkening paddock. You smile to yourself. In fact you smile all evening. And the following day. Dad just can’t catch Moonbeam no matter how hard he tries.

  Finally, after trying all week, Dad comes rushing into the kitchen and throws his rope onto the floor. He is hot and sweaty. He is flustered. He has been chasing Moonbeam for three hours.

  ‘We might as well keep the silly calf,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll never catch it. It gets away every time. It’s almost as if it can read your mind.’

  For some reason it gave Sally the creeps.

  It was made of brass and was about the size of a matchbox. It was heavy and had the initials S.O. carved in the top. Her Dad used it to hold down his papers. Sally shivered and put the little weight back on the desk.

  ‘I told you not to play with that, Sally,’ said Dad. ‘It’s the only thing I have to remind me of Aunt Esso.’

  Sally sighed and looked out of the window at the sheep grazing along the side of the road. ‘Here’s the school bus,’ she said. She grabbed her bag and slowly walked out of the door.

  She didn’t want to go to school. She never wanted to go to school. She hated it. She knew she had to go. She wanted to be a doctor and there aren’t too many doctors who haven’t been to school. But at times she felt like wagging it.

  There were only sixteen students in the school: four boys in the infants, three boys in grade four, two boys in grade five and six boys in grade six. That made fifteen boys.

  Fifteen boys and one girl. All in the same little classroom with one teacher. And he was a man.

  And today they were practising for the Mini-Olympics. Shot-put, long jump, high jump, one hundred metres, and marathon. Sally would come last as usual. The five boys in grade six would all beat her in every event. Even some of the little kids would sometimes come in ahead of her.

  And Jarrod Olsen would sneer and snigger and show off when Mr Rickets wasn’t looking. ‘What a woman,’ he would say as Sally finally crossed the finishing line.

  And that’s the way it turned out. Sally was very small for her age. She just didn’t seem to have the strength to keep up. She tried especially hard in the shot-put. But in the end she came last in every event – trailing in behind the boys.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Mr Rickets with a smile. ‘You are better at other things. It’s just bad luck that there are no other girls for you to compete against.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Sally. ‘It sure is.’

  On the way home in the bus it was the same as usual.

  ‘Last in the shot-put,’ yelled Jarrod Olsen.

  ‘Last in the long jump,’ hooted Graeme Arndt.

  ‘Last in the high jump,’ smirked Daniel Basset.

  ‘Last in the hundred metres,’ shouted Harry Vitiolli.

  ‘Last in the marathon,’ said Richard Flute.

  Then the boys all took a deep breath and shouted out together, ‘What a woman.’

  It made Sally so mad. The way they said the word ‘woman’ as if there was something wrong with it. Sally could feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She had to hold them back. She couldn’t let the boys see her cry. They would never let her forget it.

  But a single tear, one rotten little tear, gave her away. It rolled down her cheek and plopped onto her school bag.

  Jarrod Olsen jumped forward and put the end of his finger in the tear. He held it up for all to see. ‘Look at that,’ he shouted. ‘What a woman. Weak as water.’

  The boys rolled around laughing. How Sally hated those bus trips. They seemed to go on forever. Past the empty paddocks and along the never-ending road.

  But at last the bus stopped at her farm gate and Sally jumped down. She just couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing seemed to shut those boys up. They thought they were tough.

  If only she could win one event in the Mini-Olympics. Just one. Then she could hold her head high.

  But she knew she never would.

  ‘It’s only attitude,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll never win if you think you’ll lose. You have to be positive.’

  ‘I am positive,’ said Sally. ‘I’m positive that I’m no good at sport.’

  She picked up the little brass paperweight. ‘Can I borrow this?’ she asked. ‘I have to give a talk at school. It
can be about anyone in our family. I’m going to talk about Aunt Esso.’

  ‘No way,’ said Dad. ‘You might lose it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Mum. ‘Let her. It’s an interesting story. And I’d like to see her get a better mark than those horrible boys.’

  In the end her dad gave in. ‘But don’t let it out of your sight,’ he said. ‘Or you’re history, Sally.’

  2

  Sally looked at the class. She held up the little brass weight in the palm of her hand. ‘This belonged to my Aunt Esso,’ she said. ‘She was good at sport. Really tough, too.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ whispered Jarrod Olsen.

  Sally went red but she kept going. ‘She won trophies for everything. Horse riding. Football. Cricket. Woodchopping. You name it – and she was the champion.’

  ‘A woman couldn’t win woodchopping,’ said Jarrod Olsen in a loud voice.

  ‘Jarrod,’ said Mr Rickets. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘She had a lucky charm,’ said Sally. ‘A tiny horseshoe brooch which brought her luck. She wore the brooch to every event. And she always won. Except once.’

  Sally stopped. She hadn’t meant to say that bit.

  ‘What happened, Sally?’ asked Mr Rickets.

  ‘She lost her lucky brooch. When she went into the woodchopping that year she didn’t have it with her. She lost her brooch. And her luck. The axe missed and she cut off her toe. After that she couldn’t go in anything. Not without her lucky charm.’

  A great roar of laughter went up. All the boys fell about laughing. Except Jarrod Olsen. He went pale in the face. His skin turned sweaty. He looked as if he was going to faint. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.

  ‘Are you all right, Jarrod?’ said Mr Rickets. He led Jarrod out to the sick room and gave him a drink of water.

  ‘Just felt a bit hot,’ said Jarrod Olsen when he came back. He was as cocky as ever.

  ‘I thought you were going to faint,’ said Mr Rickets.

  ‘No way,’ said Jarrod. ‘Only girls faint.’

  3

  That afternoon it was more Mini-Olympics. All the kids lined up. Youngest to oldest. Sally shoved her Aunt Esso’s paperweight into the pocket of her tracksuit. It made the pocket bulge but there was no way she was going to part with it.

  What if someone stole it? Dad would never forgive her. Aunt Esso had died a year after the accident with the axe. The little weight was all Dad had to remind him of her. No one had ever found the lost lucky charm.

  First, the kids all took their turn at throwing the heavy shot-put. The little kids could only throw it a metre or so.

  Jarrod Olsen was the best by far. He made four and a half metres.

  Usually Sally didn’t like waiting for her turn. She hated them all watching when she only threw the shot-put the same distance as the little kids. But today she felt lucky.

  She grabbed the shot-put and tucked her hand into her shoulder. She bent back and then heaved. The shot-put seemed light. Not nearly as heavy as usual. It soared through the air and thumped into the grass.

  ‘Five metres,’ yelled Mr Rickets. ‘Sally is the winner.’

  The boys went silent. Not one person said, ‘What a woman.’

  Jarrod Olsen just whispered, ‘Fluke.’

  Next it was the long jump. Sally patted her pocket while she waited her turn. She felt lucky again. At last it was her go. She started to run. Oh, how she ran. Her legs felt light. They bore her along the run-up at terrific speed. Up she went. Soaring through the air and landing in the sand far beyond any of the boys’ marks.

  ‘Sally wins again,’ said Mr Rickets. ‘Good work, Sally.’

  Sally smiled and felt the weight in her pocket. ‘What have you got there, Sally?’ said Mr Rickets. ‘You shouldn’t run with a sharp object in your pocket.’

  ‘It’s Aunt Esso’s paperweight,’ said Sally.

  Mr Rickets took it from her hand and examined it carefully. ‘It’s not a weight, Sally,’ he said. ‘It’s a box. A trick box. I’ve seen one of these before. You have to try and open the lid. There’s a knack to it. If you press in the right spot the lid will spring open.’

  He handed it back. ‘There could even be something inside,’ he said.

  Sally pressed the box and twisted it all afternoon. But there was no way she could open the lid. If there was a trick it was certainly a good one.

  That night Sally told her mum and dad what Mr Rickets had said. Dad shook the box and held it up to his ear. ‘He’s right, by golly,’ said Dad. ‘I think there is something inside. I wonder what it is.’

  Just then the phone rang. It was Mr Ralph, the president of the football club. Dad smiled as he talked into the phone. ‘For you,’ he said to Sally. ‘This is your lucky day.’

  Sally listened with a widening grin. ‘Thanks, Mr Ralph,’ she said. She put down the phone and started to yell. ‘Whoopee. I’ve won a bike in the football raffle.’

  She grabbed Aunt Esso’s brass box. ‘Can I hang on to this for a while?’ she said. ‘Until I find out how to open it. I’m dying to know if there’s anything inside.’

  4

  The next day was great for Sally.

  Dad took her to school so she didn’t have to listen to Jarrod Olsen and the boys taunting her on the bus.

  She stepped out of the truck and saw something blowing along the road. ‘Ten dollars,’ she yelled. ‘Fantastic.’

  As she walked into the school the wind blew a tile off the roof. It whizzed past her head and hit Peter Monk on the knee. Blood poured down his leg. He dropped to the ground, yelling and screaming.

  Sally, who loved dressing wounds, whipped out her handkerchief and stopped the flow of blood.

  When all the fuss was over Mr Rickets gave Sally a warm smile. ‘Sally did a great job,’ he said. ‘A lot of people would have fainted at the sight of that wound.’

  ‘Only girls would faint,’ whispered Jarrod Olsen in a mean voice.

  ‘You were lucky, Sally,’ said Mr Rickets. ‘If that tile had hit you on the head you could have been killed.’

  Sally grinned and took out Aunt Esso’s box. She twisted and pushed. She rattled it and held it up to her ear. She tried everything she could think of but nothing would make the top spring up.

  But it didn’t matter. This was her lucky day.

  And there was one thing she was looking forward to. The marathon.

  If she could beat just one or two of the boys it would be great. And if she could beat Jarrod Olsen it would be even better. He thought he was so tough. So smart. So superior. Just because he was big. Just because he had bulging muscles. Just because he was a boy.

  If she won the marathon she could prove once and for all that girls were not weaker than boys. She prodded once again at Aunt Esso’s brass box. But nothing happened. She was just bursting to know if anything was inside.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mr Rickets. ‘Everyone get changed for the marathon.’

  5

  Sally went alone into the girls’ changing room. There was no one to talk to. No one to share her problems with. No one to trust with her hopes. She shoved the brass box into her tracksuit pocket and tried not to listen to the loud talk coming from the other side of the wall.

  Jarrod Olsen’s voice was the loudest, as usual. ‘I bet Sally-What-A-Woman comes last again,’ he said.

  Sally could hear the others laughing. How embarrassing. She went over to the sink and splashed water on her face.

  Then she froze.

  In the sink she saw something twinkle. Down the plug hole. In the gloomy water there was a flash. She bent down and twisted the plug on the S-bend. Filthy water gushed out.

  And so did a filthy diamond ring. It was covered in slime but Sally could see at once that it was made of gold. What luck.

  ‘If no one claims it, it’s yours,’ said Mr Rickets. ‘Worth a packet, I should think. Today’s your lucky day. Okay, now line up with the boys for the start of the marathon.’

  ‘What a woman,’
whispered Jarrod Olsen. His mates all laughed behind their hands.

  Sally patted her pocket. She felt lucky. The marathon was only for the older kids. It was a long way to run. It took stamina. She was going to show these boys what toughness really was.

  ‘Go,’ yelled Mr Rickets.

  Jarrod Olsen shot straight to the front. He always won these events. But not today. Sally was just behind him.

  She felt wonderful. Like a winner. Lucky. Usually her heart banged painfully in her chest but today she felt only happiness.

  She jogged along behind Jarrod Olsen, happy to stay in second place. For now.

  The other boys all fell behind. Soon there were just the two of them jogging along the dusty country road.

  Jarrod turned and saw Sally on his heels. Sweat was running down his face. He was puffing and seemed tired. But he still managed to grunt out his usual insults. ‘Playing with the boys, are we, Sally-What-A-Woman?’ he sneered. ‘There’s a long way to go yet.’

  Sally could feel Aunt Esso’s box in her pocket. Oh, she was going to enjoy this race. Enjoy showing these boys how tough a girl could be. If only she could win.

  They turned off into the bushland along a track. Jarrod Olsen still led the way. Sally decided to make a break for it. She turned on the power. Her best effort. She drew alongside Jarrod Olsen. Their feet thumped in unison. Jarrod suddenly swerved over, forcing Sally into shrubs.

  She stumbled but kept her feet. Once again she drew level, now ready to pass.

  Sally strained. Her hair was plastered to her face. Her breath tore at her chest. Her side hurt. Her legs ached. Side by side they ran. She just couldn’t seem to find that extra bit of speed.

  Sally reached into her pocket and grasped Aunt Esso’s box in her hand. She felt a small surge of power and started to move ahead.

  Suddenly Jarrod Olsen made his move. He kicked out with one foot. And Sally fell. The box tumbled from her hand and bounced along the track. A searing pain shot up from her ankle into her leg.