Cool School

by John Marsden

  You glance at the bill she gives you. On the bottom line it says: ‘Total due and payable now’ and you read the figure: ‘$10,028.75’. Through the office door you can hear the Principal chasing her son around the room with a hockey stick. Your lawyer pricks up her ears. ‘Think I’ll just pop back in there,’ she says. ‘That young man sounds like he might need a good lawyer.’

  efore she can say another word the door is thrown open and another teacher comes storming in. She charges straight up to Cedric, who looks as puzzled as everyone else by this sudden arrival. The teacher’s holding a black videotape in her hand and she waves it in front of Cedric’s nose.

  ‘Got you!’ she cries in triumph. ‘Got you at last!’

  ‘Goodness me,’ the Principal says. ‘Please tell me, what is the meaning of . . .’

  But this is another sentence she doesn’t get to finish. When it comes to finishing sentences this is a bad day for her.

  ‘Ms Millington,’ says the teacher, ‘do you have a video recorder?’

  ‘Why yes, certainly, I’ve got one out here in the . . .’

  The teacher charges out to where Ms Millington points. In a moment she returns with a TV and a video recorder on a big trolley. She shoves the tape in and presses ‘play’. As she does she says to Cedric, ‘You didn’t know about the security equipment we put in during the holidays, did you?’

  Cedric’s starting to look nervous. There are flickering grey lines on the screen and then they clear. You’re looking at a murky grey and white picture of a bike shed. There’s a few very small students in the corner and there, towering over them, is the unmistakeable figure of Cedric. And a second later you hear his voice.

  ‘. . . and after you’ve given me your little lunch, I want all your Derwent coloured pencils. Otherwise you’ll never see your Barbie dolls again!’

  The little kids on the screen are crying, but that’s nothing to the sobbing of Cedric, right here in the Principal’s office.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ he weeps as they drag him away. ‘It’s my parents. You don’t know what it’s like going through life with a name like Cedric!’

  ell,’ the Principal says, ‘I can only say that your last school did warn us to keep a close eye on you. There was a note on your records about an ugly episode involving cheating at the school sports.’

  ‘Oh no,’ you gasp. ‘That was in Grade One. It was all a misunderstanding.’

  What actually happened was that you ate the egg for the egg and spoon race by making a hole in one end and sucking the yolk and white out. You didn’t do it to cheat, but because you were hungry.

  ‘Well,’ says the Principal, ‘I think we’ll put you in our special class, so we can keep an eye on you.’

  You’re not sure what that means but you soon find out, the next day. There are only three other students in the special class. One’s handcuffed to the desk, one’s got KILLER tattooed across his forehead, and the third spends the whole time playing with his flick knife. None of them is pretty to look at.

  It’s got its compensations though. When you go back to normal classes, after a month in the special class, Cedric doesn’t scare you at all. Compared to the other three delinquents, Cedric’s a big teddy bear.

  Using the tricks these three guys have taught you, you take complete charge of Cedric. You can’t imagine why you were ever worried about him. The first day you train him to get your lunch for you. The second day you teach him to carry your bags home from school. And the third day you organise him into doing your homework every night. For the rest of your years at school you have a great time, with Cedric as your personal slave.

  omehow you force yourself not to give in. You still watch the locket but you manage to shut out her voice, and to keep your brain clear.

  Lucky you didn’t drink the herbal tea!

  You decide that the safest thing to do is to pretend to be under her power. So you let your eyes shut slowly, then you open them again when she tells you to. Now her soothing voice becomes harsh and sharp.

  ‘Who sent you down here?’ she asks. ‘Come on, tell me? Was it the police? Was it the newspaper? Was it the National Crime Authority? Who? Come on tell me!’

  ‘Er, um,’ you stammer. ‘It was . . . the newspapers.’

  ‘I thought so!’ she hisses. ‘Why? Why did they send you? Are they on to me?’

  ‘No, no,’ you reassure her. ‘They’re looking . . . um . . . they’re looking for the Principal of the Year.’

  ‘Principal of the Year!’ she cries. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ you say, ‘they have a committee, to pick the best Principal . . . and this year someone’s nominated you. So they sent me here and I had to get close to you so I could report on your qualities. And if you win, you get a BMW, $20,000, a gold watch, a block of flats, and a lifetime subscription to MAD magazine.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says, looking thoughtful. There’s a bit of a silence, then she says ‘When I count to five you will awaken. One, two, three, four, five.’ She snaps her fingers and you jump up.

  ‘Oh, what happened?’ you say, in a tone of surprise. ‘What happened? Gee, I think I went to sleep.’

  ‘Perhaps you did,’ she says. ‘But it’s quite all right. It was a lovely little sleep, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Uh, yes, sure,’ you say.

  top!’ you yell. ‘Stop, or I’ll throw the jelly beans.’

  She does stop too, like you’ve hit the pause button.

  ‘Now,’ you say, ‘put the needle down.’

  She does so, but sulkily.

  ‘OK,’ you say, ‘sit in the armchair now.’

  She sits, even though she’s glaring at you in a rage.

  You’re feeling so confident now that you take the top off the jar and eat one of the jelly beans.

  ‘I think you’re in the wrong job,’ you say to her, sitting in the seat opposite. She doesn’t comment, so you continue. ‘Yes, the wrong job,’ you say firmly, eating another jelly bean, a yellow one this time.

  You proceed to talk to her for the next twenty minutes, during which you empty the jar of jelly beans. And your advice obviously works.

  The next day it’s announced that she’s resigned. A week later you see her in her new position. You’re on your way to school, so you walk to the pedestrian crossing to get across the road. You hear a loud whistle blast as the lollipop lady marches out into the middle of the road. A huge semi-trailer squeals to a halt but it doesn’t stop fast enough and its front wheels go thirty centimetres over the line. The lollipop lady strides straight to the driver’s side of the cabin and starts abusing the driver. You walk on smiling, as the voice follows you down the road. ‘You get out of that cabin right now!’ she shouts. ‘And write out one hundred times: “I must stop my truck on the line at zebra crossings.”’

  ‘Yes,’ you think, ‘seems like she’s found the right job at last.’

  ou cross the road and walk nervously up to the two people.

  ‘Yes, Mr Pigly?’ you say. ‘Yes, Mrs Pigly?’

  ‘What did you call us?’ the man asks.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Pigly.’

  ‘I suppose you think that’s funny,’ the man says. He pulls out a card from his pocket and shows it to you. ‘I’m Senior Constable Irvine. And this is Senior Constable Craig. We’re from the Truancy Squad. We don’t like cheeky kids. We’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

  As they lead you away you look around. The street is deserted. There’s not a single one of your fellow students in sight. But you’re almost sure you can hear their giggles following you all the way to the lockup.

  es,’ you say again, more urgently, and to the whole class now. ‘If everyone stays sitting in their places, and is extra extra good, you’ll get a big surprise.’

  ‘What’s the surprise?’ someone yells out.

  ‘Oh well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?’

  But they all start chanting: ‘What’s the surprise? What’s the su
rprise?’

  You’re helpless, knowing that you’ve completely lost control of this rabble, and completely unable to think of a surprise for them. But as you stand there, gaping at them like a laughing clown at a sideshow, waiting for someone to drop a ping-pong ball down your throat, there’s a cough from the doorway.

  You look across. Standing there is a tall man with a dark brown briefcase.

  The whole class falls silent as they notice him.

  ‘I’m the surprise,’ he says to them. ‘I’m your new teacher. I’m sorry I’m late.’ Then to you he says: ‘I heard your efforts to stop the class from getting up and leaving. Thank you very much. Well done.’

  You sit down, blushing. The kid who was going to walk out yells at you: ‘What a moron. We knew you wasn’t a teacher.’

  The real teacher says, very quietly: ‘No yelling out in my class. Half-hour detention, tomorrow after school.’

  And the kid shuts up, straight away!

  ‘Now,’ says the teacher, ‘we’ll start with Africa. Africa is the world’s second largest continent with a population of over 600 million. Its main rivers are the Congo, Limpopo, Zambezi, Nile and Niger.’

  You settle back in your seat and yawn. Looks like life is back to normal.

  uddenly his nerve breaks. With a strangled cry he puts his hands over his mouth and rushes out of the room.

  ‘What was that all about?’ you ask the class.

  ‘He’s scared of germs,’ a kid tells you again. ‘Terrified of them.’

  You don’t see the big guy for the rest of the day, but a boy tells you that he’s spent all the time in the bathroom, scrubbing himself with Dettol. Next morning you find he’s swapped lockers with another kid so that he’s now on the other side of the school to you. You laugh.

  You can’t believe that you fooled him so easily. But later that day you start to feel funny. You feel all hot and dizzy. By the time you get home you can hardly stand up. When your mother gets in you stagger across the room to her. ‘Err, I don’t feel so good,’ you tell her.

  She takes a close look at you. ‘Let’s see your chest,’ she says. You unbutton your shirt and to your shock there’s a big red rash there.

  ‘Oh no!’ you groan. You don’t need your mother to tell you. Yes, you’ve got German measles!

  ou’re lying,’ he says.

  ‘That’s not very nice,’ you say, trying desperately to think of something else to scare him with. He’s taken another step towards you, and his hands are reaching for your throat.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you the truth,’ you shout.

  He hesitates, and you just have time to think of something to say.

  ‘I’ve got hypoimaginoliosis,’ you say.

  ‘You do?’ he growls. But there’s just the faintest trace of uncertainty in his eyes.

  ‘Yes!’ you cry. ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I’ve got an extreme case of it. The doctors have given me . . .’ you try to squeeze a tear out of your eye . . . ‘they’ve given me three months. If I’m lucky.’

  ‘Oh gee.’ The big guy stands there looking embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well,’ you say heroically. ‘I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t want any fuss.’

  For the rest of the day the big guy carries your bag around the school for you. Next day he gives you a box of chocolates. Next day he beats up a kid who doesn’t hold a door open for you. You enjoy being looked after like this, so you don’t complain. There’s only one problem. What are you going to tell him in three month’s time?

  o your amazement he actually stops. As you’d have trouble spelling kung-fu, let alone doing it, you’re very amazed. You stand there on your one leg, still balanced but not sure what to do next. Then a slight breeze comes blowing through the door. You feel yourself swaying. ‘Oh no!’ you think. ‘Not that!’ But yes, it is that. Before you have time to consider a plan of action you fall straight over. How stupid do you feel? One minute you’re a martial arts warrior, the next minute you’re on the floor. Through dazed eyes you see the towering figure of the Incredible Hulk standing above you. You close your eyes in terror.

  You’re about to cop severe punishment!

  on’t be such a wimp. Take the risk and go to 53. I mean, after all, it’s only a story.

  ell, you’ve talked Sam into it, though you half wish you hadn’t. Still, it’s time you used your electronics knowledge for something.

  You give Sam the easy job of getting information, and by the next morning it’s done. It’s all there: Ms Janzen’s desk is third from the door in staff room two. ‘Pretty impressive, Sam,’ you say, after studying the info. Then you proceed to eat the note. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ you say. ‘We should have eaten the last one.’

  Later that morning you ask permission to leave class. ‘Touch of gastro,’ you say, making glugging noises deep in your throat, just to show you’re serious. Once you’re out in the corridor you race to staff room two. You knock on the door and wait. There’s no answer. That’s cool. If there had been, you just would have tried again later, and again, and again, and again, until the room was empty. You’re a very persistent person.

  Inside the staff room you quickly locate the third desk from the door.

  You find Ms Janzen’s phone too. You unscrew the base and attach the gadget you bought from Tandy last night. Then you fit the base back on and get out of the room fast, racing into the little booth next to the office where they make the announcements. A bit of work there, then it’s back to the classroom. ‘Feel much better now, sir,’ you pant to the teacher as you sit down, giving a nod and a wink to Sam, to show you’ve succeeded. Sam goes white and dives into a large Science textbook.

  Nothing happens until mid-afternoon. You’re in an Art lesson when there’s a sudden crackle of static over the loudspeakers. No one takes any notice: there’s a constant stream of dumb announcements over the speakers all day long. But this time it’s different. You hear the ringing of an amplified phone. People listen, in surprise. Then you hear a man’s voice. ‘Hello?’ he says.

  ‘Hello, my sweet little butterfly, my darling cutey-pie,’ says Ms Janzen. ‘Hello, my twinkling star.’ Her voice sounds like she’s soaked it in sugar and honey for an hour and a half.

  ‘Why hello, my lovely Barbie doll,’ the man replies.

  This is the first announcement in the history of education that everyone’s actually listening to. Even the teacher’s listening. She almost looks like she’s smiling.

  ‘Are you having a smoothie-woothie day?’ Ms Janzen asks.

  The conversation continues like this for a couple of minutes. The students are in convulsions. Several of them have to leave the room.

  Then there’s a ‘squeech’ noise, and silence. Seems like someone’s finally pulled the plug.

  Next morning there’s a huge witch-hunt to find the person who connected the phone to the amp. The heat’s off Sam, who’s gone on camp for a week, but you’re certainly feeling the pressure. You start wondering whether you should maybe even own up, especially when they start talking about a mass punishment for the whole school . . .

  ou sit straight down on the floor and start reading the book. It’s fantastic, wonderful, better than that Shakespeare guy even. You don’t notice the fire any more. You don’t notice anything. All you can do is read this great book. When you’ve finished you decide to send the author all the money you can find to encourage him to keep writing.

  You empty your pockets, your money box, your bank account, and borrow five years’ worth of allowance from your parents. You put it all in a large envelope and send it to the author. He never even bothers to send you a thank you letter, but when his next book comes out you notice that he’s now living in a Beverly Hills mansion, in Hollywood, instead of the tiny bush hut he used to inhabit.

  So you’re sure that he’s grateful; you feel absolutely confident that you’ve done the right thing, and you start looking around for more money to send him.r />
  ou take one look at the corridor and realise that it’s time to get out of there, otherwise you’re going to end up as a smoked student.

  You run from the building and out to the street. There’s a wild wailing noise of sirens, a jangling of bells, and a fire engine pulls up.

  Firefighters jump off the truck and start pulling out hoses and axes and fire extinguishers. ‘I’ll help!’ you cry enthusiastically. A fireman hands you the end of a hose.

  ‘Quick!’ he says. ‘Attach it to the tank.’

  You’re not sure what he means but you don’t like to admit that. You look around and, yes, there’s a big white tank just fifty metres away, sitting in the corner of the schoolyard. You rush over to it and connect the hose to the outlet. Then you stand back and watch. The fireman points the hose at the fire and opens the valve on the nozzle. Liquid shoots out in a huge powerful spray, falling straight onto the flames.

  To your amazement there’s a massive whoooosh and a great fireball rolls up into the sky. You look at the tank in surprise. Oopsadaisy. You should have looked at it before. On the side in big red letters is painted: DANGER—PETROL—HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE. You realise you’ll go down in history as the person who burnt the school down on your very first day. What an honour.

  ou have an amazing afternoon. Norths win by eleven points. No one can believe it, least of all you. The only time they get behind is when you go to buy a hot dog. You have to wait while they heat it up, and it takes a while. You’re away from your seat for ten minutes, without a view of the match, and when you get back the other team has scored twice and now leads. You remember what that weird kid said—how you have to be watching them if they’re going to win, and you start to believe that maybe he really did know what he was talking about.