The Dreaded Noodle-Doodles

by Karen McCombie

  Speaking of sounds, one I was sure Thing would like was the boing …!! boing …!! boing …!! of the trampoline.

  Me and Jackson were last in line, but once it was finally my go, I glanced over at the row of benches piled with clothes and bags and quickly picked out Jackson’s black rucksack. I pictured our funny little pet Thing peering out through the mesh and ‘Boingy … boingy … boing!! ’ing happily to itself.

  For a second, that made me smile, instead of stressing.

  But with the very next boing, I was stressing again.

  That’s because when I was on the upward part of my boing, I got a clear view out of the gym window, directly into the brightly lit dinner hall.

  Which meant I got a clear view of what was going on in there!

  ‘Jackson!’ I hissed, still jumping, but waving for him to clamber up and join me.

  He frowned, then glanced over at the far end of the gym, where Miss Wilson was handing out hula-hoops to everyone who’d finished warming up on the trampoline.

  Once he was sure our teacher was distracted, Jackson leapt on board. We were only supposed to go on the trampoline one at a time, but he could probably tell by the look on my face that it was worth the risk of (another) telling-off.

  Boing!!

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, timing his jumps so we were bouncing together.

  Boing!!

  ‘Look!’

  Boing!!

  ‘At what?’

  Boing!!

  ‘The dining hall! Something –’

  Boing!!

  ‘– REALLY weird is going on in there!’

  Boing!

  ‘Oh, wow! Oh, no!’ gasped Jackson, suddenly feeling the same wave of dread that I’d just had a just a second ago, when I caught sight of Mrs Sweeney.

  At first glance, I thought she was tangoing as she tidied.

  At second glance, it seemed like she was pogoing with the plates.

  At third glance, I realised she was going demented, not dancing, and that a whole twisty tangle of giant noodles was snaking around her and chasing her around the room!

  Boing!!

  ‘Thing,’ I said breathlessly, ‘must have cast a spell on her –’

  Boing!!

  ‘–’cause it heard her being so rude to us!’

  Boing!!

  ‘But wouldn’t we have seen something? Like –’

  Boing!!

  ‘– those sparkles that always happen?’

  Boing!!

  Before I could answer Jackson, we both heard a familiar purry voice.

  ‘Boing!’

  Me and Jackson stared down, only to see a small furry creature bouncing and boinging and falling happily at our feet.

  ‘Hee hee! I like trampling!’

  EEK!!

  It’s very hard to stop dead on a trampoline, but we did our best, sort of crumpling to our knees and collapsing on the elasticised canvas.

  ‘Hide it!’ I hissed at Jackson, who’d already grabbed Thing and stuffed it up his T-shirt. ‘I’ll go and tell Miss Wilson you feel ill, and that I’m taking you to the sick-room!!’

  It was pretty good as nano-second plans go, but I had no time to feel pleased with myself.

  While Jackson clutched his stomach, I rushed through the whirl of hula-hoopers to Miss Wilson.

  In a gabbled bumble of words, I told her that I was sure Jackson must have the same tummy bug I’d had on Tuesday (yes – the imaginary tummy bug!!).

  Then I hurriedly told her not to worry when it looked like she might go over and check on him. (Thank goodness for twenty-eight hula-hooping kids who Miss Wilson couldn’t leave alone, in case they got in a tangle, probably.)

  OK, so it was time to escape! And, er, try to do something about the disaster in the dining room …

  ‘Right – let’s go,’ I hissed at Jackson, grabbing his rucksack off the bench and rushing us both out of the gym doors.

  ‘But I don’t understand – why didn’t we feel Thing trembling? It always does that right before the magic starts!’ said Jackson, as we jogged across the playground.

  ‘Thing was hidden away in here, remember?’ I said, holding the black bag up and shaking it a little as we ran.

  But with the shaking came an ever-so-familiar FIZZing sound, and out rolled a tumble of cartwheeling sparkles!

  Well, I guess that answered our next question; the mini fireworks show had happened inside the rucksack …

  ‘Whatever,’ Jackson panted, still holding tight to Thing under his T-shirt, as if he was cradling a baby bump. ‘But how are we going to fix this?’

  ‘I have NO idea,’ I answered, as we hurtled in the dining room, and saw the strange sight of Mrs Sweeney, tied to a chair by living, wibbling ropes of pasta.

  Even her mouth was covered by twists and loops of noodles, so her shrieks of alarm sounded more like muffled huffing.

  So how come none of dining room staff had come rushing to Mrs Sweeney’s rescue?

  Well, it was pretty easy to figure out why.

  Behind the closed doors that led to the kitchen came the sounds of a radio blaring, people laughing, singing and chatting, the din of pots and pans clattering in the sink and the deep rumble-grumbling of dishwashers.

  No wonder the rest of the catering staff didn’t know what terrible, noodly fate had befallen Mrs Sweeney.

  (And maybe none of them cared, since they sounded like they were having fun, and fun wasn’t something that Mrs Sweeney was particularly into, by the looks of it.)

  So … no one else knew what Thing had done.

  Good.

  But neither me nor Jackson knew what to do about it.

  Bad …

  ‘Mmmfffff!’ Mrs Sweeney mumbled now, her face practically purple with shock and her eyes wide, white and bright as headlights.

  And those eyes were fixed not so much on us standing there in our gym kits, but on the eerily moving bump under Jackson’s T-shirt.

  I could see what Mrs Sweeney was thinking. She’d already been held hostage by wild noodles – what on earth was going to burst out of Jackson’s tum, and what exactly did it plan on doing to her?!?

  And then meanie Sweeney’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when Thing popped out from under Jackson’s T-shirt.

  ‘Thing, you’ve got to fix all this!’ Jackson pleaded, grabbing hold of it and setting it down on the nearest table. ‘Make those noodles disappear!’

  ‘Eep!’ Thing squeaked in reply, rubbing its tiny paws together nervously.

  ‘Of course it can’t fix what’s happened!!’ I said, as I went over to Mrs Sweeney and started to unravel the ribbons of wobbly pasta from around her. ‘Jackson, you know Thing needs to feel ARRGHH! before it can do any magic!’

  ‘Well, yeah, but can’t we do something to make it feel—’

  Jackson didn’t get to the end of his sentence. Like an eel wiggling through water, the section of noodles around Mrs Sweeney’s mouth floated off into the air as I tugged at it.

  ‘What,’ she bellowed, ‘is that flea-ridden, germ-infested squirrel doing in MY dining room!!’

  Now, there was something very important that Mrs Sweeney didn’t happen to know, and it’s this: Thing hates squirrels.

  And you must never, ever suggest that Thing is a squirrel, even if you think it looks a tiny bit like one. (Shh!)

  And of course Mrs Sweeney also didn’t know that Thing could talk.

  ‘You – you not nice lady!’ said Thing, suddenly trembling with ARRGHH! ‘Not nice words in your mouth!’

  At the sound of Thing’s funny purry voice, Mrs Sweeney gasped a huge gasp – and immediately fainted where she sat.

  Which meant, of course, that she missed the seriously spectacular weirdness that was starting …

  ‘What are you doing, Thing?’ Jackson asked nervously.

  ‘I make tornado … spin this not nice lady away!’ Thing growled.

  Flickers of light danced around the dining hall.

  ‘Please don’
t!’ I said uselessly, panicking about how we were going to hide a sudden, ferocious indoor storm from the rest of the school.

  But it was too late for pleases, since sparkles were cartwheeling all around us.

  And then just as soon as the mini fireworks show started, it stopped.

  Then something else began; the overhead sprinkler system burst into life, sending lookalike showers of rain over us, over the whole dining room, over meanie Mrs Sweeney, our school’s very own gloomy storm-cloud.

  Wait a minute – I could see the droplets all around, but I couldn’t feel them.

  I was dry, and so was Jackson. So was a startled-looking Thing. It was as if we all had invisible umbrellas hovering above us.

  Hold on; there was something a bit odd about the sprinkler rain. It was steaming. Which meant …

  ‘The water’s hot!’ I blurted out in surprise.

  Well, this wasn’t exactly a tornado (thankfully), but then again, how could hot rain help us out of our sticky situation?

  ‘Rubby! Boy! Look – noodle-doodles deaded!’ Thing squeaked.

  It was right.

  The giant pasta ropes were shrinking to string-sized bits of spaghetti and flopping limp and lifeless onto the floor.

  They’d been overcooked in the sprinkler water, turning from monster pasta to gluey mush, just like they’d been on my plate at lunchtime!

  But what about Mrs Sweeney?

  Phew – she seemed dry, same as us.

  (Trying to explain a boiled catering assistant sounded way too complicated.)

  ‘Help!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eeeek!!’

  Uh-oh. From the shocked and startled cries coming from the direction of the kitchen, I realised that the sprinkler system had gone off in there too. Which meant it would only be a matter of seconds before the catering staff came hurtling out here to see what was going on.

  ‘You, me and Thing,’ I said to Jackson, ‘have to get to the sick-room, quick!’

  ‘But what if Mrs Sweeney tells on us?’ Jackson worried, shovelling Thing into the rucksack so quickly that it squeaked in surprise.

  The temperature was cooling; the water was turning from hot to cold; the sprinklers were turning themselves off …

  ‘Let’s see,’ I said, pretending to mull over his dumb question as we splashed through lino puddles and headed out into the playground. ‘Mrs Sweeney wakes up and tells everyone that the noodles came alive and tied her to a chair, and then we walked in with a talking squirrel!’

  ‘I get it! They’re going to think she’s gone absolutely and totally bananas, aren’t they?’ Jackson grinned, knowing we were safe, safe safe.

  Though there was just one little problem.

  Mrs Sweeney might not tell the whole truth to the rest of the staff, in case they thought she was bonkers. (And the staff might think she’d just fainted, dropping all the noodles on the floor, and that the sprinklers came on by some faulty coincidence.)

  But what was going to happen next time me and Jackson were in the queue for lunch?

  Was Mrs Sweeney going to silently punish us for messing with her mind?

  Would she make Jackson write out the dining hall rules a hundred times?

  And was I going to get served lettuce with everything for the rest of my school life?

  Apple pie, custard and lettuce; I couldn’t wait …

  At the end of Friday morning’s assembly the Head Teacher made an announcement.

  He had some sad news, he said.

  Which turned out to be very good news for me and Jackson. And anyone else who had ever been growled at by Mrs Sweeney during lunch hours. (Which meant everyone, of course.)

  Mrs Sweeney, the Head told us, had decided to take some time off, and think about a new career. ‘Hey, maybe she could model for Halloween masks?!’ Jackson whispered to me. I had to turn my snorty laugh into a choky sort of cough quick, before Miss Wilson told me off …

  The new dinner lady was as different from Mrs Sweeney as butterflies are from pterodactyls.

  ‘Hello, there! Just call me Shirley! Now what would you like today, dear? No problem!’ she beamed at us all, while every single kid in school stared back open-mouthed, completely stunned by her niceness.

  Of course we told Thing the very good sad news when we snuck down to the trees after school today.

  ‘I swish I see Just-call-me-Shirley,’ it had purred.

  Quick as a blink, Jackson rifled in the rustly bag in his hand, and offered Thing a yellow jellybaby.

  In case you hadn’t guessed, yes, Jackson was trying to distract it. That’s because neither of us wanted Thing to think about … going anywhere near school ever again, or … going anywhere else in the big, wide world ever again.

  So, to make its hideaway home in the straggle of trees seem extra homely and too-good-to-leave, me and Jackson had come armed with a couple of very special gifts.

  As you’ll see …

  ‘Wheeeee!’

  Thanks to the first gift, Thing had learned a new word.

  It was wheeeeeing because it liked its trampoline very much.

  I just hoped Jackson’s mum didn’t notice that her cake tin was missing any time soon.

  And I’d have to tell Dad that I’d lost my swimming cap next time he took me to the pool.

  ‘Boing!!’ Thing squeaked, as it bounced on the stretched red rubber, watched by Christine cat, who was sitting on the stone wall of my garden. Actually, no, she was just sleeping, as usual.

  ‘Hey, Thing – where do you want this?’ asked Jackson, holding up a picture of a tamarin monkey.

  Jackson had downloaded it and then used his dad’s laminator so that the print would stay nice and dry outdoors.

  ‘That tree good tree!’ purred Thing, pointing to a spindly sapling. ‘Can see tammy monkey from my house, see?’

  Ah, yes. If Jackson pinned the photo up right there, Thing could lie in its snug, rustly, crunchy bed inside the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine van and happily daydream about Amazonian rainforests.

  ‘And I can go to the library in town tomorrow and get you a book about tropical habitats, if you like!’ I suggested brightly.

  I didn’t expect Thing to react how it did.

  ‘But Rubby, I not like snacks!’ it said, wobbling to a quivering stop.

  What, did yellow jelly babies and trampolines = travel sickness, perhaps?

  ‘Don’t worry, Thing!’ said Jackson, while trying not to smirk. ‘I’m sure Ruby will flip past any poisonous snacks in the book!’

  Thing meant snakes! Well, hurray for Jackson being able to translate Thing-isms …

  ‘Oh no, we definitely won’t look at any of those!!’ I chipped in, giving our ginger furry friend a comforting stroke on the back (and on those odd, useless stubby wings).

  ‘Here, have another jellybaby,’ said Jackson, trying to cheer Thing up in his own, sweet-toothed way.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Thing, helping itself to a handful. ‘Rubby and boy nice to me – give me little people to eat and tammy monkey picture and trampling. Now I like to do nice to you!’

  Uh-oh.

  I hoped Thing wasn’t about to give us any ‘pressles’.

  Last time it did, Jackson got a lovely gift of a stick, while I ended up with a handful of grass and some muddy knickers. (Don’t ask.)

  Before Thing could think of something we really didn’t want or need, I came up with an idea.

  ‘Hey, you know what would be really nice?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, please, Rubby?’ said Thing, excitedly rocking from side to side.

  ‘I’d love to see you fly!’

  Stroking its back had given me the idea, of course.

  ‘But Rubby, you know wingles not ever work!’ Thing blinked up at me.

  ‘Wow, I’d love to see you fly too!’ Jackson joined in. ‘Jump as high as you can, then wiggle those wingles!’

  Thing blinked, dropped its semi-nibbled haul of sweets, and began bouncing.

  Boin
g!

  ‘Go on!’ I said in my best encouraging voice. ‘You can do it!’

  Boing!

  ‘Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!’ chanted Jackson.

  Boing!

  ‘Peh!’ grunted Thing, with the effort of bouncing, not to mention the knobbly wing wobbling.

  Boing!

  ‘There! I’m sure I saw the left one move!’ Jackson burst out.

  Boing!

  ‘Rubby! I FLY! See?!’ Thing purred happily.

  Me and Jackson clapped our hands together so loudly that we nearly woke up Christine cat (but not quite).

  In that same second, Jackson looked at me and I looked at Jackson.

  And we both knew in that one little look that …

  And so that’s the end of my story.

  A story of the time when me and Jackson and Thing got away with not-so-secret snoring, toilets full of tomatoes, assorted paint gloopings and some very badly behaved noodle-doodles.

  Luckily, Thing never got us into that sort of trouble again.

  I swish!!

  Copyright

  First published in 2012

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2012

  All rights reserved

  © Karen McCombie, 2012

  Illustrations © Alex T. Smith, 2012

  The right of Karen McCombie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly