“I do remember that,” said Wayne. “And I repay you every day by not punching your face in.”
“He has a point,” said Theo.
“Fine.” I sighed. “What do you want?”
Wayne leaned forwards and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “Half the prize money.”
“What? No way!” I spluttered.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Good luck finding someone else,” said Wayne, getting up.
“Wait!” I said. Wayne hesitated, then sat down. “If I win, you can have a hundred quid.”
“A hundred? Out of five grand? No chance. A thousand.”
“Two hundred.”
“One thousand two hundred.”
“What? That’s not how negotiation works,” I protested.
“One thousand three hundred.”
“No, listen…”
“One thousand four hundred.”
“All right, fine, fine, stop! A thousand pounds. If I win. And you can’t tell anyone.”
Wayne grinned, showing teeth caked in Monster Munch. “Deal,” he said.
“OK, good.” I glanced around the hall to make sure no one was watching, then took a large piece of paper from my pocket and unfolded it. It was covered in notes, scribbles and diagrams, and represented two full hours of scheming. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”
With the telly-show situation taken care of, it was time to deal with the problem of having to read the script to say my lines. Fortunately Theo had helped me come up with a plan.
Ms Brannan peered down her nose at me and tapped her foot. “What do you mean, you can’t say your lines?”
“I mean I can’t say my lines, Miss,” I said, hoping that would clear things up. It didn’t.
“Why ever not? The play’s in two days!”
I shoved my gobstopper in my mouth and let Theo take over. “He’s had a head injury, Miss.”
Ms Brannan’s eyes widened. “A head injury? When?”
“When he was a baby,” said Theo. “He got kicked by a horse.”
“He got kicked by a horse?” the teacher gasped. “In the head? As a baby? Oh, Dylan, you poor thing.”
“Ah dnt rlly,” I mumbled through the gobstopper. “H’s tkng rbish.”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Theo said quickly. “That’s why he didn’t tell you he couldn’t memorize his lines. He was too embarrassed.”
“Oh, you dotty dumpling!” said Ms Brannan. “Being kicked in the head by a horse as a baby is nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t your fault!” She glanced at Theo. “It wasn’t, was it?”
“No, Miss,” Theo said. “Anyway, we’ve come up with a plan. I’ll stand in the wings and hold up his lines on a big card. He can just read them – but, you know, doing an actor voice and everything – and no one will be any the wiser.”
“But you’re supposed to be on lighting,” said Ms Brannan.
“I can just switch them on at the start, then stick them off at the end. Easy,” Theo said. “To be honest, I was planning on sleeping through most of it, anyway.”
Ms Brannan stroked her chin and looked at me. “Do you think it’ll work?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Es iss.”
“Very well. But I do wish you’d told me sooner,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s sorry about that,” said Theo. “Oh, and one other thing. Because it brings back bad memories, we probably shouldn’t speak about the horse thing again. Ever.”
Ms Brannan looked confused, but then shrugged. “Fine. I won’t mention it.” She about-turned and clapped her hands. “OK, places, everyone, places. We’re going to take this from the top!”
I spat my gobstopper back into my bag and gave Theo a high-five.
Evie met me at the top of the stage steps. “Excited about being on the telly?” she asked.
“Yes!” I said, grinning. I was excited, although it was more a nervous excitement than an excited excitement. Borderline terror, really. Wayne wasn’t exactly the most reliable person in the world and my entire plan hinged on him.
Still, five thousand pounds. Maybe even twenty-five thousand. It was worth the risk.
“You?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been practising with Gizmo every night. She can do a full four-minute drum solo now,” said Evie. “Mind you, not as impressive as your dog riding a bike. I can’t wait to see that.”
“He can’t,” I said, before I could stop myself.
“Can’t what?”
“Ride a bike. My dog can’t ride a bike,” I revealed, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I made it up. I’ve convinced Wayne to dress up as him using one of the costumes from the play.”
“You’ve convinced Wayne to dress up as your dog and go on TV?”
I bit my lip. “Yep.”
Evie glanced up at the back of the hall where Wayne was busy painting a big cardboard UFO. She exploded into laughter. “Oh man, Beaky, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. You’re amazing!”
She stuttered to a stop and blushed. “Your plan, I mean. Your plan’s amazing. Now I really can’t wait for tomorrow.”
“Come on, chop-chop, places, places!” urged Ms Brannan.
Evie began to turn away, then stopped. “Maybe, you know, if you’re not busy, maybe after the filming we could maybe go and maybe hang out for a bit, maybe? If you’re not too busy.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, but it came out all squeaky, so I tried again. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be … nice.”
Evie smiled. “Well… OK, then. Good. You can tell me how you convinced Wayne to dress up as your dog.”
“OK!” I said.
“Right, then!” said Evie.
She nodded at me, clicked her fingers a few times, then darted into the wings to get ready. I watched her go, then almost jumped out of my skin when Theo’s voice whispered in my ear.
“Beaky and Evie, sitting in a tree…”
Evie’s head appeared suddenly through the side curtains. Theo leaped back like he’d been electrocuted.
“Oh, and are you going to that thing tonight?” Evie asked.
“What thing?”
“The PTA thing.”
I groaned. “Aww. Is there a PTA thing?”
“Yep. You going?”
I shrugged. “She hasn’t mentioned it, but probably.”
“Yeah, same here,” said Evie. Her smile lit up her whole face. “See you there!”
I slumped in a chair at the back of the class, doing my best to become invisible. Sadly it wasn’t working. Mum could clearly still see me.
“Next slide, please, Dylan.”
She was standing in front of a scabby pull-down screen in a classroom I hadn’t even known existed. Most of the rooms had interactive smartboards but this one had a wonky screen and an ancient projector with all the controls labelled in what I guessed was Russian.
Tonight was Mum’s last chance to impress the rest of the PTA. After she and Mrs Green had made their speeches, everyone would be casting their vote to choose the new chair. As far as I was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough.
I tapped the right arrow key on my laptop and the image on screen changed to show a picture of Mum standing outside the school and pointing at it.
“The school,” said Mum. She pointed down to the floor at her feet. “This school. And that’s me there.”
There were eleven other members of the PTA in the room – not counting Mrs Green, who sat at the side with Evie. Their reactions to Mum’s slides had started off positively with lots of nodding and murmurs of interest.
Now, though, they all shifted in their seats, looking bored. I couldn’t blame them. Mum’s slideshow mostly featured selfies of her pointing at things, with no real explanation as to why.
“Next slide, Dylan,” said Mum.
I tapped the key on the laptop. The picture changed to show Mum standing in the road outside the school and pointing to a hole in the tarmac.
“Potholes. They need
filling in,” said Mum. “Next.”
I clicked again. This time, a picture of Dad filled the screen. He was topless and sunburned, and wearing a sombrero. The audience sniggered in surprise.
“What’s that doing there?” asked Mum, flustered. “Dylan, move on!”
I clicked again. The next slide showed Mum in the street again. This time she was pointing to a car and looking annoyed.
Mum (the real one, not the photo) tutted several times. “And look at this. Look what we have here. A car abandoned in the ‘no parking’ zone outside the gates, where it’s an inconvenience to parents and – yes, I’m going to say it – a danger to children. This sort of thing must be stopped,” she said. “I mean, what sort of person…? Does anyone know whose car this is?”
At the side of the room, Mrs Green let out an irritated sigh. “You know full well whose car it is, Claire. It’s mine.”
Mum put a hand to her chest and gasped. “Yours? That’s your car, Helen? Parked on the yellow lines?”
“I was literally there for thirty seconds,” Mrs Green protested.
“Forty-four seconds, actually,” said Mum.
Mrs Green stood up. “You timed me?”
“Don’t, Mum,” said Evie, but Mrs Green was already thundering across the classroom.
The rest of the PTA – a mix of parents, grandparents, and one woman so old she could only have been a great-great-grandparent – watched like spectators at a tennis match, their heads tick-tocking left to right between Mum and Mrs Green. The previous chair, who should probably have intervened, also just watched.
“Yes, I timed you,” said Mum. “Do you know how many accidents can happen in forty-four seconds, Helen?”
“None!”
“None? Don’t be ridiculous,” Mum spluttered. “A thousand.”
Mrs Green’s voice got higher and louder. “A thousand? What are you talking about? How could a thousand accidents happen in forty-four seconds?”
That caught Mum off guard. I could tell as soon as she’d said it that she hadn’t meant to say “a thousand”, and now she was being forced to explain herself. She began listing on her fingers.
“OK, a car could have crashed into the back of you. A car could have crashed into the side of you. A car could have crashed into the front of you.”
“It’s a one-way street. How could anyone have crashed into the front of me?” Mrs Green demanded.
“They might have been reversing!” said Mum.
Mrs Green gritted her teeth. “You’ll be reversing in a minute!” she warned. “Right through that wall.”
Mum’s jaw dropped. She turned to the audience. “Did you hear that? Threats of violence! She clearly isn’t suited to be chairperson.”
“Stop!” I said, standing up. Everyone turned to look at me and I instinctively did the only thing I could. I told the truth. “Look at you both. Neither of you are suited to being the chairperson.”
“Dylan!” said Mum, looking betrayed.
“Well, it’s true! Literally anyone in this room would probably be better than you two,” I said. I pointed to the great-great-grandmother. “Even her, and I’m pretty sure she’s either asleep or dead. You’ve forgotten what the PTA is all about. I mean, I don’t know what that is, exactly, but presumably it must have some sort of purpose.”
“Beaky’s right,” said Evie. “And it’s not like anyone even cares about the PTA!” She smiled at the rest of the audience. “No offence.”
I nodded. “But if, for some insane reason, you do care, then you can’t vote for either of these two. They don’t represent what the PTA stands for – whatever that is. Maybe they did, once, but they’ve become power-crazed. All they want to do now is beat each other, and they don’t care who gets hurt along the way.”
“Dylan! That’s not true,” said Mum.
“Isn’t it, Mum? Mrs Green? Can you look me in the eye and honestly tell me you want to be in charge of this lot?”
“No offence,” said Evie, smiling at the audience again.
“Or did you just want to win, no matter the cost?”
Mum and Mrs Green looked at each other, then quickly looked away again. They both shuffled their feet.
“You printed two thousand leaflets,” I said. “Two thousand, and only eleven people here can actually vote for you. That’s nearly two hundred leaflets each.”
“I did three thousand,” said Mrs Green. She started off sounding quite proud about that but by the end of the sentence just sounded a bit confused.
I knew I was probably going too far now but there was no stopping me. I turned to the rest of the PTA.
“So, when you vote tonight, don’t vote for either of these two. Vote for him,” I said, pointing to a random man. His eyes went wide with horror and he quickly shook his head. “Or him,” I said, gesturing to someone else. I pointed to the ancient woman. “Or her. But … uh … seriously, could someone check her pulse? She hasn’t moved in, like, twenty minutes.”
“She’s fine,” said Mum.
“She always does that,” agreed Mrs Green.
Evie’s mum and mine both sighed and started talking at the same time.
“Look, Helen…”
“Claire, I…”
They smiled. “We’ve been a bit silly, haven’t we?” said Mum.
Mrs Green nodded. “A tiny bit,” she said. “I’m afraid I got a bit carried away.”
“I got more carried away,” said Mum.
“Well, I don’t know. I got pretty carried away,” said Mrs Green.
“Yes, I mean, obviously,” agreed Mum. “But what I’m saying is that out of the two of us, I was the one who got the most—”
“Seriously?” I said. “You’re going to argue about this now?”
Both mums looked at each other and laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Helen,” said Mum.
“Me, too, Claire,” said Mrs Green, and they reached over to give each other a hug.
The outgoing chairperson began to applaud. One other person joined in but it didn’t really come to much, and lapsed into a slightly embarrassing silence.
Evie bumped her shoulder against mine. “That was pretty cool, Beaky.”
“You were pretty cool yourself,” I said, then I felt a hot prickling on my cheeks as I blushed.
Luckily the outgoing chairperson chose that moment to take charge, saving me from saying anything else.
“OK, let’s have the vote, shall we?” she said, clapping her hands together. She looked at Mum and Mrs Green. “Are you both still going to stand for the position?”
“Helen, how about we stand together as joint chair?” Mum suggested.
“I’d be honoured to,” said Mrs Green. She linked arms with Mum and they both laughed again. It was getting a bit grating, to be honest. “Let the voting begin!”
Ten minutes later I stood in the corridor with Evie, Mum and Mrs Green. Both mums looked a little shell-shocked.
“Well, that was a surprise, wasn’t it?” said Mum.
“Yep. I did not see that coming,” agreed Mrs Green.
The wide-eyed man I’d pointed to during my speech stomped out of the classroom, struggling to carry four boxes of paperwork. He glared at me as he stormed past.
“Thanks a lot, kid,” he said.
We all watched him thunder along the corridor. “You’d think he’d be happier that so many people wrote his name on the voting slip,” said Mum.
“Yeah,” said Mrs Green thoughtfully. “Mind you … it is quite a lot of paperwork, isn’t it?”
“True,” said Mum, nodding slowly. “And then all the extra meetings with the teachers and the council and what have you. Do you get the feeling, Helen, that we might have dodged a bullet?” asked Mum.
Arm in arm, they strolled along the corridor towards the exit. “Do you know, Claire, I think we just might have.”
Evie and I followed behind. “That worked out pretty well,” she said. “Our mums are friends again, we don’t have to do any more stupid PTA
stuff…”
“That old woman’s not dead,” I added.
“Yeah, that’s a bonus,” Evie said. She grinned excitedly. “TV thing tomorrow!”
“Yep. TV thing tomorrow.”
“Got your cunning plan all figured out?”
“I’d love to say, ‘yes’, but I’d be lying,” I told her. “It’s … a work in progress.”
“You realize that if you win, I’m going to blackmail you into giving me half the money,” Evie said, grinning.
“Half!”
“The price of silence, my friend. The price of silence.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. But let’s be honest, neither of us are going to win, anyway.”
“I know!” said Evie. “A wasp that ties knots!”
“Mental,” I said.
Evie shoulder-bumped me again. “Between the TV thing, hanging out afterwards and the play on Friday, I guess we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next few days.”
“Yeah,” I said reaching for my gobstopper, in case the conversation took an awkward turn. “I guess we are.”
I was halfway through a bowl of cereal when Dad slid a shiny disc across the dining table to me. I eyed it with suspicion as I slurped the milk from my spoon.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a CD.”
“What?”
“A CD. You know, it’s got music on it,” Dad said.
“No, I mean what’s it for? Why are you giving it to me?”
“It’s my theme tune for the telly people,” Dad explained. “I thought you could give it to the producer.”
Weirdest Show on Earth Page 5