Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy

Home > Other > Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy > Page 2
Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy Page 2

by John Michael


  I thought I had made a pretty good dent in the speech but then a clap of thunder made me lose my train of thought. The half-empty glass of milk vibrated across the table and I felt my organs move. There was no doubt, the storm had really picked up. The unrelenting raindrops sounded like a thousand midgets tap-dancing on the roof. This was some serious rain − these droplets would have even impressed Noah. And between you and me, the thunder and lightning was freaking me out but Mum didn’t come and check on me − I guess she was still a bit peeved.

  I reread what I had written so far and I’ve got to tell you that I was pretty impressed with myself and couldn’t wait to show Mum. One look at my speech and all would be forgiven − I’d even get my cookies back. I tried to write the next sentence but it seemed that my brain had run out of puff and nothing was forthcoming. The rain intensified. I stared at my page for a good ten minutes. My mind started to wander and I began to hanker for Pacman. The thunder rumbled. I doodled in the margins for inspiration but still nothing. The lightning crackled. Zip. Zero. Zilch. There was no use in fighting it − I had writer’s block. I felt like my brain was giving me the silent treatment.

  I looked over at the computer, sitting there on the desk all alone. I thought back to all the good times we’ve had together − playing games, listening to music and watching funny cat videos. I felt a slight pang of guilt, maybe I was being too rash in my judgement.

  To be logical about this, was it really the computer’s fault? I mean if you think about it and if you took all the emotion out of the equation, weren’t the teachers to blame for giving us homework? Aren’t they the ones who love to see us suffer? I could just see them now, snuggling up together in the teachers’ lounge and laughing it up:

  “That’s right... I gave my class an essay to complete overnight on Animal Farm, and get this... we didn’t even study the book in class!”

  “What about this one? I told my students to study algebra and statistics and then, wait for it... the exam was on surds and indices!”

  “That ain’t nothing... I set a 4000-word case study on the Alaskan Tundra, which was due on the last day of school, and then... I didn’t even collect it!”

  That’s right! Laughing it up at our expense! But hang on a minute... why does every single teacher always moan and groan about having to mark homework then? Sure, not as much as the students but they seem to hate homework as well. Not that I’m sticking up for teachers (Noooo! I would never do that! Otherwise I’d get beaten up at lunchtime). But let’s face it, less homework meant less work for the teachers − they’re always saying how they don’t have a life, that their weekends are never free, how they are always marking, blah, blah, blah. And then there’s the stress associated with chasing up students who don’t do their homework and having to hear every excuse in the book. You know! Excuses like:

  We had a serious infestation of termites and they devoured my homework.

  My sister is getting married and we needed my homework to make confetti.

  I caught a bad case of homeworkitis and got a fever and broke out in hives.

  So even though coming up with homework excuses was a rite of passage for every student and goes back to caveman times, it was all getting rather predictable. Let’s face it, the ol’ ‘dog ate my homework’ schtick was older than dirt and had probably been around before dogs were even invented. Imagine the amount of time and energy you would save if you didn’t have to think up new homework excuses.

  Say you don’t do your homework for half of your subjects each school day − that’s approximately ten excuses per week. It takes a good 30 minutes to come up with a half-decent excuse so that’s five hours a week. There are 52 weeks in a year, subtract holiday time, that’s 40 weeks in total. Multiply the number of weeks by the total number of minutes per excuse and you’re looking at a staggering 200 hours per year. Imagine what you could do with that spare time? Fly to the moon, stop for a lunar picnic and fly back; swim across the English Channel twenty times; run fifty full distance marathons; travel in a submarine around the North Pole; or go hot air ballooning across the Atlantic!

  So if teachers weren’t at fault when it came to homework, then who’s to blame? Surely there’s got to be somebody? Without a doubt, teachers do love to make you suffer but they’ve got an entire arsenal of options up their collective sleeves when it comes to student torture. They make you recite love poetry in front of the class, don’t let you go to the toilet when you’re busting, and give you lunch detention for yawning in class.

  Hang on a second, doesn’t the SCHOOL force the teachers to give us homework? Yes, that’s right! That makes perfect sense... but wait a minute, don’t the PARENTS demand that the school gives the students homework? Of course! Wait, this all leads back to MUM – I knew it! I just knew it!

  I had cracked this entire homework conspiracy wide open! Yes, but it didn’t change the fact that I still had to finish my speech. I now knew the truth but who was I going to complain to? Mum? She was the judge, jury and executioner in this entire set-up and if I didn’t finish the speech I felt that I would be dealing solely with the ‘executioner’ side of her. The thunder rumbled outside my window again like some ominous messenger of doom.

  There was no time to waste − I quickly strolled over to my computer. I was willing to forgive and forget. We were friends once more but this time, however, I promised myself that I would be strong and undertake some actual work, not the pretend stuff I was doing when Mum was around.

  I sat down at my desk and was about to type in ‘photosynthesis’ when, out of nowhere, a blinding flash of light lit up the room. The Googol screen pulsated wildly. All of a sudden, finishing my speech was the least of my worries... an intense pain throbbed through my brain and I shut my eyes tight to block out the burning brilliance.

  When I opened my eyes moments later, I was sure that I was dreaming... or perhaps that wasn’t the right term... maybe I was nightmaring. The bedroom had somehow entered the computer screen. Or was it that the computer screen had entered my bedroom? Either way, I was on the verge of freaking out. I figured that a lightning bolt had made direct contact with the telephone line going into the computer. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the monitor and noticed that I had frizzled hair like the bride of Frankenstein.

  Suddenly the screen flickered with even greater intensity. The Googol letters started to float around me in a rhythmic dance of bobbing, dipping, twisting and weaving. The coloured letters merged and started to speak to me in a babble of tongues − the Blues singing of brilliant oceans and wholesome skies, the Reds erupted into a melody of forgotten deserts and redcoat armies. My brain became inflamed − my neurons throbbed, my synapses sizzled. The colourful music filled me, washing over me − I could feel it on my skin, entering my pores, consuming me. The sweet tones exploded in my mouth in an ecstasy of flavours tasting like shimmering words, infinite knowledge and piercing wisdom. My senses were overwhelmed by a tsunami of stimuli. I was drinking from the golden cup but it was filling me up all too quickly − my tastebuds savoured stories and tragedies, my ears absorbed ballads and histories. I noticed my reflection in the screen but this time I looked more like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream.’ The painting was the last thing that I remembered before my mind went completely blank.

  Chapter three

  brabbensack

  “Wake up, wake up!” echoed a stifled voice.

  I opened my eyes and what did I see before me? Well, I wasn’t exactly sure but it seemed to be a puppet on a string performing some uncoordinated dance.

  I rubbed my blurry eyes and realised that it was Mum!

  She was prancing about with her head halfhidden in an unironed blouse while she was trying to put on her left shoe.

  A muffled voice reverberated from beneath the blouse, “Ouf bof fred! Ouf bof fred! Bum on!” but then became intensely audible as her head popped out of the collar like a bright red tomato.

  “Out of bed! Out of bed! Come on!”

&n
bsp; “Huh? What time is it?” I mumbled as I yawned loudly.

  “The storm caused a blackout last night and the alarm clocks didn’t go off!”

  I stared blankly at Mum... noticing that she had pillow head and trying to decide whether or not to tell her.

  “Come on slow poke... off to school!”

  She grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out from under the sheets. Mum was surprisingly strong for her petite frame. She started to fire random questions at me.

  “Did you brush your homework? Did you finish your hat? Is your pack bagged? Did you rehearse your lunch?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about so I did what I usually did in these situations, I smiled and nodded.

  Even if I wanted to, there was no time to answer... not even time to mention her pillow head. Mum dashed around the house grabbing an assortment of items and stuffed them into my school bag and before I knew it, I was being manhandled out the door. She gave me my bag, a peck on the forehead and a swift push down the driveway. I was about to voice my indignation when the bus appeared − like a bright yellow brick rattling down the street. For some reason the bus was a little more noisy than usual and I could sense a slight knocking in the engine every few seconds and a steady cloud of grey smoke was spewing out of the exhaust pipe. I got on the bus and eyeballed the driver.

  “Hey, Miss Bus Driver?”

  She immediately looked me up and down with a certain amount of disdain. The bus driver was around fifty years old with a halfsmoked cigarette in the corner of her mouth, small beady eyes and unkempt hair, she was wearing her regulation blue uniform, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing a skull and crossbones tattoo on her well-formed bicep. You could see that years of driving buses full of whiny and unruly teenagers had crushed her spirit.

  “What do ya want pipsqueak?” she muttered in a gravelly voice.

  Everyone knew that bus driver Doris didn’t accept nonsense from any of the students... she ran a tight ship, even if it was a bus. She had once thrown a student’s bag out the window because his nose whistled while he breathed. I had to tread lightly.

  “Um... excuse me but your engine is making knocking sounds.”

  “Yeah? What’s it to ya?” she snapped in a defensive tone.

  Suddenly, I felt cogs whirring in my brain and before I knew it, my mouth was spewing out information I didn’t realise that I knew.

  “Actually, your combustion is occurring too early as one of your spark plugs is firing too soon. While it’s still safe to drive the bus, you better get it checked out soon as faulty detonation can crack pistons and rings, blow out head gaskets, damage valves, and flatten rod bearings. Also, your flywheel might be loose and could need replacing.”

  She looked at me like a slack-jawed yokel and her half-smoked cigarette fell to the floor.

  “Hey kid, how’d ya know all that?”

  “Well... um... I dunno... I heard... maybe because of... um... ah...” I struggled to answer her and the reality of the situation was that I didn’t have a clue as to how I knew that the bus had a problem. I had as much interest in the workings of automobiles as I did about porridge, garden worms, or Dad’s collection of stamps.

  “The mechanic said exactly the same thing this mornin’... the bus is gettin’ serviced after I drop youse off.”

  “Ha ha... well I guess that’s great news,” I replied as I forced a cheesy smile.

  “Looks like we gots ourselves a lil’ greasemonkey here!” she said as she smiled back, revealing her smoke stained teeth.

  “In ya go ya lil’ scamp.” And with that she ruffled my hair as I scurried on board.

  I tried to look as unassuming as possible but it was too late, everybody had overheard our conversation and they were staring at me as if I had just farted the tune to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

  I quickly took my usual seat next to Barney towards the front of the bus.

  As anybody who was ever misfortunate enough to go to school knows, the general pecking order of student-coolness was set in stone with the cool kids at the back, the wannabe kids in the middle and then there were the rest of us. Still, I was ahead of a few other ill-fated sods. If it wasn’t for poor Percival, or Pukeface Percy as he was known, who suffered from terrible motion sickness, and Moody Miriam with her penchant for uncontrollable nose bleeds, we’d be sitting right in the first row. And who could forget the fateful excursion to Peckadilley’s Petting Zoo? The bus had to navigate along a particularly rough road and the bumpy ride set off Percy’s motion sickness, he then puked all over Miriam and she responded in kind with a gushing nosebleed. It was such a mess that the teachers had to hose them down at the nearest service station and call their parents to come and get them. So, all things considered, at least I could hold down my food and Barney’s nose never bled, although he did pick it a lot. I settled down in my seat and we exchanged our usual morning greetings.

  “Hey Howie.”

  “Hi Barney.”

  “Ah... what was that all about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t know you were into engines.”

  “Um... I’m not... it’s just... well I don’t really know how to explain it!”

  I let out a long sigh, school hadn’t even started and already things weren’t making sense... usually it took the first few minutes of a lesson to get me confused.

  “Don’t worry about it Howie,” stated Barney. “It happens to the best of us. Do you remember last week when I couldn’t explain why Rome wasn’t the capital of Romania?”

  “Yep... Miss Fremskey was quite peeved... you’re lucky she didn’t put you in a chokehold.”

  “Yeah, well... sometimes you just have to hold your ground. That Fremskey doesn’t like it when you give it to her straight!”

  “Well... ah... I’m not sure that your answer was -”

  “Hey! Is that a new bag?”

  I looked around over my shoulder and realised that Mum had accidently given me my sister’s sports bag − in all its bright orange glory. As I rummaged through the contents, I found her smelly gym shoes, a rotting banana, and an empty jumbo-packet of skittles. In her hurry, Mum had given me a carrot and a jar of mustard for lunch and my Dad’s gardening hat in place of my school cap.

  “Damn... what a bad start to the day,” I grumbled out loud.

  “Huh? Oh, you mean the speech?”

  “The speech?! Oh no!” I gave myself an audible slap on the forehead. “I left my speech on my desk!”

  “Oh, that’s no good!” proclaimed Barney. “Um... well... you can use mine if you like.”

  I gave Barney one of those bewildered stares, the look you often get from your parents when you say or do something quite dopey. You know, like when you told your parents that you were going to run away with the circus and become a clown, or being caught red-handed as you tried to get your bread out of the toaster with a fork. Barney was a great friend, pretty much the only friend I had, and I always knew that I could rely on him through thick and thin. We were both languishing at the bottom of every class but that’s not the reason we were great mates.

  I guess I could thank Bazza McNollop as it all started in kindergarten. Bazza would torment me every day and for no particular reason... I think that he just didn’t like the look of my face. I would cop wet willies from him, random noogies, Indian burns... you name it, I ended up getting it. He dished out his harassment with relish and always had a lop-sided sneer on his face as he tormented me. He had a surprising big fat mean-streak for a skinny little kid. Then one day, as Bazza was spitballing me, a random gust of wind disrupted his aim and he hit Barney by mistake. Now, normally Barney probably wouldn’t have even cared but this time the spitball managed to connect with the donut he was eating, a double-glazed caramel cream crunch with extra sprinkles, and sent it hurtling to the pavement. Barney grabbed both of Bazza’s ears and lifted him a few inches off the ground. He squealed like a hamster and after Barney let him go, he never bothered me again. After
that we sort of became friends by default − we just naturally gravitated towards each other and it seemed that it was meant to be.

  “Barney... don’t you think Mr Klopsberg will notice if we both deliver the same speech?”

  “Um... I guess you’re right there Howard.”

  “Plus... my speech is on photosynthesis and yours is on a different topic.”

  “Ha ha... right again Howie... my speech is on something called... let me think... ah... something called... am... am... am-oo-bee-ass.

  “You mean amoebas?”

  Barney let out a hearty chuckle. “Amoebas! That’s it!”

  All of a sudden I had the same feeling as when I boarded the bus. I felt as if some cogs were whirring away in my brain, and then my mouth started to spew information.

  “Actually Barney... did you know that the amoeba was first discovered in 1757 by the Austrian naturalist, August Johann Rossel von Rosenhof, and that while in a solid state it is called plasmagel but when it turns into a liquid state, it is called plasmasol.”

  Barney stared at me with a bedazzled expression. At the same time, I was wondering why I knew so much about amoebas. First the bus engine and now this... things were just getting weirder and weirder.

  After a long pause Barney finally responded. “Um... that was interesting Howie, I will try to remember that for my speech.”

  “Ah... yeah... I don’t even know where that came from,” I replied as I scratched my head.

  “Did you say naspalags and losmopops?”

  “Ha ha... close enough,” I answered as I let out a forced laugh and slapped him on the back.

  In return, Barney gave me a friendly punch in the arm which left a bit of a sting... Barney just didn’t know his own strength. I put on a brave face and pretended it didn’t hurt (while holding back a tear).

  “Save your strength for the hanner high strike at the festival big fella!” I uttered as I rubbed ny arm.

  “Ah that’s right, it’s next week, isn’t it?”

 

‹ Prev