Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy

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Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy Page 9

by John Michael


  And that was that! Freckles’ king piece shattered like glass. Everyone let out a boisterous cheer. Well, everyone except for Freckles who had come so close to victory. Barney patted him on the back. “Good game Magee... you almost had me there.”

  “Yeah it was a good game.”

  “Ah... nothing better than the sound of klonking at lunchtime to get the blood pumping, eh Freckles?”

  “Well it would have been better if I had won.”

  “In your dreams my friend, in your dreams!” They both chuckled a hearty chuckle and then, right on cue, the bell rang:

  Chapter ten

  hobo joe

  It was hard to surpass the excitement and euphoria of the lunch time klonking match and the remaining couple of lessons of the day were a blur of dullness and dreariness. First, there was a History lesson with Miss Fremskey, whose sole aim in life seemed to be to bore us to tears and, mind you, she was doing a fantastic job. Her droning monotone recital of the Declaration of Independence was like listening to an old aunt going on and on about her thimble collection. All I remember was something about “the pursuit of happiness,” all the rest was a blur of indistinguishable words and, to be honest, I think I was caught in a time warp because the lesson refused to end.

  It seemed that Miss Fremskey’s superhero power (actually, make that supervillain power) was to make time freeze − it was amazing how the present came to a complete standstill while she was teaching us about the past. I glanced at Barney and his face looked like it had turned to stone, he was slightly cross-eyed and had a bit of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. He was not alone, from the looks on the other students’ faces, it was obvious that “the pursuit of happiness” did not apply when one was in Miss Fremskey’s class.

  By the halfway mark of the lesson, every student had completely zonked out but that didn’t stop Miss Fremskey from cranking it up a notch and fatiguing everybody into oblivion. She started to go on about her own lack of ‘happiness’ and how she was unappreciated and then went on some rant about the enslavement of teachers, low wages, how she couldn’t feed her cats and that she was six months behind in her rent. She finished her outburst by stressing that every teacher should be rewarded according to their abilities, and provided for according to their needs, and then, rather oddly, she mentioned the stolen orphanage money and questioned whether theft is really stealing if it is used to buy bread for the starving.

  Suddenly, the alarm bells started ringing. Could Miss Fremskey have been behind the burglary? I looked around for some corroboration but it seemed that I was the only one left in the classroom who was semiconscious − bummer! So much for having a few witnesses to validate my suspicions.

  “Barney?” I whispered.

  There was no response from Barney, he looked like he had fallen into a deep coma.

  “Barney... wake up!” I whispered louder.

  bellowed Miss Fremskey.

  “Yes miss?” I answered meekly.

  “Were you talking Footsmell?”

  “No miss.”

  “But I saw your lips moving!”

  “Yes miss.”

  “So, you were talking!”

  “I was just telling Barney what an amazing lesson this is miss.”

  “Stop your buffoonery you little worm, do you think that I came down in the last shower?”

  “Yes miss, I mean no miss.”

  “Do you want a life-time of detentions Footsmell?”

  “No miss.”

  “Then zip it... and pay attention!”

  “Sorry miss.”

  That Miss Fremskey certainly wasn’t my favourite teacher! My imagination ran wild and I pictured Fremskey in prison stripes with a ball and chain around her ankle as she was forced to break rocks − after all the times she called me ‘Footsmell’ it was the least she deserved. There had to be someway of tying her to the burglary − she was certainly hefty enough to bulldoze through that foyer door, her moral scruples were questionable at best, and she undoubtedly needed the money and probably picked up the trophy as a bonus prize. There was definitely cause for some suspicion and I would trust Miss Fremskey as far as I could throw her (enough said).

  I looked up at her to see if there was something in her expression which would give her away − I needed some sign of guilt. Anything. I studied her carefully but trying to find signs of moral conscience in Miss Fremskey was like looking for fleas on a flea-bitten dog — they were everywhere. So it was back to the drawing board − circumstantial evidence would not be enough to incriminate her but that didn’t mean she was off the hook. I would certainly have to give this matter further thought and if Fremskey had to be locked away, it was a sacrifice that I was willing to make. I was deep in thought about Fremskey getting 50 years to life (with an extra 20 years for all those times she called me Footsmell) when the bell finally rang.

  Our next lesson was English with Mr Van der Hoosen. At this stage our spirits had already been crushed by Miss Fremskey and it was always going to be an uphill battle for the teacher to spark some energy into the last lesson of the day. Of course, it didn’t help that he started off the class with a spelling test, and then followed through with some grammar exercises. He did, however, keep the best for last with his recital of soppy 19th century love poetry − I guess one the perks of being a teacher was that you always had a captive audience at your fingertips. You could tell that Mr Van der Hoosen was really passionate about the poems as he pranced around the classroom reading out lines like “where true love burns desire is love's pure flame” and “I love thee as I love the tone of some soft-breathing flute.”

  It was great that the teacher was so excited and energetic but, for the rest of the class, poetry about burning love and breathless flutes had as much relevance as a snorkel on a goldfish. Halfway through the lesson Barney turned to me. “If this is supposed to be English, why can’t I understand a word the teacher is saying?” He then plonked his head on the table in despair. Mr Van der Hoosen was so caught up in the moment that he failed to realise that the rest of the students were as lively as a bunch of snails on ice. The only thing we were concerned about was the clock on the wall, as we counted down the seconds to freedom.

  When the bell did finally ring, everybody ran out of the school as quickly as possible -like frantic escapees pouring out of a burning building.

  Barney and I were running down the corridor when an unwelcome sight appeared before us. It was none other than Savani.

  “You shall not pass!” she yelled out like some diminutive evil sorceress attempting to hold back her enslaved prisoners.

  I managed to stop dead in my tracks but Barney, carrying a little more excess weight, needed a longer runway to come to a complete standstill and, unfortunately for Savani, she was right in Barney’s path. I had to give it to her though, she didn’t flinch, not one little bit, not even a smidgen. Her hand was outstretched with her palm facing outwards − it was Barney who closed his eyes and scrunched up his face as he approached the moment of impact. I found myself wincing as well.

  Even though Savani was more irritating than a buzzing mosquito* at midnight − I still didn’t want to see her get steamrolled. And that’s what would have undoubtedly happened. She would have been flattened. Like the annoying mosquito that she was. And make no mistake about it, this was a battle which Barney would’ve won − the laws of physics were on his side. When you factor in mass, speed weight and velocity − Savani would have been toast. The flattest piece of toast that you had ever seen, but toast nonetheless.

  I pried one eye slightly open and saw Savani puff out her chest, she was doubling down. It was evident that she didn’t give a hoot about the laws of physics. Savani was completely unflustered, she obviously believed that she could move mountains or, at the very least, move Barney.

  Luckily it didn’t come to that. Barney was able to stop himself with a few millimetres to spare. He opened his eyes and was rather surprised that Savani was still standing upright, l
ooking unscathed and unsquashed (but she was still looking irritable as ever and that was a bit of a bummer).

  “Out of my way, Tweedledum!” she snapped at Barney. “It’s Sootfell I’m after!” Savani side-stepped Barney with a look of annoyance on her face. She seemed totally oblivious to how close she came to becoming a Savani pancake. No doubt, Barney was relieved that he hadn’t squished her. Of course, it would have been all his fault as he was running in the corridor. Plus, it would have looked really bad on his school report card:

  Savani marched down the corridor and, even though I wasn’t the best at reading a person, I could tell by her flared nostrils and the way her eye was twitching that she wasn’t getting enough fibre in her diet. In that moment, I felt my heart palpitate and I thought of making a run for it, but I simply couldn’t move. It was as if my feet were frozen to the floor, which was probably a good thing because if I had run away from Savani, I would not have been able to show my face around these parts ever again.

  I could hear the mocking comments: “Savani chased him out of town,” “He’s scared of a girl,” “He’s the wussiest wuss this side of Wussberg!” No, my reputation would have been in tatters and I would have had to just keep on running. Out of the school gates. Out of the county. Out of the state. I could see how my future would unfold − I would end up as one of those flea-bitten wandering tramps. Drifting from town to town. Chasing boxcars. My only possessions would be wrapped in a cloth at the end of my bindlestick − a harmonica, a pack of playing cards, a compass, a can of beans and maybe an extra pair of underwear.

  I’d live a life scrounging through garbage bins and fighting off rats for the juiciest scraps of food. Sure, it would be a tough life, sleeping on park benches and getting splinters, but darn it, I would learn to accept who I had become. Yes, it would be the hobo life for me. Roaming free across the range with no fences to bound me in. Of course, ‘Howard’ wouldn’t quite do it as a vagabond name and I’d have to think up a more hoboesque title − something like Boxcar Willie, Freddie the Freeloader, Beans McFarty or, my personal favourite, Hobo Joe. To top it off, I would have my own little trademark hobo ditty which I would sing when things weren’t going my way, or when I was down on my luck, or when the cops were chasing me (which I assume would happen regularly). It would go something like this:

  Oh! Nobody knows ’bout my hobo woes!

  Got no shoes and I’ve got holes in my clothes.

  My feet are sore and I’m stuck in the rain,

  Where’s that boxcar? Need to jump on that train.

  A pack of dogs chasing me through the park,

  I’m so dog-gone tired and it’s gettin’ dark.

  Slept on a wooden bench and almost froze,

  Oh! Nobody knows ‘bout my hobo woes!

  I say, nobody knows ‘bout my hobo woes!

  “Sootfell! Sootfell!” Savani’s shrill voice interrupted my hobo ditty and brought me back from my daydream about living the carefree life.

  “Huh?”

  “What are you mumbling about Sootfell?”

  “Ah... um... nothing!”

  “Were you singing?” She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Of course not! Ha! Singing? Don’t be absurd!” I responded defensively. On top of everything else, I certainly didn’t want Savani to know about my hobo flights of fancy.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself Tweedledee?”

  Once again, I had no idea what Savani was talking about and before I could think of something to say, she marched up to me and got right into my personal space. She was so close that I could feel her breath. Not only could I feel her breath but I could also smell it and, yep, there was no doubt about it − she had eaten a tuna sandwich for lunch (with a touch of onion).

  “What is it this time Savani?”

  “You know very well why I’m here!”

  At this point, a sizeable crowd had gathered around us, curious as to what the fuss was about. Towering above the other students, I noticed the resident school bullies, Lazy Lenny, Fergus the Fist and Marsden Post, observing the situation with perverse pleasure and itching to get involved in case there was some prospect of violence. They were leering at me like a bunch of troglodytes eyeing off some easy prey.

  I definitely couldn’t afford to let Savani get the better hand here. If it was seen that a pipsqueak like Savani could push me around, then it would be open season on Howard Sootfell for the rest of the year. It was one thing getting the regular bullying treatment but it was on an entirely different scale when you had a bullseye target painted on your face. It didn’t take much to get singled out from the rest of the herd in this place. Take poor ol’ Tommy Kilkenny who ended up doing strength test exercises in Gym Class with Josie-Belle Klein. Of course, during such activities no boy wanted to pair up with a girl. For one thing, your street cred would go down the toilet straight away. The chant of “ likes to play with girls” would mean the same thing as having leprosy.

  There were, however, other obvious reasons why girls were to be avoided as much as possible: there was that whole ‘sugar and spice’ thing, they weren’t good at klonkers, and of course, as everybody knew, girls had cooties (although, oddly enough, with the cootie thing, the girls said exactly the same thing about the boys). As soon as Mr Perriman told us to find a partner, all the boys quickly scurried to team up with another boy, the girls did the same, but because there were an odd number of boys and girls, Tommy and Josie-Belle missed out. There they were, walking around aimlessly in circles like a couple of discombobulated zombies until it dawned on them that they would have to pair up with each other. They were reluctant to come together at first but Mr Perriman quickly put an end to their hesitancy, in his usual sensitive and caring manner. “You two, it’s game-time! Get your butts on those seats! Now!”

  Not only did Tommy and Josie-Belle have to sit across from each other, but because this was an arm wrestle they obviously had to hold hands as well. All the students hooted and chortled and there were numerous silly comments to boot: “Look who’s on a hot date,” “Tommy and Josie sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g!” “Going to the chapel and someone’s gonna get married!” Needless to say, they were both red-faced from embarrassment.

  “Pay attention!” yelled Mr Perriman, whose patience was wearing thin. “Keep your eye on the prize! Need to get your game on!” He didn’t like any kind of folly getting in the way of a good Gym lesson − life was all about sports and nothing else mattered, not even awkward teenage stuff.

  “Now, are we ready to rumble?” inquired Mr Perriman with a steely gaze. Everybody quickly locked arms, otherwise you would end up locking horns with Corporal Punishment and that would never end well.

  “Ready? Set?”

  He then turned to Tommy. “And boy... take it easy there on Josie.”

  “Yes sir,” he replied timidly.

  “Ready. Set. Go!” yelled Mr Perriman.

  The thing was that Josie-Belle was such a teeny and slender little whip of a girl that we all called her ‘Tinker Bell.’

  And then it happened. Josie-Belle slammed Tommy’s arm with a decisive

  Mr Perriman was not amused and accused Tommy of “taking a dive” and then instructed him to take Gym class seriously. “Enough of that tomfoolery Tom!”

  All the students stopped what they were doing and turned to Tommy and Josie.

  “Okay... do it again. This time no hijinks!”

  “Yes sir,” mumbled Tommy.

  They got into position again, locked hands.

  Tommy lost again.

  “Dang Tommy! Seems like you ain’t fooling around after all,” responded the teacher as he scratched his oversized chin. “Looks like you’re gonna have to hit the weights son! You’re about as strong as a pound of chicken liver.”

  I felt sorry for Tommy but I must admit that my life was quite sweet during those two months. With Lenny, Fergus and Marsden devoting all their attention to tormenting Tommy, they left the rest of us pretty much alone to
live our lives as we pleased − free to roam around the entire school, free to use our lunch money to buy lunch, free to frolic in the playground. But, as it goes, all good things come to an end.

  Unluckily for all of us (but I guess luckily for Tommy), his family moved away to the country and things went back to how they used to be − unfree to roam around the entire school, unfree to use our lunch money to buy lunch, unfree to frolic in the playground. However, as I glanced across the crowd of students and saw the sneering faces of the three bullies, I realised that things could even be worse than being ‘unfree.’ As I was getting ready to go into combat with Savani, it suddenly dawned on me that I could become the new Tommy Kilkenny and there was one thing that I knew for sure, I did not want to be poor ol’ Tommy!

  Now when it came to ‘street cred’ I was well aware of my situation − I knew that I was scraping the bottom of the barrel but I also knew that this was my moment to shine and try to elevate my status. Say what you want about ‘street cred’ but it was worth having. Everyone knew that street cred got you total respect, it put a swagger in your walk, and it has even been said that it puts hair on your chest. Either way, Lenny, Fergus and Marsden could smell the scent of fear and desperation a mile off and I was going to have to step up to Savani in order to assert myself. It seems that I was going to have to go ‘street hood’ to get some ‘street cred’ and there was only one option left − to break out in rap.

 

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