The Day Our Teacher Went Mad and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls

by Christopher Milne

  ‘Argh!’ screamed the man.

  ‘Won’t try that again, will we?’ said Allison.

  Hearing her voice, the man yelled in surprise. ‘A kid! Turn that light on, little girl, or you’ll wish you were dead.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Allison. ‘Take this!’ And, grabbing a bandaid from her desk, Allison stuck it on the man’s leg and ripped out a thousand hairs.

  The man leapt forward and bumped his head hard against the corner of Allison’s bookshelf. But bouncing back again, he fell on top of Allison and grabbed her.

  ‘Kerry!’ screamed Allison. ‘He’s got me!’

  ‘Turn the light on or I’ll break your arm,’ growled the man.

  This was Kerry’s moment. What should she do? She had to help her sister, that’s what!

  Kerry quickly grabbed a pair of tweezers from her bedside table, opened them wide and snapped them closed right on the point of the burglar’s nose. Next, she flicked him a beauty on the butt with a wet towel and then finally, gave him one almighty kick. Guess where?

  Right in the goolies.

  As the burglar lay groaning on the ground, Allison said, ‘I think that’s enough, don’t you?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Kerry.

  ‘Right,’ said Allison. ‘You can go, but on one condition — that you never steal anything from anyone again.’

  ‘I promise,’ said the man. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Here, I’ll even give back your mother’s jewellery.’

  ‘No need to go that far,’ said Allison.

  Later, still out of breath, Kerry said that what they’d done was terribly dangerous. Their mum and dad would go crazy if they knew.

  ‘No, they won’t,’ said Allison. ‘Trust me.’

  By the time their parents came home, Allison and Kerry had cleaned up so that not a sign of the burglar remained.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked their dad.

  ‘Good,’ said Allison. ‘We had a burglar and we hoped he’d take those terrible earrings of Mum’s, then we bashed him up and pulled all the hairs out of his legs.’

  ‘Did you?’ laughed their dad. ‘OK girls, time for bed.’

  Which just goes to show, it’s always best to tell the truth.

  Clumsy Clive was probably not a fair name for the big, loveable fool who sat next to me at school. Clumsy, stupid, dreamy Clive would have been closer to the mark.

  He would come to school with his hair sticking up, laces undone, socks that didn’t match, jumper inside-out, shorts when it was cold, pants when it was hot, and undies on back to front — which was probably just as well, because sometimes he’d wear the same ones five days in a row.

  If he did remember his bag, he’d usually bring his sister’s lunch by accident — and a few times, on PE days, he brought her sports skirt as well.

  But Clive was a nice kid, all the same. Friendly, kind and always ready to share his lollies. He tried hard enough not to be dopey, but somehow he would always get things wrong. In fact, the harder he tried, the more confused he became.

  The rest of us poked fun at him, of course. All the time. But Clive didn’t seem to mind. He’d just shrug his shoulders and laugh along with the rest of us.

  Or so we thought. Secretly, the teasing cut Clive to bits.

  One day, we had to shift a fish tank from one corner of the room to another. Clive asked if he could be one of the helpers.

  ‘No way!’ we all screamed. ‘He’ll drop it!’

  But Mr Harris, our teacher, said that it was very good of him to offer. So, with Mr Harris on one end and Clive on the other, the big shift began.

  Mr Harris had explained that once they picked up the tank, the shift had to be in one movement, from one table to another. There was no way the tank could be put down on the floor for a rest because it was much too difficult to bend down. Without spilling heaps of water, anyway.

  ‘No worries,’ said Clive.

  We were all sure that Clive would make a mess of things, so we raced around madly shifting chairs and desks to give them as clear a path as possible. But just as they’d started the shift, the bell rang for morning play. And do you know what? Clive went to put his end of the tank down.

  ‘No!’ we all screamed.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Clive. ‘Better finish what I’m doing first.’

  ‘Yes, Clive,’ we all said together, rolling our eyes and shaking our heads.

  So the shift continued, centimetre by centimetre.

  ‘Mr Harris,’ said Clive, after a moment, ‘I think I want to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Well, you can wait,’ said Mr Harris, starting to lose his temper.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can,’ said Clive.

  ‘Ones or twos?’ asked Mr Harris.

  ‘Both, I think,’ replied Clive.

  ‘Then try not to think about it,’ said Mr Harris.

  ‘But Mr Harris —’

  ‘Clive, will you shut up!’ shouted Mr Harris.

  So, without saying anything more, Clive tried to hurry things up a bit.

  ‘Clive, you’re pushing!’ screamed Mr Harris.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Clive. And just to prove it, Clive pulled back gently in the other direction. Which set a small wave going in the tank. So Clive pushed back again. Which only made the wave bigger.And bigger.

  ‘You fool!’ shouted Mr Harris. ‘Stop still!’

  ‘Do you want us to help?’ we all yelled.

  ‘No!’ screamed Mr Harris. ‘I want Clive Potts to finish the job he started, properly!’

  Clive went to say something else, but he couldn’t. You see, the wave had become so big that it lapped over the end of the tank and a goldfish shot into Clive’s mouth. When he tried to spit it out, the goldfish only wriggled in further.

  With Clive choking and the tank shaking, we all screamed, ‘Hang on, Clive!’

  But just as we raced in to help, Clive let go. As Clive’s end of the tank hit the floor, a giant wave crashed into him and water, pebbles and goldfish went everywhere.

  Clive, dripping wet, staggering and holding his throat, accidentally stood on three wriggling goldfish. Finally, with his eyes almost popping out, Clive gave one almighty cough, and the goldfish in his mouth shot across the room and hit Mr Harris right in the face.

  As I madly tried to pick up fish from the floor, I said, ‘This water’s warm!’

  ‘It’s not water,’ said Clive. ‘I’m afraid I’ve just wet myself.’

  Do you think we didn’t give Clive a hard time after that? Before school, after school, during school. But, as usual, Clive just shrugged and gave us a big dopey grin.

  Poor Clive. He was secretly dying inside from all the teasing, but what could he do? The harder he tried not to be clumsy, the worse he became.

  He ran over his father’s foot with the lawn-mower, he rode his bike into the lady next door, he spilt fruit yoghurt on Mr Harris, he bumped his head getting out of the wrong side of bed, he closed the car door on his little brother’s fingers… and then, finally and terribly, he got hit by the school bus.

  Up until then, Clive’s clumsiness had been sort of funny. But when I saw him in hospital with the saddest look, teeth missing, bruises on his cheeks and tears in his eyes, I just stood there and cried.

  After that, I didn’t tease Clive ever again. None of us did. And do you know what? Clive improved heaps. I’ve never seen a kid so happy. Which made me wonder something.

  Does every clumsy kid in the world have to get hurt before we’ll give him a chance?

  Although there’s something I should admit. Now that he’s OK, I sometimes laugh about it. Clive getting hit by the bus. I know I shouldn’t. But I haven’t told you the best bit.

  You know how when you cross the road you’re supposed to look right, then left, then right again?

  Clumsy Clive got mixed up and looked right, then right, then right. Then walked.

  Clive. Bus. Boom.

  We’ve all met some ratbags in our time, but Melissa Chan would have to
take the cake. She was very cheeky, very loud, funny sometimes and naughty most of the time. But cool to her friends. If you asked a grown-up, ‘Say, for some reason, a child had to rule the world, who would you choose?’, it wouldn’t be Melissa Chan.

  As it turned out, Melissa lived in Canberra, and one day her school was asked to sing ‘Advance Australia Fair’ at a special welcome for the President of the United States. As well as singing, there would be flag-waving, speeches and a band playing, and the whole thing would take place at the airport.

  Everyone was to be on their best behaviour because, apart from the importance of the day, there would be television cameras everywhere.

  Best behaviour? wondered Melissa. We’ll see about that.

  The idea of being on television sounded excellent to Melissa, but not just as a singer in some dopey school choir. Melissa wanted to be the star! The talking point. The ratbag!

  So, secretly and very cleverly, Melissa made some plans.

  At last the day arrived, and Melissa was so excited you’d think she’d got out of school for a year. She lined up in her position, ready to sing. But then, just as the President’s plane landed, she knelt down and crawled under a nearby police car.

  Everyone was too busy watching the plane to notice Melissa, and in no time she had rolled out from under the other side of the police car and into the main building. And then into the toilets. Secretly, during practice the day before, Melissa had hidden a bag in the bottom of a rubbish bin. Would it still be there? Yes!

  As quick as a flash, Melissa sneaked back into her singing position, with something rather large up her jumper.

  The President stepped out of the plane, the band played and the man who was boss of the whole day whispered, ‘Ready, children? Thirty seconds to go.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Melissa to herself. ‘No thirty seconds for this girl.’

  And with that, Melissa marched out from the group and went straight up to the President, carrying a large bunch of flowers.

  ‘Oh,’ said the crowd watching. ‘How lovely.’

  The man who was boss of everything moved to stop her, but it was too late — the President was already smiling at the dear little girl with the flowers. Television cameras everywhere swung onto Melissa.

  ‘Why, thank you, honey,’ said the President. ‘What a perfect welcome to this great country of yours.’

  ‘Please smell them, Your Highness,’ said Melissa, ‘they’re Australian wildflowers.’

  The President would have loved to smell the flowers, but he didn’t get the chance. Just as he leant forward, something squirted him right in the face. Inside the flowers, the little ratbag had hidden a water pistol.

  ‘Oh, ho, ho,’ laughed the President. ‘You got me. Pure Australian water, I hope?’

  ‘No,’ said Melissa, ‘cat’s pee.’

  But the President didn’t hear Melissa’s reply because just as she finished speaking, Melissa pushed him backwards. You see, just behind the President, Melissa had suddenly seen a man with a gun.

  Then Melissa was pushed over herself by a policeman, then there were screams, then terrible panic. Someone had tried to shoot the President.

  And Melissa had saved his life.

  During the craziness that followed, with people rushing everywhere, sirens wailing and a policeman holding her to the ground, Melissa realised that she could have been shot herself! How stupid — in trying to be a smarty-pants and get her face on TV, she could have been killed!

  In those few seconds, Melissa decided never to be a ratbag again.

  Although it turned out the man was only holding a toy gun, the President pointed out that Melissa wasn’t to know that. So in his mind, what she’d done was just as important as saving his life.

  ‘How can I ever thank you?’ asked the President.

  ‘Oh, that’s OK,’ said Melissa.

  ‘There must be something,’ said the President.

  Well, thought Melissa, it’s not every day the President of the United States asks what he can do for you.

  Little by little, she felt her naughtiness returning. ‘There is one thing, I suppose,’ said Melissa.

  ‘You just name it,’ said the President.

  Melissa, who by now was well aware that all the TV cameras were watching, asked sweetly, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yep,’ said the President.

  ‘Good,’ said Melissa. ‘I want to be boss of the world.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said the President.

  ‘I sure am,’ said Melissa. ‘Just for one day. Now, I’d be grateful if you’d get on that mobile phone I see your friend carrying and start working things out. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court. Remember, you’ve promised me. On national television.’

  Do you think that didn’t cause a stir? But only three days later, Melissa became boss, and every country in the world made the following rules:

  On the first Monday

  of April, every year:

  There will be no school.

  All lollies will be free.

  All adults will give as much as they can to help needy people.

  No child can get into trouble for being naughty.

  When the President returned to America, his wife asked how he enjoyed his trip to Australia.

  ‘Great place to visit,’ said the President, ‘but I’d hate to live there. The children are all ratbags, and the water smells like cat’s pee.’

  When it came to fun-park rides, Jeffrey Smart was a fanatic. A fun-park freak. He reckoned he’d done just about every stomach-churning, gut-wrenching, bottom-tickling, hair-raising, eyeball-popping, spine-chilling, white-knuckling ride known to man.

  Big Dipper, Corkscrew, Mad Machine — you name it. He’d zipped down, whizzed around, flown up and thrown up on them all.

  But suddenly, there was a new ride to try. One that would leave the rest for dead. A rocket trip to outer space!

  Jeffrey had noticed an advertisement in his father’s newspaper.

  ‘WANTED,’ it said. ‘BOY OR GIRL FOR ROCKET JOURNEY TO THE STARS.’

  Yes, yes, yes, thought Jeffrey. Count me in.

  The idea of belting along at some unimaginable speed in the most far away of places seemed to Jeffrey the most fantastic thing you could ever do.

  So, without telling his parents, Jeffrey sent off a letter. And surprisingly, because there must have been thousands of replies, the Australian Government Space Centre asked to see him.

  It was probably a little bit hard for Jeffrey to understand, they explained, but an Australian scientist had discovered a way of doing something they’d previously thought was impossible. How to fly to the next nearest star system, Alpha Centauri.

  Who knew what might be found there? Creatures with two heads? Maybe with two bottoms? Given a choice, Jeffrey thought he’d probably go with the heads.

  The reason it had never been done before was that Alpha Centauri was so very far away. Trillions of kilometres. To have a hope of getting there and back in one lifetime, a person would have to travel at half the speed of light, which is very fast indeed. Hundreds of thousands of kilometres a second.

  And to do it would mean changing speed so quickly, accelerating, and being thrown back into the seat so hard that only the springy bones of a twelve-year-old could take it. An oldie’s would snap in two!

  The kid chosen would go up in a normal rocket and then be belted forward to fantastic speeds by a laser beam from Earth.

  Was Jeffrey interested?

  ‘Absolutely!’ said Jeffrey. ‘Should I grab my sleeping bag?’

  The Space Centre people explained that it wasn’t quite that simple. ‘We’ve got some other kids to see,’ they said, ‘but you seemed to understand all that speed-of-light stuff fairly well, so you’re a good chance. But, of course, there’s the small matter of your parents’ permission.’

  ‘No problem there,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I’ve got seven brothers and sisters and it was just the other day that Mum said she couldn’t w
ait to get us all out of the house.’

  As luck would have it, Jeffrey did get chosen. His parents said that although he would be away for a whole year and they would miss him terribly, they were very proud that he had been chosen to represent his country for something so important.

  Jeffrey was to wear his seatbelt at all times, they said, and no playing with the controls.

  The trouble was, the man from the Space Centre had told Jeffrey a terrible lie. Governments tend to do that when it comes to experiments.

  You see, time travels more slowly at huge speeds. It might seem hard to understand, but the year that Jeffrey would be away in his own time would be more like sixteen years in ours!

  After three months of very hard training and learning about space, little Jeffrey Smart was shot into the night sky for the journey of a lifetime. The speed was so great that Jeffrey felt as though his heart was in his mouth and his bottom in his tummy, but it certainly beat the Corkscrew and the Big Dipper put together.

  He had a little cabin of his own, like a cubby house really, with everything a boy could want. TV, iPod, computer games. Except friends, of course, but he’d been trained for the loneliness. Well, sort of.

  The man at the Space Centre had said he’d get used to it, especially after the first couple of months. But the man had lied again.

  In space, things have no weight, of course, so if they’re not tied down they simply float around. Which made going to the toilet a bit tricky, but there’s no need to go into all of that. And, as you might guess, being weightless can be fantastic fun for people. In no time, Jeffrey was doing cartwheels, back-flips, reverse somersaults with pike — you name it. Talk about fun rides.

  Is this fun, though? wondered Jeffrey. Sure, I’ve got everything I need. I was in all the newspapers before I left. I’m getting paid. I can speak to Mum and Dad on the space phone, and see them on the control screen…

  But suddenly Jeffrey realised he would do anything to speak to someone face to face. Or kick a footy or tease his sister and get into trouble or rip into some really greasy fish and chips. Anything normal.