by , Sammy J;
‘Gandhi was a famous leader who practised non-violence.’
Justin laughed nervously. ‘Did it work?’
‘Yep,’ said the girl. ‘Until he got assassinated.’
Another spitball hit Justin.
‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you.’ With this, the girl brushed a curl aside, picked up her entire desk, and shuffled it forward thirty centimetres.
‘What are you doing?’ whispered Justin.
‘I’m leaving,’ she replied.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to be here.’
Justin couldn’t fault her logic. His head was covered in a stranger’s saliva; he didn’t want to be there either. But he also didn’t want to be in detention, which was almost certainly where this curious girl was headed.
‘But … isn’t it against the rules to leave class?’ whispered Justin. It was an exceptionally uncool question, and he instantly regretted asking it.
‘Nope!’ said the girl, holding up her handbook. ‘Rule 23 says we have to remain at our desks during class. But it doesn’t say where the desk has to be.’
Justin opened his mouth, then closed it. She had a point. She also cared about the rules, which made him feel better about his last question. Sadly, his first potential friend was already heading for the exit.
‘Where are you planning to go?’ He was stalling for time.
‘Maybe Canada. Or Spain. Or Russia. I’ll discuss it with my desk and get back to you.’
With this, she picked up her desk again, waited until Miss Granger had her back turned, then shuffled it forward. Justin ran through a list of things to say – anything to keep the conversation going. Ideally something smart, funny and endearing.
‘I’m not a loser,’ he blurted out.
His cheeks grew red. That hadn’t been on his list.
The girl turned back and grinned at him as another curl escaped. ‘I know that. There’s only one loser in this classroom, and he’s running out of paper.’
With that, she slid her desk towards the classroom door, nudged it open, and slipped outside. Justin wanted to follow her. He wanted to know her name. But his train of thought was interrupted by the latest sphere of spit, which had now grown to the size of a tennis ball.
On closer inspection, it was a tennis ball.
It bounced straight off Justin’s desk, hit the whiteboard, then ricocheted back towards him. Justin ducked to avoid it, lost his balance, and toppled backwards onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. The class erupted in laughter. Justin twisted around to spot the culprit, and recognised him as the rule-eating thug from assembly.
He was sprawled in the back row, chair leaning against the wall, socks bunched around his ankles (a clear breach of Rule 57), with a can of deodorant sitting on his desk for no apparent reason. He had short hair drowning in shiny gel, and his face consisted almost entirely of a giant smirk. There were other bits too – nose, eyes, cheeks, and so on – but the smirk took centre stage.
‘Would you care to explain what just happened?’ asked Miss Granger, peering down at Justin.
No-one liked a dobber, but Justin was very much out of options. He kept his voice down and hoped the rest of the class wouldn’t hear.
‘That boy threw a ball at me,’ he whispered, pointing to The Smirk.
Miss Granger glanced up and called towards the back of the room. ‘Wade Turner. Did you throw this ball?’
‘Nah, Miss,’ said Wade. ‘I’ve just been sitting here fillin’ out me preferences and stuff.’ He held up the tattered remains of his handbook. Miss Granger sighed. She glanced at the wooden pawn on Justin’s desk, then crouched down beside him.
‘I’m sorry to do this, but the principal expects us to set an example on our first day. And you’re no longer sitting at your desk, which means you’re in breach of Rule 23, so I’m going to have to give you a detention.’
Justin opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Wade Turner’s voice filled the silence.
‘Detention on day one. What a loser!’
Okay, quick challenge. You have three seconds to think of the happiest moment of your life.
It’s hard, isn’t it? You might have several happy memories bouncing around inside your head, but trying to pinpoint one single moment as the happiest of all is quite tricky.
Justin Monaghetti remembered the happiest moment of his life very clearly. He thought about it at least seven times a day.
He was in Grade Three, and his school was running a Fun Day, which is code for ‘the staff are completely exhausted and can’t be bothered teaching today’.
In the library, Justin was deep in concentration. It was the Junior Chess Club championship, and victory was within reach – if he made the right moves.
Justin was never happier than when he was playing chess. He loved the battles; he loved the drama. Most of all, he loved how one small move could change the whole game in an instant.
Across the table sat Noah Rayner, an older boy who’d won the grand final three years in a row. He’d backed Justin’s king into a corner, and looked set to win the match. A crowd of onlookers watched as Justin nervously reached out, picked up his bishop, and captured Noah’s pawn.
The crowd held its breath.
As far as chess games went, it was a pretty bold move.
Noah smiled calmly, picked up his knight, and knocked Justin’s bishop off the board.
The crowd gasped. Nobody had seen that coming.
Nobody, that is, except Justin. Noah had fallen for the trap; his king was wide open. Justin slid his castle across the board and stopped two squares away from Noah’s king – who now had nowhere to turn.
Justin cleared his throat. He couldn’t believe what was about to happen.
‘Checkmate,’ he said quietly, placing Noah’s king face down in the middle of the board.
Noah stared at the board, stunned, then shook Justin’s trembling hand in admiration.
The crowd went wild.
The teacher in charge of the Chess Club asked Justin to stand up, then presented him with his championship trophy – a small wooden pawn.
Justin clutched it, beaming, and soaked up the applause.
He felt invincible.
‘May all those who carry this slip feel the shame of capture, the pain of punishment, and the cleansing of discipline.’
Dr Featherstone
Principal
Justin had never been in trouble before.
Now, at lunchtime on his first day of high school, he sat slumped under a gum tree, and peered at his yellow detention slip for the forty-seventh time.
‘Staring at it won’t make it go away.’
Justin looked around.
‘Up here.’
He leaned back to see the curious girl with freckles, still sitting at her desk.
Which was wedged up the gum tree.
‘How … how did you get up there?’ he called.
‘That’s irrelevant. You should ask me why I’m up here,’ she called back.
‘Okay,’ said Justin. ‘Um … why are you up there?’
‘I’m studying the rules,’ the girl replied, holding up her handbook.
Justin squinted up at her. ‘Is there a rule against climbing trees?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘but it says no climbing trees, which is plural. That means you’re not allowed to climb multiple trees. But I’ve only climbed one. So I haven’t broken the rule.’ She looked quite pleased with herself.
Justin contemplated this. He was impressed.
The girl brushed a branch aside. ‘Hey, have you seen Eliza Burton anywhere?’
‘Um … no?’ Justin shook his head.
‘Liar,’ said the girl, grinning. ‘I am Eliza Burton.’
‘Oh.’ Justin fe
lt a glimmer of hope. Was he about to make a friend? ‘I’m Justin.’
‘I know your name, Justin Monaghetti. I also know your address, date of birth and blood type. They were written on your schoolbag.’
Justin’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t write that – my mum did.’ He tried to change the subject.
‘So … how long are you planning to stay up there?’
‘Just ’til the end of the day. Then I’m going home.’ Eliza narrowed her eyes. ‘Then I’m never coming to school again.’
With this, she returned to her handbook.
Justin continued staring up at her. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Eliza peered down through the leaves and sighed. ‘Have you chosen your extracurricular activity yet?’
Justin shook his head. He’d had other things on his mind. And another boy’s spit on his neck.
‘Let me read you the options,’ called Eliza, flicking to the back page of her handbook. ‘Cricket. Football. Rugby. Tennis. Basketball. Hockey. Netball. Swimming. Outdoor soccer. Indoor soccer. Mixed soccer. Rooftop soccer. Underwater soccer.’ She paused. ‘Notice anything strange?’
‘Um … there are five types of soccer?’
‘Which one of these activities will you pick, Justin?’
Justin shrugged. ‘I’m going to join the Chess Club.’
Eliza held the handbook up dramatically. ‘But there is no Chess Club.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, there’s no Chess Club. Or music. Or art. Or drama. Nothing but sport …’
Justin shook his head, bewildered. ‘It’s probably a mistake?’
‘No mistake. Have you seen the school motto?’ Justin looked at his detention slip once more. There, in the top corner, underneath a silhouette of a willow tree, were three words in cursive font:
Sport Before Thought.
Justin felt his chest tighten.
‘I wanted to do music,’ said Eliza glumly. ‘But looks like we’re both out of luck. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
Bad news was one way of putting it. Soul-crushing news would be another. Justin wondered if there was a word to describe the feeling of being nervous, anxious and terrified, all at once. Nerveanxified?
He peered down at his legs – the same short legs that had lost every school running race since Grade One. Then he looked at his arms – the same thin arms that had dropped every basketball thrown at him since Grade Two.
The only part of his body that he had any confidence in were his fingers, which were very good at moving chess pieces across a board.
Yet he’d somehow arrived at a school that only specialised in sport.
All of a sudden, Eliza Burton’s decision to hide in a tree before escaping school forever sounded perfectly reasonable.
Justin looked back up at her.
‘But … if you don’t come back … what will you tell your parents?’
‘I’ll tell them I finished high school, just like I promised.’
‘So you’ll lie to them?’
‘Well, I never said how much of high school I’d finish. Technically, if I complete one full day, I’ve kept my promise. So as soon as the final bell goes, I’m out of here.’
Justin furrowed his brow. He’d only known Eliza for two hours and fourteen minutes, but he was already sad at the thought of not knowing her for longer.
He found himself wondering how his first day of high school could get any worse. Perhaps he’d be attacked by a fruit bat, or get swallowed by one of those giant sinkholes he’d seen on the news.
Or maybe he’d just get squashed by a tractor.
That seemed the most likely scenario, given that a large red tractor had suddenly mounted the kerb and was hurtling towards him.
How much money does your school spend on gardening? It’s worth finding out. Just ask a teacher, or someone in the administration office. If they tell you to stop asking pesky questions, it means they’ve got something to hide. And if they’ve got something to hide, it means you need to keep asking pesky questions. Perhaps they’re embarrassed about their gardening budget. Perhaps they’re spending more on gardening than they are on library books, which means they value green grass more than your education. You’ll never know unless you ask.
Mount Willow Secondary School didn’t spend much money on gardening.
In fact, they only employed one gardener, and right now he was running behind schedule.
His tractor rumbled over the lawn, gathering speed, then skidded to a stop just inches from Justin.
‘Sorry buddy,’ said a young man in overalls, jumping off the tractor. ‘Didn’t see you there.’ He knelt down and began unscrewing a lawn sprinkler. ‘Sixty-five sprinklers in this school, and they expect me to service each one by lunchtime. Bloody ridiculous.’ He had slightly sunburnt arms, stubble on his chin, and a mop of blonde hair stuffed under a well-worn baseball cap.
‘So how’s day one treating you?’ the gardener asked, without looking up.
‘Horrible,’ said Justin. He saw no point in pretending. ‘I got a detention in my first class.’
‘Not a bad effort,’ said the gardener, holding up the sprinkler head to inspect it. ‘What did you do wrong?’
‘Nothing. I got blamed for something I didn’t do.’
The gardener chuckled. ‘Mate, I’m a gardener, not a teacher. You don’t have to cover your tracks with me.’ He blew some air into the nozzle, sending mud and dirt flying out of it.
‘It’s true,’ called Eliza from her tree. ‘I saw the whole thing.’
The gardener jumped, then looked up.
‘Jeepers, I thought you were a fruit bat. What are you doing up there?’
‘Enjoying the view,’ said Eliza. She pointed to the quadrangle, where The Smirk was flicking other students in the face with his tie. ‘There’s the boy who got Justin in trouble.’
The gardener looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘Is that so? What’s his name?’
‘Wade Turner,’ muttered Justin forlornly.
The gardener paused, staring into the distance, then turned back to Justin.
‘Well, that’s bad luck,’ he said, shrugging. ‘But if you want my advice, I’d take the blame, go to detention, and move on.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You don’t want to end up like Brad Hestor.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Justin.
The gardener glanced around. ‘Kid your age. He was here about ten years ago. Missed footy training, got a detention. Thing is, they scheduled his detention at the same time as footy training. And you know what the punishment for missing footy training is?’
Justin took a guess. ‘Detention?’
‘Bingo. So poor Brad turns up to his detention, misses footy training, then gets given another detention, which makes him miss footy again. Poor bugger couldn’t escape. Got stuck in an Eternal Detention.’
Justin frowned. ‘Did he ever get to finish school?’
‘No-one knows. Some people reckon he’s still here. Locked up in the bell tower.’
Justin gazed at the tower that loomed high over the quadrangle – a majestic column of red brick, with patterned tiles that zigzagged up to the clock face. He imagined being stuck inside and gulped. Then he noticed the gardener grinning.
‘Just pulling your leg, buddy. All I’m saying is, this school is hardcore. Keep your head down.’
The gardener screwed the sprinkler back onto the hose and stared at it in anticipation. Nothing happened. He sighed, stood up, then kicked it with his boot. The sprinkler sprang to life, sending a torrent of water gushing out of it.
‘The old boot trick,’ he said, chuckling. ‘They don’t teach you that at university.’ He turned and strolled towards the tractor.
‘Excuse me,’ Justin called after him. ‘Do you know if this school has
a Chess Club?’
The gardener sniggered. ‘Sorry buddy. Chess is banned at Mount Willow.’
With that, he fired up the engine and sputtered off down the path.
Justin felt the colour drain from his face.
Up in the tower, the bell rang to mark the end of lunchtime. It was 1.45 pm. Just two hours until he had to go to detention for a crime he didn’t commit.
He looked up at Eliza, who was scribbling in her handbook. ‘Sure you don’t want to come to class?’ he called.
‘Sorry, I’m busy,’ she said, without looking away from her book. ‘Watch out for those spitballs.’
It didn’t sound like something a friend would say.
Justin trudged towards the quadrangle, gripping his detention slip.
Changing his destiny was proving harder than he’d thought.
‘Come on, it’s not that hard!’ yelled Mr Atkins.
High above him, Justin dangled helplessly from a rope.
‘You’re holding up the class!’ Mr Atkins’ voice echoed around the gymnasium.
No, actually, I’m holding up my body, thought Justin.
High school was meant to prepare you for the real world, but Justin was struggling to picture a real-world situation where he’d need to navigate a high ropes course under this sort of pressure.
Below him, the entire class had gathered to farewell Justin’s dignity forever.
‘Just slide down!’ screamed Mr Atkins, the veins in his neck bulging. Easier said than done. After all, Justin had climbed the rope easily enough. It was only when he reached the top that he’d remembered he had a crippling fear of heights. That’s when his legs had transformed into jelly snakes.
Below him, his classmates were giggling at the spectacle. Justin realised with dismay that his misfortune had provided a bonding opportunity for the rest of the class – nothing unites people more than making fun of a loser. Of course, Justin still refused to accept that he was a loser, but he had to admit he was doing a very good impression of one.
‘DO I HAVE TO COME AND GET YOU MYSELF?’ boomed Mr Atkins.
Perhaps you do, thought Justin. After all, nobody else was volunteering to help.