How to Make Friends

by Charlotte Barkla

  I gulped. It didn’t sound too bad (it did have the word ‘positive’, after all), but the look on Mum’s face told me it wasn’t something to be happy about. And when Ms Newton showed me the school’s Behaviour Flow chart, from smiley face (level zero) to frowny face (level five), I realised ‘Positive Behaviour Plan’ was code for ‘You’re in Big Trouble’.

  Ms Newton explained that, after my failed Surprise Slime and Mud Fort projects, I was on level two. If I ended up in trouble again, I’d be bumped up to level three.

  ‘What happens at level three?’ I asked.

  She pursed her lips. ‘Then we’ll start some positive behaviour strategies, like lunchtime teacher buddies and regular parent meetings.’

  Oh no. Regular parent meetings – that couldn’t be good for Mum’s stress levels. And even though ‘teacher buddy’ had the word ‘buddy’ in it, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be fun and games.

  I looked down at the flow chart. ‘And if I end up at level four?’

  She grimaced. ‘Then you’ll be suspended.’

  I gasped. I didn’t even bother to ask about level five. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  Suspended? I looked at Mum. None of the stories I’d heard about her and Aunt Evelyn at school had ever involved suspension.

  This was bad. Really bad.

  By the time we made it out of Ms Newton’s office, my stomach was pretty much in my shoes.

  ‘Sorry you had to leave work, Mum,’ I whispered as we headed out to the car park.

  Mum sighed. ‘That’s okay, Edie.’ But it didn’t sound like it was okay.

  We walked in silence to the car.

  ‘I didn’t start the mud fight. It was just an innocent eco fort,’ I said as we clipped our seat-belts and Mum set the car in reverse. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ I’d only been defending my eco fort. Ms Newton was being so unfair.

  But Mum shook her head. ‘It’s never your fault, is it, Edie?’ She frowned. ‘But you did mix up all that mud and litter, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘And you did take part in the mud fight, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Well, then that’s that.’ She backed out of the car park and turned onto the street. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking.’

  My cheeks burnt, and my stomach sank down to the bitumen, if that were possible.

  We drove the rest of the way home without another word.

  That night after dinner, I plodded upstairs and flopped back on my bed.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I said to myself, staring up at the ceiling.

  At our old place, I had a set of glow-in-the-dark planet, star and moon stickers, which I used to gaze up at whenever I had a problem. (Mum and Dad gave them to me when I was five years old, and super-duper obsessed with the solar system.) We couldn’t bring them to our new house, because Dad said they’d peel the paint off.

  I missed those stickers. Just like I missed Winnie and my old house and my old school. And just like I missed having Winnie as my experiment buddy.

  And as my friend.

  A tear rolled down my cheek.

  Max padded into my room and stood next to my bed. ‘Dee-Dee, sad?’

  I wiped my cheek with a tissue. ‘No, I’m not sad, Max.’

  He blinked his big blue eyes at me. (Sometimes, he could be pretty wise for a two-year-old.)

  ‘Well,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe a little.’

  ‘Oh.’ Max patted my hand. Then he sprinted to my desk, picked up my safety goggles and ran back to me. ‘Dee-Dee, science?’ He held them out and nodded his head enthusiastically.

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I don’t really feel like doing any experiments right now.’

  Earlier that afternoon, I’d asked Mum if she wanted to conduct a pre-dinner Speedy Puzzle Experiment. But she’d sighed and said, ‘I think you’ve done enough experimenting for one day.’ Then she’d spent the rest of the afternoon hunched over her laptop, intermittently groaning and rubbing her eyes.

  ‘O-kay, Dee-Dee.’ Max pouted and dropped my safety glasses on the floor. Then he turned and raced down the hallway.

  As I picked up my safety goggles and placed them back on my desk, a purple envelope sticking out from between my notepads caught my eye.

  Edie’s Experiments and Projects was written on the front, in Mum’s handwriting.

  My experiment photos! I’d totally forgotten about those. Two years ago, I’d decided to print pictures out of each experiment I conducted. (I hadn’t printed any for at least six months, so I was significantly behind. It was something I’d been meaning to catch up on.)

  I grabbed the envelope and lay back on my bed.

  There were heaps of great photos. There was one of Mum and me conducting a Chocolate Cake Experiment together a couple of years ago, using grated beetroot and carrot in an attempt to trick Dad into eating more vegetables. And there were some from the time last year when Mum, Max and I went for a walk through our old neighbourhood after school with a tape measure, to make sure the street signs were regulation height.

  My favourite photo of all, though, was a picture of the four of us – Dad, Mum, Max and me – conducting a Block Tower Construction Experiment in the living room at our old place.

  Dad is sitting on the floor with a six-month-old Max, and Mum is boosting me up to put the final block on the very top of the tower. I’m grinning like a scientist who’s won the Nobel Prize as I stretch out my fingertips to place the last block right on top.

  It’s my absolute favourite picture.

  Not just because it’s one with all of us; but because it reminds me of a time when Mum used to like doing experiments too.

  It felt like a really long time ago.

  As I stared at the photo, a knot formed in my stomach.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I rifled through my backpack until I found my science kit. I packed my safety goggles inside the kit, along with my lab coat and experiment book.

  Then I dragged my memento box out from under my bed, where I keep all kinds of different things from when I was little. (Like cute outfits I used to wear when I was a toddler, and messy paintings I did when I could barely hold a paintbrush.)

  With a heavy heart, I placed my science kit inside, next to my baby photo album. Then I placed my experiment photos on top. (Except for the Block Tower one; I tacked it up on my pin board instead. I figured one reminder of my ex-scientific life wouldn’t hurt.)

  How many more classrooms would I slime, principals would I offend and cookies would I ruin before I finally learned?

  Nope, enough was enough. It was time to retire.

  I was staring at the Block Tower Construction photo, daydreaming, when Mum knocked on my door.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure.’ I quickly wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

  ‘Are you okay, Edie? It’s been a big day, hasn’t it?’ She sat down on the bed next to me.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Big’ was an understatement. More like ‘gigantic’.

  ‘Sorry I got angry at you earlier,’ she said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm with your mud fort.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ My heart lifted a little.

  ‘What were you looking at?’ She glanced at my pin board, and her eyes lit up. ‘The Block Tower Construction Experiment! Wasn’t that great fun?’

  I smiled. ‘Yeah, it was great.’

  ‘Maybe we should try it again this weekend?’ She winked at me. ‘I’m sure we can make the tower even higher this time, now that Max is a bit older.’ The last time we tried it, Max kept crawling over and snatching the blocks from the base. (Not the greatest thing for block tower stability.) These days, he’s a much better engineer.

  ‘That sounds fun, Mum . . .’ I sighed. ‘But I don’t think I can.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m quitting science.’ I fiddled with a p
iece of cotton fraying on the edge of my doona. ‘I’m not doing any more experiments. Ever,’ I added for emphasis.

  Mum’s jaw practically hit the floor. ‘Why, Edie? You love science.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, my shoulders drooping. ‘But my experiments keep going wrong. I think I should take up something less dangerous, like ice hockey maybe.’ It had looked pretty cool when I watched a game on TV last month.

  ‘Oh, Edie.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but just then Max came speeding past my room, his shorts on his head.

  ‘Yippee!’ he cried as he pelted past, dragging Mum’s handbag along the floor behind him.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie, I’d better go.’ She stood up and squeezed my shoulder. ‘We’ll chat about everything later, okay?’ Then she raced down the hall after Max.

  As I slid my memento box back under my bed, I tried to look on the bright side.

  Seeing Max testing the slipperiness of handbag materials gave me hope. Perhaps he could take over as the family scientist some day, instead.

  The next week went by in a boring, non-experimental haze.

  Instead of my usual post-school experiments and projects, I’d taken to watching Whirly Whoo Hoo with Max in the afternoon. I’d discovered it really wasn’t that bad, once you got used to all the bright colours and random noises. Dad raised his eyebrows every time he walked past, and kept asking if I was certain I didn’t want to find something experimental to do outside, but I politely declined each time. (Watching Whirly Whoo Hoo was safest – and it kept me a good distance from Joe’s garden.)

  Mum kept trying to convince me to get back into experiments too. After dinner one night, she tried to entice me with one of my personal favourites – well, it used to be one of my favourites – experimenting with lunch box packing times. But I opted to do my homework instead. (Homework, of all things, over an experiment? Sounds crazy, I know.)

  Even though I was incredibly bored, I had managed to avoid any trips to Ms Newton’s office, as well as any more threats of suspension. And, most importantly, I was confident I wasn’t contributing towards Mum’s stress levels. (Although I hadn’t noticed any significant changes to her coffee consumption rate . . . Not that I’d been testing it, of course, because that would be far too scientific.)

  By the time it got to Friday morning, however, I was starting to get itchy feet. During maths class, I glanced longingly at Emily James’s Science Fair trophy, poking out from inside her pencil case. Could I really avoid science experiments for the rest of my life?

  Mr Zhu must have read my mind.

  ‘That’ll be enough fractions,’ he said, closing his maths book.

  The class whooped. (I didn’t. Fractions are one of my favourite maths topics, behind geometry and percentages.)

  Mr Zhu had a twinkle in his eye, and I got the feeling he had something good planned.

  I was right.

  ‘Today we’re doing a science project.’ He beamed. ‘Gather round my desk, please.’

  ‘Yes!’ I jumped up. I mean, sure, I’d retired from science – but if it was schoolwork, it didn’t really count.

  I bounded up the front to secure the perfect viewing spot at Mr Zhu’s desk. A science project! I hopped from foot to foot. It was my lucky day.

  The rest of the class was pretty excited too.

  ‘What are we doing?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘Is it something fun?’ Samirah asked. (Samirah was always asking to do something fun.)

  ‘I hope it’s not slime.’ Emily James glared at me from the other side of Mr Zhu’s table.

  I ignored her, tapping my fingers on Mr Zhu’s desk impatiently.

  He pulled out a cardboard box with a picture of a bright-red helicopter on the side. ‘We’re going to assemble a remote-controlled helicopter!’

  ‘Yay!’ we chorused.

  I couldn’t believe it – it was the Heli-3000. I used to have one just like it, before it sank in the lake when I was experimenting with water landings last year. I’d loved that helicopter – it had been so much fun. And I was an expert at assembling it; I could pretty much put it together in my sleep.

  Mr Zhu read out the instructions, and we set to work piecing it together bit by bit. It was a good thing I was there to help, because he kept putting pieces in the wrong spot. He’d scratch his head and say, ‘Oh dear, I must have that one round the wrong way,’ before I’d jump in and rescue him.

  ‘Done!’ he said eventually, holding up the completed helicopter with a flourish. ‘Shall we try it out?’

  ‘Yes!’ we cried.

  As he placed it on the front desk, a chorus of voices started up.

  ‘Can I go first?’ Emily James, of course, was as fast as lightning.

  ‘No, it’s my turn!’ Samirah jumped up and down.

  ‘You always get to go first. I want to go first this time!’ Riley frowned.

  Mr Zhu chuckled and shook his head. ‘Actually, I’ll decide who gets to go first. And I say, the first turn goes to . . .’ He glanced around our smiling faces. ‘Edie!’

  My heart leaped. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You were a big help with assembling it, so you deserve it.’

  I grinned as he passed me the remote control.

  ‘I used to have one of these at home. My mum taught me how to do all kinds of tricks with it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mr Zhu cocked his head to the side. ‘Maybe you can show us some?’

  ‘Definitely!’

  I flicked the switch on the control, and the helicopter lifted slowly off the floor. I hovered it upwards, then pressed the joystick and dipped it down, almost touching the carpet, before zooming it back up again.

  ‘Awesome!’ Ollie whooped.

  ‘Yeah, that was cool!’ Annie B agreed.

  ‘Can you do it again?’ Ling asked, with a shy smile.

  ‘Okay!’ I repeated my trick. My classmates gasped as it almost collided with a desk.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ Ollie asked. ‘Are your parents helicopter pilots?’

  I laughed. Before I could respond, Samirah pointed to the louvre above the far window. ‘Do you reckon you could fly it out the window?’

  ‘Nope, don’t even think about it,’ Mr Zhu warned.

  ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that.’ The louvre was probably only 10 centimetres high (a good 20 centimetres too short for helicopter passage). ‘I might make mistakes with mud and slime,’ I added, ‘but never glass.’

  Mr Zhu chuckled, and my classmates giggled.

  ‘You can twirl it in circles too, like this!’ I flicked the joystick and showed the class how to spin the helicopter around in a tight circle.

  ‘Nice one, Edie,’ said Mr Zhu. ‘Do you mind landing it now so someone else can have a turn?’

  ‘Sure!’

  I gently pressed down on the joystick, preparing for landing.

  And that’s when it happened.

  As I tapped the control, the helicopter continued hovering upwards.

  ‘What?’ I pressed the control again, harder this time, but still it didn’t respond. The helicopter kept moving towards the ceiling.

  ‘It’s stuck!’ I said, my heart thumping as loudly as a real helicopter’s blades. ‘It won’t land!’

  I passed Mr Zhu the remote, and he hurriedly flicked the controls.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Mr Zhu scratched his head. He pressed the power button again, then flicked the throttle back and forth.

  But it was no use.

  The helicopter kept going upwards, heading straight for the ceiling fan.

  ‘It’s going to crash!’ Samirah shrieked.

  ‘It’s going to break into a million pieces!’ Emily James covered her eyes.

  ‘It’s going to the Moon!’ Ollie did a fist pump.

  ‘No it’s not,’ I said, grabbing the control from Mr Zhu.

  I’d suddenly remembered the trick I’d learned when my helicopter’s controls got stuck one time at the park. (Before the time it landed
in the lake, that is.)

  I pressed the power button and the throttle at the same time, really hard.

  At last, the helicopter responded. It stopped midair and careened sharply downwards . . . connecting with a loud thump to Mr Zhu’s head.

  He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘What have you done now, Edie?’ Emily James gasped.

  I ignored Emily James, and the rest of my gaping classmates, and rushed to where Mr Zhu was lying on the floor. ‘Mr Zhu, are you all right?’

  He put his hand to his head. ‘Y-y-yes, I think so.’ But he was sounding more befuddled than usual. And when he took his hand away, it was covered in blood.

  ‘Oh no.’ His face went white.

  ‘Is Mr Zhu going to die?’ Ollie looked at me with round eyes.

  Ling let out a high-pitched whimper.

  ‘Of course not,’ I assured them. ‘He’ll be absolutely fine. I’ve been to detention – I know just what to do.’

  But before I could run for the first-aid kit, Samirah squealed. ‘Ew! I hate blood! I’m going to faint!’

  Mr Zhu’s eyes widened. ‘Faint? Let me help you.’ He struggled to sit up.

  ‘No, not you, Mr Zhu,’ I reprimanded him.

  I eyed Samirah. She was squirming and jumping a lot for someone who was supposedly about to faint, but I decided to play it safe.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Emily James, can you please take Samirah to the reading corner? Elevate her feet on one of the cushions.’ Emily James nodded, and for once had nothing to say.

  ‘Now, everyone clear some space, please!’ I instructed, pulling the desks out of the way to give Mr Zhu some room. Then I ran for the first-aid kit in the back cupboard. (Even though it was only my third week at school, I’d memorised the floor plan and knew it was in the back right-hand cupboard. I also knew the location of every emergency exit in the school, but thankfully that wasn’t necessary.)