Laugh Your Head Off Page 6

  ‘What do they use now?’ Dad asked Mum.

  ‘I believe they use some kind of laser device. You stick your head in a machine. Then they strap your body down because it can get uncomfortable and they don’t want people removing the face straps. Then these tiny laser needles work all over your face, kneading and massaging your skin until it’s so relaxed that the muscles eventually let go. I imagine it’s a bit like having a thousand ants crawling all over your face.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Dad said.

  ‘Yes, I believe Hannah would agree with you there,’ Mum said.

  I couldn’t believe they were still lying . . . only this time I was confused. Were they pretending to know that I was faking? Or did they believe me, but were lying about the doctor and that medieval procedure? And just how was I supposed to react? I had to play along or they’d know I was making it up. But if I let them think I was scared and confused they’d think that calling my bluff was working. No way would I give them the satisfaction!

  But were they calling my bluff?

  Mum was dialling a number. Dad looked perfectly serious and solemn, glancing at my face and then sadly shaking his head.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Ants. She said crawling ants. The thought made me want to scream. But that would mean unsticking my face.

  ‘Oh hi, Leila,’ Mum said. ‘I was just calling about Dr Knead. Is he still doing the Ant Facial Relaxant Procedure?’

  I gulped.

  ‘Oh thank goodness. Well, I guess it’s reassuring to know it’s not just my son. It’s not his fault really. Who could blame him for doubting us? It sounds impossible but Dr Knead is proof it happens. Yes, sure, I’ll make an appointment first thing tomorrow. We can’t have him going to school like this, the poor thing . . . sorry, Leila? Yes, I know. Ants. Well he’s a brave boy so I’m sure he’ll cope fine.’

  Mum hung up and turned to me with a sad smile. ‘We’ll have you back to normal by tomorrow, honey.’

  All I could do was blink back at her.

  CHAPTER 6

  I tossed and turned all night. How would I get out of this? I had a proven track record for never giving in. I took pride in the way my teachers had described me in school reports over the years. Pig-headed. Obstinate. Stubborn. Those words had been earned through blood, sweat and tears (literally).

  In fact, my parents had abandoned calling my bluff as a parenting strategy years ago. They had learnt that they were no match for me.

  I went to bed convinced that they would come to their senses by morning. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? I was in the trenches here fighting for truth! For honesty! Was that so bad? Why couldn’t they just confess so my life and face could return to normal?

  The next morning I scrunched up my face and rushed into the kitchen ready to accept my parents’ apology.

  Instead, I found them both waiting for me. Hannah looked up from her bowl of cereal and covered her eyes with her hands.

  ‘Do you know why it’s “Oh dear”?’ she asked, still masking her eyes. ‘You woke up the same.’

  I lunged at her like a monster (without the roar, which was a pity) and she screamed.

  ‘Don’t scare your sister, Jacob,’ Dad said. ‘No need to act like a monster even if you look like one. But don’t worry, you’ll be back to normal by noon!’

  I felt giddy.

  ‘You must be starving,’ Dad said. ‘Do you think you can manage to use a straw with your mouth stretched like that? I could blend a cheese and tomato toastie and you could drink it?’

  It took a lot not to vomit at the thought. I shook my head. Thankfully I’d found some lollies I had stashed in my room and gorged on them before I came down.

  ‘Dr Knead can see you after her first patient,’ Mum said happily. She pulled me into her chest in a tight hug. ‘I know you’ll be brave,’ she whispered, kissing the top of my head.

  I couldn’t believe they were insisting on prolonging this charade. Surely they couldn’t possibly believe my face was stuck and all that nonsense about changing winds? Could years of my brilliant performances have made them this gullible?

  On the other hand, if they were playing along, I had to entertain the thought that maybe they were imposters. Because what they were doing took patience. And if it’s one thing I know it’s that my parents are not the patient type.

  We got into the car. My brain was in overdrive. Ten minutes later and we were in front of a building with a Day Surgery sign.

  We walked into the reception. There were two people waiting, reading magazines. The man frowned at me and the woman shook her head and clucked her tongue. Mum went to the desk to fill some forms. I sat down beside Dad and Hannah, nervously jiggling my leg.

  A few moments later, a door opened and a girl, a little older than me, stepped out. She faced the reception for a moment and then turned and walked down the corridor, followed by a woman in a white coat.

  I almost passed out.

  Her face was hideous. Tongue poking out to the side, all her teeth exposed like an angry German Shepherd, one eye squeezed closed.

  I looked at Dad and he gave me a reassuring smile. ‘She’ll be good as new in no time.’

  ‘Nice place,’ Mum said, sitting down. She knocked on the wall. ‘Hmm. Soundproof.’

  ‘Because of the screaming,’ Hannah said matterof-factly.

  I didn’t think I could take much more of this.

  Fifteen minutes later and the girl emerged. Her face was normal. She winked at me. ‘Good luck!’

  I felt the blood drain from my body.

  The woman in the white coat walked out and called my name.

  Like a maniac I leapt out of my chair. ‘I’M FAKING!’ I cried. ‘THE WIND DIDN’T FREEZE ME! NO ANT LASER THINGY PLEASE!’

  ‘Excellent,’ Dad declared with satisfaction. He stood up, smoothed out his top, and walked towards the door, Hannah skipping behind him. ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  ‘Was I a good actress, Dad?’ Hannah said.

  ‘Wonderful, honey.’

  ‘Thanks, Leila,’ Mum called out to the woman in the coat.

  ‘Anytime, love.’

  ‘So there’s no Dr Knead?’ I asked nervously when we were all in the car and driving home.

  ‘Nope,’ Mum said.

  ‘And that girl?’

  ‘Leila’s daughter.’

  I gulped. ‘So how in trouble am I?’

  ‘Sleep much last night?’ Mum asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starved.’

  ‘Humbled?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Know who’s in charge now?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay then. Two weeks dishwater duty and we’ll call it even.’

  ‘You know, Jacob,’ Dad said. ‘When I was a kid, I walked to school in the snow . . . ’

  I turned to my sister. ‘Hannah,’ I whispered, ‘do you know why it’s “Oh dear”?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it turns out they do know what they’re doing after all.’

  THE

  PERFECT

  REVENGE

  by

  James O’Loghlin

  I want to tell you about Mr Tompkins. He’s the worst teacher ever. He once kept the whole class in all lunchtime just because someone sneezed! He shouts all the time, he’s always grumpy and every single person in our class got a bad half-year report, even Olivia Ronson who knows everything and can multiply negative fractions in her head.

  Mr Tompkins once got me in trouble just ’cos I was sick. I had a cold (which is a proper medical illness that doctors believe in) and I was coughing.

  ‘Stop that noise!’ shouted Mr Tompkins.

  ‘I can’t, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a medical condition.’

  ‘If you do that again, I’ll show you a medical condition,’ he growled.

  So I tried to stop but, just as he was asking th
e class what the capital of France was, a cough leapt out of my mouth.

  Mr Tompkins stared at me and said, ‘Right!’

  ‘I couldn’t have been right, sir. I didn’t even answer,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s Rome.’

  Mr Tompkins’ eyes bulged, his moustache quivered and he started to turn red. ‘Detention, Darren!’

  So unfair! He gives detentions for everything. Alex Johnson got one for sharpening his pencil, and Sally Hume got one for eating a grape! Whenever anyone did anything, Mr Tompkins completely lost it. A few times he swore at us and once he threw a book at me. Luckily I ducked, but it got Colin Deane in the head. Mr Tompkins is mean, impatient, grumpy and terrible at teaching. He doesn’t explain anything. He just orders us to do something and then puts on his headphones and listens to music. I mean, if he was teaching us properly, then surely I would have got more than six out of 20 in my maths test.

  He’s ruining our lives. I used to almost sometimes like school a bit, but now I hate it, and so does everyone else in my class.

  So I decided I had to do something. Not just for me, but for the whole class, and for everyone in all the classes that Mr Tompkins would teach in the future.

  I started thinking about ways to teach him a lesson. It couldn’t just be some stupid schoolboy prank. It had to be something that would really affect him. On the other hand, I couldn’t go too far, because if you blow up someone’s house you can go to gaol, and apparently the food there is terrible and you don’t get any iPad time.

  But whatever it was I did, I wanted Mr Tompkins to know that it was me, but not to be able to prove it. That would be really satisfying.

  Then, I had a brilliant idea. I’d get my friends, the blue-skinned three-headed aliens, to abduct Mr Tompkins in their spaceship, torture him with their mind warper and then dump him on a deserted planet! Perfect!

  Then I realised there was one small problem my friends the blue-skinned three-headed aliens didn’t actually exist. Rats!

  Then I had another idea.

  • • •

  That afternoon I planned it out and then raided my piggy bank, rode my bike to the shops and bought supplies. Next morning, I rode to school and parked at the bike rack. (Derr! Where else would you park your bike? In the principal’s office?) The bike rack is sort of out of the way behind a building and Mr Tompkins’ bike was already there. There was no one around, so I got out my screwdriver, removed his bell and hid it in my bag.

  After recess (by which time he had already given out three detentions), I asked Mr Tompkins if I could go to the toilet.

  ‘Why didn’t you go at recess?’ he said, looking peeved as he dragged the few remaining strands of hair across his scalp.

  ‘My bladder didn’t inform me of its requirements until just now, Mr Tompkins, sir,’ I said super politely.

  He scowled and gestured to the door. Out I went, but not to the toilet. I snuck along the corridor to the staff room, checked it was empty and went straight to the fridge. Inside were teachers’ lunchboxes, most with initials or names on them. I found a blue one with ‘Horace Tompkins’ written on it. Inside was a sandwich and an apple. I lifted the top piece of bread off the sandwich. Underneath was ham and cheese. I pulled out all the ham and ate it. Then I took a nice, neat bite of the apple, put the lid back on the lunch box and returned to class.

  At lunchtime, I imagined Mr Tompkins trying to work out what had happened to his lunch. Had he actually made a ham and cheese sandwich that morning, or only a cheese one? Who had taken a bite out of his apple?

  Then I snuck into our classroom. You’re not supposed to during lunch, but there was no one about. I took the black, blue and red textas from the whiteboard, hid them in my desk drawer and replaced them with the black, blue and red textas I had bought yesterday. They looked exactly the same, but they were a slightly smaller size. You wouldn’t notice if you looked at them, but I figured that when Mr Tompkins picked them up, they’d feel different in his hand.

  For the next part of my plan, I needed an accomplice. My friend Adam was in the playground. ‘I need you to create a diversion,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t that a movie?’

  ‘No, that’s Divergent! I’m going to play a trick on Mr Tompkins. You have to distract him.’

  ‘Will I get in trouble?’

  ‘No. But I might.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘When I catch your eye and scratch my nose, have a huge coughing fit, like you’re really sick, and fall off your chair. Make it really bad, and then after about a minute, recover.’

  ‘There’s one problem,’ said Adam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re going to catch my eye, how will I get it out of my head to throw it to you? I mean, that’d hurt, wouldn’t it?’

  I sighed. Adam wasn’t super bright.

  • • •

  When Mr Tompkins came in after lunch, he looked a bit flustered. ‘Take out your maths books,’ he said, picking up the blue texta and starting to write some stupid numbers on the stupid board. ‘Now, multiplying fractions . . .’ Suddenly, halfway through a ‘4’, Mr Tompkins’ voice trailed off and he stared at the texta in his hand. Slowly he replaced the top, and then picked up the black one. He stared at it, too, and then put it down.

  Mr Tompkins stared at us. Everyone else looked innocently back at him, because they were innocent. I looked innocently back at him too, because I’m really good at looking innocent when I’m not.

  I turned towards Adam and scratched my nose. Adam nodded and then broke into a huge coughing fit. He was really good! At first no one paid much attention but then, when he kept going, everyone stared. Then he toppled off his chair onto the floor.

  ‘Stand back!’ cried Mr Tompkins, pushing through the kids to get to him. Of course, no one obeyed. As everyone crowded around, I got the original textas from my drawer, took three steps to the white board, removed the three small textas, replaced them with the original ones, and then returned to my seat.

  Soon Adam ‘recovered’, someone took him to sick bay and we went back to the maths lesson.

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Tompkins, ‘Multiplying fractions.’ He picked up a texta. ‘You see, it’s quite . . .’ His voice trailed off as he stared at the now, once again, normal-sized texta.

  • • •

  He got through until the bell, but you could see he was rattled. He kept clearing his throat and looking closely at the textas. After school I followed him down to the bike rack. On the way, I realised something. If I kept doing things to Mr Tompkins at school, then he’d soon realise that it must be a student doing it. If I really wanted to unsettle him, I’d have to start playing tricks on him outside school.

  That’s why I followed him. I know, it sounds a bit creepy following someone to their home but remember, this guy was the worst teacher ever, and it was up to me to do something to save us all from his horribleness.

  I rode a bit behind him. He didn’t seem to have noticed his missing bell. We went around a corner, and there was another cyclist ahead. I could see Mr Tompkins feel for his bell, and then he looked down. Then he stopped. I quickly pulled behind a car and ducked. He stared down at the spot where his bell wasn’t, and then kept riding, but very slowly.

  We got to his house a few minutes later. His house was on a quiet street, and on one side there was a path that led around the back. I noticed that there was a park just up the road, and then rode home.

  The next day was Saturday. I got up early, rode to the park in Mr Tompkins’ street and locked my bike up. Then I sat on the grass and pretended to read a book. (It wasn’t very convincing, because I didn’t have a book.) Mr Tompkins had mentioned he lived alone, and I was waiting for him to go out. Eventually his front door opened. I hid behind a tree and watched him ride his bike off.

  I was a bit scared, but I reminded myself that Mr Tompkins deserved this. There was a gate at the side of the house, but I got over it easily. His backyard was flat and grassy, with some paving stones outsi
de the back door and a grey outdoor sofa, a chair, a small table and a barbecue.

  My first thought had been to paint all his outdoor furniture with red and blue stripes, but if I did that Mr Tompkins would know someone had done it. I wanted to do things that made him unsure whether it was real, or just his imagination. So I just moved his sofa a few steps to the left, his chair a few steps to the right, and then collected a pile of leaves and arranged them in a ‘T’ shape on his barbecue. See, if I’d painted his furniture he could have called the police. But if you call the police and tell them that your outdoor sofa has moved a few steps to the left and there’s some leaves in a ‘T’ shape on your barbecue, they’re not going to do anything.

  Just as I was about to leave, I heard the gate open. I rushed around the other side of the house, and hid behind a bin. I heard footsteps, then a gasp, then some swearing, then the noise of furniture being moved and leaves being swept off a barbecue. Excellent! He’d noticed! Then I heard a door opening and footsteps going inside. I waited a bit, then tiptoed past the back door and down the side path. His bike was there. I unscrewed the height adjustment of the bike seat and lowered it about ten centimetres. Then I climbed over the gate and bolted.

  On Monday we had music, which meant that for nearly an hour Mr Tompkins would be working alone in our classroom. This was going to be the best one yet, but also the most risky.

  For music, we combined with the other Year Six class in the hall to sing choir songs. I made sure I was at the back and at the end of the row. When we stood up to sing, it was easy to slip out the door of the hall and into the playground.

  Our school has hundreds of people in it, but when you’re walking around during lesson time it feels empty. I went down to the bike rack where I lifted Mr Tompkins’ seat up as high as it would go, but that wasn’t why I was there. A few weeks ago, some workmen had done repairs in the roof, and they had got in through a trapdoor on the side of the building near the bike rack. It was padlocked, which is why I had bought some bolt cutters and hidden them in the bushes, along with a torch. I snipped the padlock, opened the trapdoor, stepped in and pulled the door shut behind me.