Mascot Madness! (2 page)

Gretel jerked her head. ‘Move it,' she said to Fred.

Fred shrugged. ‘Come on, Clive,' he said. ‘Let's go somewhere that doesn't stink so much.' He turned and walked away.

‘Good one, Fred!' said Clive, running after him. ‘Good one!'

As I walked into the 5B classroom, I wondered how so much milk could have come out of such a small container.

I was soaked. My clothes stuck to me and, as much as I hated to admit it, Fred was right—I stank. Like bananas.

‘What happened, Henry?' said Fiona McBrain, looking up from her calculator.

‘Northwest West Academy, that's what,' I said. ‘They threw a container of milk out of their bus.'

‘Oh my goodness,' said Fiona. ‘A missile projected at that velocity could have caused a serious injury! Let me see . . .' She began punching numbers into her calculator, muttering all the while about missiles, trajectories and projected impacts.

‘That's completely out of line!' said David Worthy, who, along with Fiona, was class captain.
He was holding the school handbook. ‘It says here that it's completely against school rules to project missiles from moving vehicles!'

‘David,' said Gretel, ‘that's
our
school handbook. The missile was projected by Northwest West Academy. They play by their own rules, remember?'

‘Oh yeah,' said David glumly. ‘I hate it when people play by their own rules.'

‘Oh no!' said Penny Palomino, jumping to her feet. ‘The horses!'

‘The horses!' echoed her twin, Gina, jumping up as well. ‘Are they all right?'

Penny and Gina were referring to their imaginary horses. Our teacher, Mr Brainfright, had insisted they be tethered outside so Penny and Gina could concentrate on their class work.

‘It's okay, girls,' said Jenny reassuringly. ‘Your horses are fine. They didn't get a drop on them.'

‘Thank goodness for that!' said Penny.

‘Yes,' said Gina. ‘If anything happened to our horses I just couldn't stand it!'

‘What about me?' I said.

Gina and Penny looked at me and frowned.

‘What about you?' said Penny.

‘Something happened to
me
,' I said.

‘You're not a horse,' said Penny.

‘But I'm covered in milk!'

‘Don't worry, Henry,' said Grant Gadget. ‘I've
got just the thing to dry you out in no time. Wait there!'

Grant dashed out into the corridor to his locker. Grant's dad was an inventor and Grant was always coming to school with some interesting new invention borrowed from his dad's laboratory. Unfortunately, the inventions didn't always work quite the way they were supposed to. But they were always interesting.

‘This ought to be good,' said Jack, shaking his head. ‘Glad it's you and not me.'

‘Well, I've got to do something,' I said. ‘My clothes are soaked!'

‘Never fear,' said Grant, returning with what looked like an oversized hairdryer. ‘Grant Gadget is here!'

‘That's exactly what we fear!' said Jack.

‘What I have here,' said Grant, ignoring Jack, ‘is a prototype of the Super Dryer 3000. It's not much bigger than a regular hairdryer, but it has the force—and drying power—of three thousand hairdryers. Are you ready?' Grant was pointing the Super Dryer 3000 at me, his finger poised on the trigger.

‘Don't let him do it, Henry!' warned Jack. ‘You'll be sorry.'

I understood Jack's concern. But I was cold, wet and smelled of bananas. I figured things couldn't get any worse.

‘I'll take my chances, Jack,' I said. ‘Okay, Grant. Let me have it!'

Grant nodded . . . and let me have it.

The Super Dryer 3000 roared into life.

At first it felt like getting blasted by a hairdryer.

Then it felt like getting blasted by three thousand hairdryers.

And then it felt like . . . well, I don't know, because the next thing I knew the sheer force of the Super Dryer 3000 sent me flying backwards through the air and out the classroom window!

I ended up flat on my back in Mr Spade's freshly dug garden bed.

Mr Spade didn't like people falling into his freshly dug garden beds.

I knew this because I could hear him yelling.

I lifted my head out of the soft dirt. Mr Spade was running towards me waving his pitchfork.

‘Henry?' called Jenny from the window above. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes,' I called back. ‘I think so.'

‘You'd better get out of there,' said Gretel. ‘Mr Spade's coming.'

‘And he's got a pitchfork!' said Newton.

‘I'm onto it,' I said. The sight of the sharp tips of Mr Spade's pitchfork was all the incentive I needed. I got up and ran.

Luckily, Mr Spade was still a long way off and I was able to get back to the classroom before he
could introduce the tips of his pitchfork to the milk-stiffened seat of my pants.

I had only been back in the classroom long enough for Grant to apologise and explain that the Super Dryer 3000 needed a little more work when Mr Brainfright entered.

He stopped.

And sniffed.

‘Well, I'll be darned,' he said, breaking into a huge grin. ‘Banana! I can smell banana! And it smells as if it's been warmed up, or toasted. Lovely!'

Mr Brainfright liked bananas.

And I don't just mean he liked bananas.

I mean he
really
liked bananas.

He took a few steps towards me, sniffing as he walked. ‘Henry?' he said. ‘Is that delicious smell coming from you?'

‘Yes, sir!' I said. ‘But I can explain—'

‘No need to explain,' he said. ‘Let's just enjoy it! There's nothing quite like the smell of fresh banana in the morning. What a wonderful, wonderful morning!'

‘No, it's not.' My clothes were dry. But now they were all stiff and uncomfortable, and smelly too. ‘It's a terrible, terrible morning!' I said.

The rest of the class nodded and murmured their agreement.

Mr Brainfright frowned. ‘Whatever do you all mean?' he said. ‘The sun is shining. The birds are singing. The flowers are blooming. And the room smells like warm bananas. Why the long faces?'

‘Because it's athletics season,' said Jack gloomily.

‘Athletics season!' exclaimed Mr Brainfright, his eyes shining. ‘How wonderful! Out there in the fresh air, warm sun, soft grass . . . pushing yourselves to the limit and beyond. Muscles working, sweat on the brow, lungs bursting, the pure primal thrill of the race . . . running, jumping, throwing . . . ahh! Some of the best days of my life were spent on the track and in the field.'

‘Maybe that's how it was for you,' said Gretel, ‘but that's not how it is for us. Athletics for us means getting thrashed by Northwest West Academy at the annual interschool competition.'

‘Oh, come now,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘Surely it's not
that
bad.'

‘It is that bad,' I said. ‘We're hopeless. We lose every year.'

‘Northwest West Academy are unbeatable,' said Jenny.

‘Well, you certainly won't beat them with that attitude,' said Mr Brainfright.

‘But they've never been defeated,' said Gretel. ‘Ever! And their principal, Mr Constrictor, is an ex-pro wrestler.'

‘Good for him,' said Mr Brainfright.

‘Yeah,' said Jack. ‘Good for him and bad for us. He was thrown out of the World Wrestling Federation . . . for attacking a referee.'

‘That's not very nice,' said Jenny, shocked at the thought of anyone being attacked, let alone a referee.

Clive jumped to his feet. ‘It's not true! It was a set-up! The referee was attacking
him
!'

‘Whatever,' said Jack. ‘The point is that he doesn't play by the rules.'

‘I'm going to tell my brother you said that,' said Clive, ‘and I can tell you now, he's not going to like it. He's a big wrestling fan. Mr Constrictor is his hero. Mine too. They called him The Boa because he would squeeze his opponents so hard they couldn't breathe.'

‘That's definitely not very nice,' said Jenny.

‘I'll tell you what else is definitely not nice,' I said to Mr Brainfright. ‘You know how most schools have an anti-bullying program? Well, at Northwest West Academy Mr Constrictor has set up a pro-bullying program to teach them how to bully more effectively. And their mascot is a pit bull terrier—called Chomp!'

‘Someone in a pit-bull-terrier suit, you mean?' said Mr Brainfright.

‘No!' said Jenny. ‘A real pit bull terrier. It belongs to Mr Constrictor. And it's really mean!' Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. She hated saying anything bad about anyone, even a dog.

‘She's right,' said Jack. ‘It's the biggest, meanest, scariest dog you ever saw. Its teeth are really sharp and it's always growling and barking and—'

‘Jack,' I said, looking across at Newton, who was staring at Jack with his mouth open, ‘that's enough. You're upsetting Newton.'

‘Oh dear,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘It sounds like you're really up against it, aren't you? But don't give up hope! Talent and skill will eventually triumph over brawn.'

‘But that's just the thing,' said Jenny. ‘We don't have any talent. Or skill.'

‘I don't believe that for a moment,' said Mr Brainfright.

‘It's true!' said Jack. ‘Just ask Mr Grunt. He'll tell you how bad we are. He says we're the worst school he's ever coached!'

‘Oh, come now,' said Mr Brainfright, chuckling. ‘I'm sure he doesn't really say that.'

‘He does!' said Newton. ‘He says we're hopeless!'

Mr Brainfright stopped smiling. ‘Let me get this straight,' he said. ‘Mr Grunt, your sports teacher, told you that you were hopeless?'

‘Yes,' said Newton. ‘He tells us all the time. And he should know—he was in the Olympics.'

Mr Brainfright stroked his chin. ‘Is that a fact?'

‘Yes,' said Gretel. ‘It's pretty much all he talks about . . . besides telling us how hopeless we are.'

‘Interesting,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘Very interesting. When do you next have a sports class with Mr Grunt?'

‘After lunch,' said David.

‘Good,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘I might come down and watch.'

That afternoon we sat on the oval while Mr Grunt paced up and down in front of us with a clipboard in one hand, a stopwatch in the other, and a whistle around his neck.

Mr Grunt glared at us, raised the whistle to his lips, and blew it.

Loudly.

‘Now listen up, you bunch of no-hopers!' he growled, his eyes bugging out like golf balls. ‘Today we are going to work on the triple jump. It should be easy enough—even for a bunch of losers like you, 5B. You hop, you step, and you jump. Is that clear?'