Let me set you straight up-front.
The Ooooooooops are the local Under 12s rugby league team.
Here’s why they call themselves the Ooooooooops. The players’ names are Oswald, Oscar, Orion, Olivia, Ophelia, Octavia, Opal, Odin, Oliver and Patrick.
You see? The Ooooooooops.
Every time I mention the Ooooooooops at home, my grandma says, ‘I’ll tell you what, Frankie, it’s a lucky thing their names are not: Patrick, Oswald, Oscar, Orion, Olivia, Ophelia, Octavia, Opal, Odin and Oliver!’ Then she laughs so hard that I have to run and fetch her inhaler.
My name is Frances, but you can call me Frankie.
Here’s why I had to set you straight up-front. You might be hoping for a story about a kid tripping over, running to their mum and saying, ‘I got an ooooooooops!’
(Strange thing to hope for.)
Anyway, it’s not. It’s not a story about rugby league, either.
This is a story about homework.
Monday, September 16, 9.00 am.
Windy spring day.
Flowering Plum Town Primary School, Grade 6Z.
Ms Zorn starts the day with an Irish jig, as usual.
We sit at our tables and watch her. Chat among ourselves.
‘Oh,’ Ms Zorn pants when she’s done. ‘Oh boy! Gets the heart going, that! Love it. Can’t think why you don’t all join in!’
We give her friendly nods.
‘Now,’ says Ms Zorn. ‘Bad news. I’m at a conference this week. We’ll open the dividing wall with the Year Fives so Mr Alix can keep an eye on you. I will miss you all dreadfully. I had a little cry last night thinking about it. Do any of you need to have a little cry now?’
We think about it for a moment. Then we give her friendly headshakes.
‘No thanks,’ Mario calls. ‘We’ll be right.’
‘Yes, you’re a tough bunch. Love it. And I’ll pop in for ten minutes at the start of each day,’ Ms Zorn adds, ‘to give you worksheets and remind you what I look like.’
Now she glances at the clock. ‘Four minutes and I’ll have to run to the conference. But first, let me collect your “Day-to-Day Life on the Goldfields” projects. Did you all just love doing that one?’
‘Sure did!’ says Alya Jimanez. Alya sits beside me. She’s not being funny. She’s the smartest person in the class. Doing homework is like eating pizza to her.
The rest of us take out our projects and hand them in.
Not Patrick Deakin.
‘Ms Zorn?’ Patrick says. ‘I’ve lost my project.’
Patrick is the P in the Ooooooooops. He’s the captain. He sits at the biggest table in the classroom with all the Os. They wear their rugby uniforms to school and get each other in headlocks all the time. It’s a friendly thing, the headlocks.
‘Where did you last see it, Patrick?’ Ms Zorn asks him.
‘In my dog’s mouth,’ Patrick replies.
Hmmm, I think.
‘I was walking to school this morning,’ Patrick explains, ‘and my dog, Turkey, chased me all the way from home.’
Hmmmmmm, I think next.
‘My bag was open,’ Patrick continues. ‘I guess I forgot to zip it up. Turkey jumped up, got his nose in and took out my project.’
‘Okay, here’s what you do,’ Olivia advises from beside him. ‘You say: Sit, Turkey! Drop it! Drop it! Try that.’
‘Too late. This all happened this morning,’ Patrick tells her. ‘Before I knew what was happening, he’d run off with the project.’
‘Okay.’ Olivia considers. ‘Here’s what you do. You shout: TURKEY! COME! TURKEY! COME HERE! Try that.’
‘Olivia,’ Patrick says, ‘this has already happened. He ran off, like I said, and then he tossed my project into the stormwater drain on the far side of Handball Park.’
Olivia squints. ‘Right. So you say: NAUGHTY, TURKEY! FETCH THE PROJECT! FETCH! Try that.’
Patrick gets Olivia into a headlock and carries on with his story. ‘By the time I got to the stormwater drain, my project had floated away and disappeared. Turkey looked pretty disappointed in himself.’
Ms Zorn claps her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, Patrick!’ she says. ‘What a story! Love it. You had me on the edge of my seat! Well, you may hand in your project tomorrow instead.’
‘As soon as I get it back,’ Patrick agrees.
‘Oh, Patrick!’ Ms Zorn repeats, tragically this time. ‘You won’t be getting it back. If it’s gone down the drain, it’s not coming back up the drain. That’s not how drains work.’
‘It’s all right,’ Patrick says. ‘I’ll send a paper boat after it.’
There is an interested quiet in the classroom.
Ms Zorn rallies. ‘That’s not how paper boats work either,’ she tells him politely. ‘They don’t go and fetch projects out of drains.’
From beside me, Alya pipes up. ‘Even if you did get it back, Patrick, it would be soggy.’
A good point.
‘It was in a plastic envelope,’ Patrick tells her.
Touché.
‘It’s a lost cause, my dear boy,’ Ms Zorn says. ‘I assume you did it on a computer at home? You can print it out again tonight!’
‘I don’t really believe in printing out homework a second time,’ Patrick confesses.
‘Oh, my dear Patrick!’ Ms Zorn sighs. ‘I do see your point! Printing is so wasteful! I believe in your principles! But Patrick, you’ll have to print your project again – so I can mark it! That’s how school works, you see? I’ll let you hand it in tomorrow, but each day it’s late after that, I’ll put a red cross on your column here.’ She points to the class chart on the wall. ‘You’ll lose ten points for each cross. I’m very sorry, but it’s the school policy.’
A few of the Os begin to argue with her.
‘The policy is wrong,’ Oswald declares.
‘Makes no sense,’ Oscar agrees. ‘If we handed something in a year late, we’d end up with negative 3650 points. We’d spend the rest of our lives working to pay you back the points, Ms Zorn.’
At that moment, a bird outside collides with the closed classroom window: thwack!
‘Oh!’ everybody says.
The bird shakes its feathers and flies away, but Ms Zorn becomes agitated.
This happens to her now and then. She’s what my dad calls highly strung.
‘Oh, the poor little bird!’ she cries. ‘Is it all right?’
Here’s what Ms Zorn does when she’s suddenly upset. She pats her own cheeks. Then she slaps both sides of her head. Finally, she starts flapping her fingers through her hair, flinging her hair into the air.
Same pattern every time. She’s doing this now.
‘Does the bird have a concussion?!’ (Patting her cheeks.) ‘Should we run outside and find it?!’ (Slapping her head.) ‘Should we ask it who the prime minister is?’ (Flapping her hair.)
Her hair bounces excitedly. Hairclips fly. One clip lands in Ignatius’s tank. Ignatius is the class iguana. He takes no notice.
‘Oh my!’ cries Ms Zorn. ‘The time! Somebody open the dividing door! Must fly!’ And she sprints out of the room. Her hair is fluffed up around her head now, like a dandelion. You could make a wish on her.
‘Righto!’ Patrick calls after her. ‘I’ll get my project back out of the drain!’
Here’s what you need to know.
Patrick is lying.
His dog did not take his project. His project is not in the stormwater drain. He never even did his project.
Here’s how I know this.
Patrick Deakin is the king of excuses.
Once he said he was late to school because a cat was crossing the road very, very, very slowly. He and his mum had to just sit there in their car waiting, he said.
Another time he said that he didn’t have his hat because it was plucked right off his head by a man with a fishing rod. The man, he said, was sitting in a tree.
Tuesday, September 17, 9.00 am.
Blue-sky spring day.
Ms Zorn does her Irish jig, as usual.
She tells us she missed us so much yesterday that she started to cry. She had to pretend she was chopping onions. That just created confusion, she admits, as people wanted to know why she was chopping onion at a conference. She told them she was getting in some early prep for that night’s dinner: her Aunty Lulu’s famous Onion Stew.
‘Never tell a lie,’ she advises us now. ‘You end up promising to make your Aunty Lulu’s famous Onion Stew for fifty-seven people. And I haven’t even got an Aunty Lulu.’
She hands out worksheets for the day.
‘One last thing before I go,’ she says. ‘Patrick? Your project? Did you print it out last night?’
Patrick makes a clicking, thinking sound with his tongue.
‘It’s like this,’ he begins.
‘IGNATIUS!’ Opal shrieks from across Patrick’s table. ‘IGNATIUS!’
Ms Zorn gets such a fright that she leaps into the air and bumps her head on the ceiling fan. She lands. She spins around (like a ceiling fan herself). Ignatius is lying in his tank, as usual.
Ms Zorn turns back, puzzled.
‘IGNATIUS!’ Opus shrieks again. ‘IGNATIUS IS …’
‘Dead,’ Orion declares.
Opal nods vigorously. Opal, like the other Os, is always grass- and mud-stained. A chunk of dried mud falls from her fringe as she nods. ‘Dead,’ she repeats. ‘Look at how still he’s lying there, Ms Zorn! Dead!’
Ms Zorn becomes agitated. She pats her cheeks. ‘But Ignatius always lies perfectly still,’ she says. ‘Remember, we talked about that? Cold-blooded reptiles need to conserve energy, and—’
Oscar chimes in, very solemn. ‘He is dead, Ms Zorn. I saw his life force leave him.’
‘What?!’ Ms Zorn pats both sides of her head. ‘His life force?’
‘Just now,’ Oscar confirms. ‘A cloud of blue smoke wafted up out of the tank. His life force.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Ms Zorn leaps over to the tank. She is flapping her hair. It bounces excitedly. ‘Ignatius, my darling iguana!’
At that moment, Ignatius opens his mouth and chomps down on a leaf.
‘He’s alive! He’s alive!’ Ms Zorn breaks into her Irish jig again. ‘It’s a miracle! Oh, but look at the time! I have to run!’
And she jigs right out of the classroom.
Over at the Ooooooooops table, I see Patrick give his friends a quick nod.
On the wall is the chart with all our names. The Patrick column is blank.
Wednesday, September 18, 9.00 am.
Cool-ish spring day.
Ms Zorn does her Irish jig.
She says she missed us so much yesterday she had to curl up on the floor at the conference. She told the other people that she was doing a famous yoga move.
‘Never tell a lie,’ she advises. ‘You end up promising to teach your Aunty Peepaw’s famous yoga move to fifty-seven people. And I don’t even have an Aunty Peepaw.’
Next she turns to Patrick. ‘Right!’ she says. ‘Your project!’
Patrick makes a clicking, thinking sound.
‘It’s like this,’ he begins.
‘ALYA!!!’ shrieks Octavia from across Patrick’s table.
Ms Zorn leaps into the air and bumps her head on the ceiling fan.
Alya cranes around me to look at Octavia. ‘Yes?’ she says.
‘ALYA!!’ Octavia shrieks again. A few people cover their ears with their hands. ‘ALYA IS …’
‘Dead,’ Orion declares.
‘You’re definitely dead,’ Oscar tells her apologetically. ‘I saw your life force float out of you. Cloud of blue smoke.’
Alya cups her hands around her mouth and breathes into them. ‘But I’m breathing!’
‘It’s just that you’re not used to being dead yet,’ Orion explains.
‘Very funny,’ Ms Zorn says. ‘Love it. You’re perfectly alive, Alya. I guarantee it. Now Patrick, about your—’
‘SPIDER!!’ bellows Olivia.
Ms Zorn jumps again, but this time she swerves to avoid the ceiling fan.
‘Where?’
‘There! On your desk!’ Oswald yells.
Ms Zorn swivels on her heel. ‘Where?’
‘I’LL GET IT!’ Odin shouts. ‘HEADS!’ And he hurls a rugby ball at Ms Zorn’s desk.
A stack of books crash to the floor.
‘Oh my!’ Ms Zorn pats her cheeks. ‘Oh dear!’ She pats her head. She flaps at her hair. She scrambles around on the floor, gathering books. The helpful kids in the class hurry to help, and bump into each other. They bump into Alya too, as she’s wandering around asking people if they’ve seen her life force. ‘A cloud of blue smoke,’ she explains. ‘I’ll be needing it back, I’m sure.’ Smart people can often be a tiny bit thick.
‘Oh no!’ Ms Zorn’s hair flies up and down. ‘The time!’ She tears out of the room.
Over at the Ooooooooops table, Patrick gives his friends a thumbs-up. The Patrick column on the chart remains blank.
Thursday, September 19, 9.00am.
Cloudy spring day.
Ms Zorn does her Irish jig.
She tells us she missed us so much yesterday that she started singing little songs about us. She had to tell the others she was practising for a concert.
‘Never tell a lie,’ she advises. ‘You end up promising fifty-seven people tickets to your starring performance at the Sydney Opera House.’
‘And you don’t even have an Aunty Sydney Opera House,’ Alya puts in.
‘Exactly! Now. Patrick? Your project, please?’
Patrick makes his clicking, thinking noise.
‘It’s like this,’ he begins.
Oswald falls off his chair.
Oscar, Orion and Olivia all fart loudly, one after another: CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!
Ophelia calls, ‘Ms Zorn? I’ve just taken a selfie on my iPad. It’s me smoking a cigarette. And I’ve airdropped it to every teacher in the school. That’s a good idea, right?’
Some kids are trying to help untangle Oswald from his chair. Some are wailing, ‘GROSSSS!’ and trying to shove their tables as far as possible from the three smelly Os. A lot of kids are scrambling to see Ophelia’s iPad.
Ms Zorn pats her own cheeks.
‘Up you hop, Oswald! Open some windows, Oscar, Orion and Olivia! Delete that selfie, Ophelia! You know you’re not supposed to – wait, a cigarette?! Smoking a cigarette?! Ophelia, what on—’
Several kids call out to tell her that it’s a pencil that Ophelia is pretending to smoke in the picture, not an actual cigarette.
‘Well, but don’t smoke anything, Ophelia! And don’t be airdropping things! Delete that! Sit down, everyone! Now, Patrick, I’m going to need—’
Octavia shrieks, ‘MS ZORN! IT’S A RAT!’
‘Where?!’ Ms Zorn jumps onto her chair.
‘EVERYWHERE!’ Odin bellows. ‘ON THE WALLS! ON THE CEILING FAN! ON ALYA’S HEAD! DON’T WORRY! WE’LL GET THEM!’
Odin, Oscar and Orion jump up and start throwing themselves at the walls and the floor.
Beside me, Alya jitters around, trying to shake the rat off her head. ‘I still haven’t got my life force back,’ she mutters, ‘but now I’ve got a rat? Is that a fair exchange?’
Ms Zorn pats the side of her own head, maybe in agitation, maybe to check for rats.
‘Patrick?’ she says, as she does this. ‘I must get—’
‘MS ZORN!’ shrieks Opal. ‘A SNAKE!’
‘Where?!’
‘EVERYWHERE! IN THE TOTE TRAYS! IN ALYA’S SOCKS! DON’T WORRY! WE’LL GET THEM!’
Olivia, Ophelia and Octavia jump up and throw themselves at Odin, Oscar and Orion, tackling them all to the floor.
‘MS ZORN!’ bellows Odin from the floor. ‘POSSUMS! EVERYWHERE! ON THE WHITEBOARD! IN ALYA’S POCKETS!’
Odin, Oscar and Orion scramble off the floor and start tackling tables and chairs.
‘MS ZORN!’ shrieks Oswald. ‘TERMITES! THEY’RE EATING MY CHAIR OUT FROM UNDER ME!’
He falls off his chair again.
Ms Zorn flings her hair. She looks at the clock. ‘Oh, the time! Must fly!’ She zooms out of the classroom.
The Os return to the Ooooooooops table and slump back in their seats, exhausted.
Patrick gives them all high fives.
On the chart, the Patrick column remains blank.
Alya is still jittering, trying to shake off the rat, at the same time as scrounging in her socks for snakes, at the same time as turning out her pockets for possums.
‘Alya,’ I say. ‘There are no rats.’
‘No rats?’ She looks relieved.
‘And no snakes.’
‘No snakes?’ She looks even more relieved.
‘And no possums.’
‘No possums?’ Now she’s disappointed. She’d hoped for a pet possum in her pocket.
‘Then why …?’ she begins.
She looks over at the Ooooooooops table. Up at the chart on the wall. Back at the Ooooooooops table.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘They’re trying to distract Ms Zorn?’
I nod.
‘So she doesn’t notice that Patrick hasn’t handed in his project yet?’
‘Right.’
‘So she won’t give him a red cross?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘He probably never even did the project!’ she realises, widening her eyes.
‘Exactly.’
‘But what are they going to do next week when Ms Zorn’s conference is over?’ she wonders.
‘Distract her for every single day, the entire day, for the rest of the school year?’ I suggest.
‘We won’t learn a thing.’ Alya sighs.
That wasn’t really my point, but I let it go.
‘He should just do the project!’
I shrug. ‘Not everyone loves homework the way you do.’
Alya studies the Ooooooooops table. ‘They’ve all been helping to distract Ms Zorn,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘All except Oliver. He hasn’t done anything yet.’
I look across at the faces of the Os. She’s right. Of all the Os, Oliver is the only one who hasn’t contributed.
‘He’s too shy and quiet,’ I say. ‘And well-behaved.’
‘True.’ Alya says. ‘Also very skinny. He’s a winger.’ She leans back in her seat and sighs. ‘I wish I knew what happened to my life force.’
Friday, September 20, 8.20 am.
Stormy spring day.
Black clouds. Howling wind. Rain falling sideways.
‘Want a ride to school?’ Dad asks.
I shake my head. ‘I’ll be all right.’
Here’s what happens on my walk to school.
First, my umbrella turns inside out. I turn it right way again. I get soaked doing this.
Next, a car drives by and sends a wave of water splashing over me. I get double-soaked.
Then the car stops. I think the driver’s going to call out, ‘Sorry!’ But the car just sits there. When I reach it, I see why.
A cat is blocking its path. Ginger. Plump. It’s walking across the road very, very, very slowly. Like a cat that’s out window-shopping in a shopping mall. Like a cat that sees a completely fascinating thing in every single shop.
The car honks its horn. The cat continues its slow, slow window-shopping way across the road.
I carry on.
My umbrella blows out of my hand and starts cartwheeling down the street.
While I’m chasing it, I run into a hook.
I untangle the hook from my hair and look at it. The hook dangles from the end of a string. I follow the line of the string. It ends in a tree.
A man is sitting up in the tree holding a fishing rod. He’s wearing a yellow raincoat.
‘Almost got your hat!’ he calls, very cheerful.
I carry on chasing my umbrella. It twirls along the footpath, turns a corner and lands in Handball Park.
The Ooooooooops are playing rugby league in the park. They play in any weather, but especially in pouring rain. They’re tackling each other into the mud. Some of them throw their own selves into the mud. They seem pretty happy.
Somebody is missing.
It’s all the Os, I realise, but no P.
I look across the park.
Patrick is sitting on the grass, feeding paper boats into the stormwater drain. His dog, Turkey, stands beside him, watching.
I carry on to school.
Ms Zorn does her Irish jig.
The class sit shaking ourselves like wet dogs. My shoes are filled with rainwater. My feet slosh around in them.
Ms Zorn tells us she missed us so much yesterday she paid no attention to the conference. She marked our ‘Day-to-Day Life on the Goldfields’ projects instead. Doing this made her feel closer to us.
She told the other people she was working on a Top-Secret Spy Mission for her Aunt Waffles-and-Ice-Cream in the CIA.
‘Never tell a lie,’ she advises us. ‘You end up promising fifty-seven people a tour of the CIA’s facilities in the United States. And I haven’t—’
‘—even got an Aunt Waffles-and-Ice-Cream,’ I fill in for her.
‘I was going to say that I haven’t even got a security pass to the CIA facilities,’ Ms Zorn explains. ‘But that reminds me, I must ask my Aunt Waffles-and-Ice-Cream to come to school one day to meet you all! She’ll tell you about her work with the CIA. Now, the good news is, I can give back your projects! Let’s see …’
She picks up her satchel, opens the buckles, reaches in—
‘MS ZORN!’ shrieks Oswald.
‘Yes, Oswald?’
‘It’s a …’
Oswald’s got nothing.
Oscar shouts: ‘It’s a …’
But he’s got nothing either.
Orion bellows: ‘It’s a—’
Olivia tries, ‘It’s a velocirapt—’ and stops, looking embarrassed.
Ophelia screams, ‘It’s a sheep!’ And also looks embarrassed.
Octavia, Opal and Odin all fall off their chairs with a thud-thud-thud, and then sit on the floor in the silence, looking embarrassed.
Ms Zorn blinks. ‘Anyhow,’ she says.
I look over at the Os. If Ms Zorn gives back our projects now, she’ll remember that Patrick has not handed his in yet. She’ll add up the days it’s been missing. She’ll put the missing red crosses on the chart.
‘Anyhow,’ Ms Zorn repeats. ‘Let me give back your—’
Oliver punches himself in the nose.
Blood gushes onto his shirt.
‘Oh my!’ Ms Zorn pats her cheeks.
Oliver stands up. Blood gushes onto the carpet.
‘Oh gosh!’ Ms Zorn pats her head.
Oliver swings from side to side. Blood splatters everywhere!
‘Oh my goodness!’ Ms Zorn flaps her hair, leaps in the air and hits her head on the ceiling fan.
‘Get him a tissue! Get him ice! Get him a bandage! Get him a doctor! Get him to the hospital! Fetch the cleaners! Oh, but look at the time! I have to fly!’
She zooms from the room.
Oliver sits back down. Ophelia hands him a tissue. He presses it to his nose. The bleeding stops.
Patrick and the rest of the Os give Oliver a round of applause.
The whole class looks at the chart on the wall. The Patrick column is blank.
I think about my morning.
That slow, slow, slow, slow cat crossing the road, blocking the car.
The man in the tree with a fishing rod.
Patrick sitting by a drainpipe with a stack of paper boats. His dog, Turkey, beside him.
Oliver – shy-and-quiet, well-behaved, skinny Oliver – punching himself in the nose.
Unless …
I stand up.
As usual, some of the helpful kids are pushing open the dividing wall between our classroom and the next. They’re pushing it pretty quickly. Any second, Mr Alix and the Year Fives will appear.
I run out of the classroom.
It’s still pouring outside. There’s nobody around.
I race through the school gate.
Along the slick wet roads.
To Handball Park.
I squelch across the muddy grass to the stormwater drain. The drain runs along to the back fence of the park where it disappears into the ground. I lie down on my stomach in the mud and try to see inside the opening. Nothing. Just water gurgling away in the dark. A soggy paper boat stuck to the side.
I hop back up and jog through the rain to the Flowering Plum Town Library. Push open the door.
‘You’re very wet!’ the librarian tells me.
She’s observant. That’s how you get to be a librarian.
‘I need the blueprints of all the stormwater drainways in Flowering Plum Town,’ I tell her. ‘Please.’
First, she fetches me a towel and tells me to stand just there, just outside the door please, and dry myself. Please.
Ten minutes later, she has the blueprints for me.
I study them a moment. Then I set off at a sprint again.
I slide along Main Street.
I slosh by Segway Road and past Pistachio Lane.
I splash through the Emerson’s meadow.
I reach the stream where the stormwater drain empties out.
The stream is very chatty in the rain. Water rushes out of the drain and joins the stream’s conversation.
The stream is crowded with rocks. This helps catch any garbage that’s been swept into the stormwater drain.
Seven paper boats have capsized on the rocks.
Two broken umbrellas cling to the mud by their spokes.
A teddy bear lies facedown on the bank.
And there?
Caught in a clump of weeds?
A plastic envelope.
I wade across and pick it up. It’s wet and mud-streaked, but you can still see through the plastic to a big block heading:
DAY-TO-DAY LIFE ON THE GOLDFIELDS
Project
Patrick Deakin
Class: 6Z
I walk back to school.
At first, I’m quick. Pretty proud of myself.
But then I slow down, thinking.
If Patrick hands this in on Monday, Ms Zorn will know it’s late. She’ll put the red crosses on his chart anyway. A whole week of red crosses. A lot of lost points.
What to do?
I reach the school gate. A woman carrying a yellow umbrella reaches it at the same time.
Then our mouths open wide.
‘Ms Zorn!’ I say.
‘Frankie!’ she says.
I hide the plastic folder behind my back.
‘I was just going to the bathroom,’ I tell her.
‘But you’re outside the school gate!’
‘Took a wrong turn,’ I explain.
‘Oh, well, hop under my umbrella,’ she offers. ‘On your way back to class now?’
We hurry along, crammed together under her umbrella. Ms Zorn’s satchel is tucked beneath her arm.
‘Here,’ I say politely. ‘Let me carry that for you.’ ‘Such beautiful manners!’ Ms Zorn exclaims. ‘Love it!’ She hands over her satchel.
‘Look!’ I say, pointing across the playground. ‘It’s an elephant!’
Ms Zorn looks.
The buckles of her satchel are easy to open.
Ms Zorn looks back. ‘Where?’ she asks.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just the admin block.’
Inside the classroom, Ms Zorn tells the helpful children to close the dividing wall.
‘I’m back now!’ she calls to Mr Alix, the Year Five teacher. He waves. ‘Class,’ she says. ‘Today I missed you so much that I got right up and left the conference.’
‘What did you tell the other people?’ Alya enquires.
‘That I missed my class,’ she replies. ‘Honesty. Love it. Everyone should try it. Have you missed me?’
We give her friendly nods.
‘Now, before we do anything, I must give you back your projects! I meant to do it this morning. Can’t think why I forgot.’ She opens her satchel.
‘MS ZORN!’ shout the Os all at once.
‘Yes?’ Ms Zorn replies, but she pulls a clump of projects from her satchel and starts to hand them out.
The Os slump back in their seats. Patrick shakes his head at them in a friendly way, meaning: You did your best, I’m proud of you anyway. Cheers. Like a good team captain.
Ms Zorn reaches her hand into the satchel again for the next clump. ‘Now one project was missing,’ she begins – and then her hand comes back out. It’s damp and muddy. There’s a leaf stuck to it. ‘What on …?’ Ms Zorn peers into her satchel. She slides out a plastic envelope.
She holds it up to her face. Brushes away a couple more dried leaves and a bit of dirt.
Blinks.
There’s a long quiet. Everyone is watching her.
She looks up from the plastic envelope and across at Patrick. Patrick tilts his head to the side. Confused. All the Os tilt their heads too. Trying to see what she’s holding.
Ms Zorn looks over at me.
A curious expression crosses her face.
A slow smile forms.
‘Patrick Deakin!’ Ms Zorn hoots. ‘You got your project back out of the stormwater drain!’
Patrick jumps. ‘I did?’ he asks.
‘You did! And you popped it into my satchel for me!’
‘I did?’ Patrick yelps.
‘You did! Why, now I know what’s happened! On Tuesday, when I asked you for it, you said: “It’s like this …” and then Opal worried about Ignatius the Iguana being dead, and I got distracted! On Wednesday, when I asked for it, you said, “It’s like this …” and then Octavia worried about Alya being dead and there was a spider on my desk, which Odin kindly killed with a rugby ball, and I got distracted! On Thursday, when I asked for it, you said, “It’s like this …” and then oh my goodness, there were falling children, farts, selfies, rats, snakes, possums, termites, the classroom was a zoo! Thankfully the Os tackled all the critters, but I got distracted. And then this morning, Oliver punched himself in the nose. And I got distracted. But all this time, Patrick, you were trying to say to me: It’s like this, Ms Zorn, my project is back from the stormwater drain and I’ve popped it into your satchel.’
‘I was?’ Patrick whispers.
‘You were.’ Ms Zorn nods firmly. ‘And you were also trying to tell me that Frankie got the project out of the stormwater drain for you!’
‘She did?!’ Patrick swings around to look at me.
Ms Zorn squints in thought.
‘She did. She probably used the plans for the stormwater drains, though, rather than paper boats. Paper boats were never going to work, Patrick. But where did she get the plans from, I wonder? The town council offices?’
‘The library,’ I say.
‘The library, yes,’ Ms Zorn beams. ‘Love it! You popped it in my satchel way back on Tuesday, Patrick, so there are no red crosses on your chart, and no points to deduct! Everybody! Hop up! We’ll do an Irish jig to celebrate!’
So, for the first time ever, everybody gets up and jigs.
Patrick and the Os jig over my way and take turns getting me in headlocks. That’s their way of saying thank you. Patrick gives me a fist bump and the same grin he gives his teammates when they score a try.
‘What I don’t understand,’ I say to Patrick, ‘is why you didn’t just print it out again?’
‘It’s like this,’ Patrick says, Irish-jigging beside me. ‘After I printed it the first time at home, I slid across the floorboards, tripped over Turkey, hit the coffee table with my knee, ricocheted off the table, stumbled back, fell over the couch and landed headfirst on the floor. Everything went blurry and I ran to my mum and said, “I got an ooooooooops!” Mum ran to the computer and closed everything so she could google ‘Head injury that turns your child back into a six-year-old again’. She accidentally closed my project. I hadn’t saved it yet. So I didn’t have a project to print out again. I had to get it back out of the drain.’
He jigs away again.
Let me admit something.
I was wrong about a lot this week.
Patrick wasn’t lying.
He did do his project.
He’s not the King of Excuses.
He’s the King of Strange Things Happening to Him.
And this is a story about a kid tripping over and running to their mum to say, ‘I got an ooooooooops’.
I apologise.
THE END
The whole class is dancing except Alya.
‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ I ask.
‘No life force,’ she says sadly.
I cup my hands around empty air. ‘Found it. Tilt your head and I’ll tip it back in through your ear.’
Alya whoops, hops up and joins the dance.
