A dark storm-cloud hovered over us.
Which was strange, because we were sitting in the brightly lit dinner hall.
‘What,’ bellowed the dark storm-cloud, ‘is THIS!’
The dark storm-cloud was wearing a white pinafore and matching hat and a name badge that read ‘Mrs Sweeney, Catering Assistant’.
‘It’s … uh … some noodles?’ I mumbled, wondering why exactly Mrs Sweeney was pointing at my plate, and why it was annoying her so much.
‘What,’ Mrs Sweeney bellowed some more, ‘is wrong with them?’
I glanced down again at the wiggly wodge of uneaten noodles.
The stress of keeping Thing undercover had messed with my appetite, I guess.
Then again, the noodles were particularly disgusting today. The cook had boiled them so much they’d practically turned into gluey mush. (Not my favourite lunch.)
‘Er, nothing,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m just not very hungry today!’
‘What a WASTE!’ Mrs Sweeney tsk-ed fiercely, making me feel as if I was personally responsible for all the starving children in the world.
Phew; she seemed about to stomp off … but then found something else to moan about.
‘You!’ she barked at Jackson.
Jackson jumped in his seat, then checked his own plate for wrongness.
But apart from a stray pea, there was nothing on it. He was much too greedy to let a little thing like worry put him off his food.
‘Rules!!’ snarled Mrs Sweeney, flicking her tea towel at the sign on the wall behind us. ‘What does number FIVE say?!?’
‘It, uh …’ Jackson fumbled, ‘it says, “Keep bags off the tables and chairs”.’
‘So you can read, then?! Well, how about doing like it says and putting your bag on the floor! NOW!!’
Mrs Sweeney lunged forward, as if she was going to remove the offending rucksack herself.
But Jackson beat her to it and grabbed his bag and its delicate contents before meanie Sweeney had a chance to cause Thing any lasting damage.
‘We were leaving anyway!’ Jackson mumbled, and screeched back his chair.
I followed him quickly, noticing that we were just about the last people in here. All the other kids had already disappeared into the sunshine of the playground.
And most of the dinner hall staff had stomped off to the steaminess of the kitchen, laden with mountains of dirty dishes.
BRINGGGGGGG!!! the end-of-lunch bell suddenly deafened us.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked Jackson, as soon as we were outside. It looked like he’d been about to head off to the main school building, instead of the gym hall, which was just across the way.
‘Oh! I forgot it was PE today!’ he said, happily.
Looking this way and that, he checked no one was around before hoisting his bag up to his face.
‘Hey, Thing!’ he muttered directly to it. ‘You’ll like watching us do PE! At the beginning, we get to go on a big bouncy square called a trampoline. When it’s my turn, I’m going to pretend I’m jumping on meanie Sweeney’s head …’
‘Trampling,’ repeated a tiny purry voice from inside the bag. I could just see a glint of big eyes and a wet black snout through the mesh section.
‘Shhhh!!’ I told both Jackson and Thing.
After just a few strides, we were already at the gym building, and needed to concentrate.
‘Shhhh!’ repeated the little purry voice, always on the lookout for new words to learn.
‘Ruby means “be quiet”,’ Jackson told his bag.
‘Jackson – I’m shushing you too!’ I whispered in a warning voice, as we went inside to join Miss Wilson and the rest of our class.
Speaking of sounds, one I was sure Thing would like was the boing …!! boing …!! boing …!! of the trampoline.
Me and Jackson were last in line, but once it was finally my go, I glanced over at the row of benches piled with clothes and bags and quickly picked out Jackson’s black rucksack. I pictured our funny little pet Thing peering out through the mesh and ‘Boingy … boingy … boing!! ’ing happily to itself.
For a second, that made me smile, instead of stressing.
But with the very next boing, I was stressing again.
That’s because when I was on the upward part of my boing, I got a clear view out of the gym window, directly into the brightly lit dinner hall.
Which meant I got a clear view of what was going on in there!
‘Jackson!’ I hissed, still jumping, but waving for him to clamber up and join me.
He frowned, then glanced over at the far end of the gym, where Miss Wilson was handing out hula-hoops to everyone who’d finished warming up on the trampoline.
Once he was sure our teacher was distracted, Jackson leapt on board. We were only supposed to go on the trampoline one at a time, but he could probably tell by the look on my face that it was worth the risk of (another) telling-off.
Boing!!
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, timing his jumps so we were bouncing together.
Boing!!
‘Look!’
Boing!!
‘At what?’
Boing!!
‘The dining hall! Something –’
Boing!!
‘– REALLY weird is going on in there!’
Boing!
‘Oh, wow! Oh, no!’ gasped Jackson, suddenly feeling the same wave of dread that I’d just had a just a second ago, when I caught sight of Mrs Sweeney.
At first glance, I thought she was tangoing as she tidied.
At second glance, it seemed like she was pogoing with the plates.
At third glance, I realised she was going demented, not dancing, and that a whole twisty tangle of giant noodles was snaking around her and chasing her around the room!
Boing!!
‘Thing,’ I said breathlessly, ‘must have cast a spell on her –’
Boing!!
‘–’cause it heard her being so rude to us!’
Boing!!
‘But wouldn’t we have seen something? Like –’
Boing!!
‘– those sparkles that always happen?’
Boing!!
Before I could answer Jackson, we both heard a familiar purry voice.
‘Boing!’
Me and Jackson stared down, only to see a small furry creature bouncing and boinging and falling happily at our feet.
‘Hee hee! I like trampling!’
EEK!!
It’s very hard to stop dead on a trampoline, but we did our best, sort of crumpling to our knees and collapsing on the elasticised canvas.
‘Hide it!’ I hissed at Jackson, who’d already grabbed Thing and stuffed it up his T-shirt. ‘I’ll go and tell Miss Wilson you feel ill, and that I’m taking you to the sick-room!!’
It was pretty good as nano-second plans go, but I had no time to feel pleased with myself.
While Jackson clutched his stomach, I rushed through the whirl of hula-hoopers to Miss Wilson.
In a gabbled bumble of words, I told her that I was sure Jackson must have the same tummy bug I’d had on Tuesday (yes – the imaginary tummy bug!!).
Then I hurriedly told her not to worry when it looked like she might go over and check on him. (Thank goodness for twenty-eight hula-hooping kids who Miss Wilson couldn’t leave alone, in case they got in a tangle, probably.)
OK, so it was time to escape! And, er, try to do something about the disaster in the dining room …
‘Right – let’s go,’ I hissed at Jackson, grabbing his rucksack off the bench and rushing us both out of the gym doors.
‘But I don’t understand – why didn’t we feel Thing trembling? It always does that right before the magic starts!’ said Jackson, as we jogged across the playground.
‘Thing was hidden away in here, remember?’ I said, holding the black bag up and shaking it a little as we ran.
But with the shaking came an ever-so-familiar FIZZing sound, and out rolled a tumble of cartwheeling sparkles!
Well, I guess that answered our next question; the mini fireworks show had happened inside the rucksack …
‘Whatever,’ Jackson panted, still holding tight to Thing under his T-shirt, as if he was cradling a baby bump. ‘But how are we going to fix this?’
‘I have NO idea,’ I answered, as we hurtled in the dining room, and saw the strange sight of Mrs Sweeney, tied to a chair by living, wibbling ropes of pasta.
Even her mouth was covered by twists and loops of noodles, so her shrieks of alarm sounded more like muffled huffing.
So how come none of dining room staff had come rushing to Mrs Sweeney’s rescue?
Well, it was pretty easy to figure out why.
Behind the closed doors that led to the kitchen came the sounds of a radio blaring, people laughing, singing and chatting, the din of pots and pans clattering in the sink and the deep rumble-grumbling of dishwashers.
No wonder the rest of the catering staff didn’t know what terrible, noodly fate had befallen Mrs Sweeney.
(And maybe none of them cared, since they sounded like they were having fun, and fun wasn’t something that Mrs Sweeney was particularly into, by the looks of it.)
So … no one else knew what Thing had done.
Good.
But neither me nor Jackson knew what to do about it.
Bad …
‘Mmmfffff!’ Mrs Sweeney mumbled now, her face practically purple with shock and her eyes wide, white and bright as headlights.
And those eyes were fixed not so much on us standing there in our gym kits, but on the eerily moving bump under Jackson’s T-shirt.
I could see what Mrs Sweeney was thinking. She’d already been held hostage by wild noodles – what on earth was going to burst out of Jackson’s tum, and what exactly did it plan on doing to her?!?
And then meanie Sweeney’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when Thing popped out from under Jackson’s T-shirt.
‘Thing, you’ve got to fix all this!’ Jackson pleaded, grabbing hold of it and setting it down on the nearest table. ‘Make those noodles disappear!’
‘Eep!’ Thing squeaked in reply, rubbing its tiny paws together nervously.
‘Of course it can’t fix what’s happened!!’ I said, as I went over to Mrs Sweeney and started to unravel the ribbons of wobbly pasta from around her. ‘Jackson, you know Thing needs to feel ARRGHH! before it can do any magic!’
‘Well, yeah, but can’t we do something to make it feel—’
Jackson didn’t get to the end of his sentence. Like an eel wiggling through water, the section of noodles around Mrs Sweeney’s mouth floated off into the air as I tugged at it.
‘What,’ she bellowed, ‘is that flea-ridden, germ-infested squirrel doing in MY dining room!!’
Now, there was something very important that Mrs Sweeney didn’t happen to know, and it’s this: Thing hates squirrels.
And you must never, ever suggest that Thing is a squirrel, even if you think it looks a tiny bit like one. (Shh!)
And of course Mrs Sweeney also didn’t know that Thing could talk.
‘You – you not nice lady!’ said Thing, suddenly trembling with ARRGHH! ‘Not nice words in your mouth!’
At the sound of Thing’s funny purry voice, Mrs Sweeney gasped a huge gasp – and immediately fainted where she sat.
Which meant, of course, that she missed the seriously spectacular weirdness that was starting …
‘What are you doing, Thing?’ Jackson asked nervously.
‘I make tornado … spin this not nice lady away!’ Thing growled.
Flickers of light danced around the dining hall.
‘Please don’t!’ I said uselessly, panicking about how we were going to hide a sudden, ferocious indoor storm from the rest of the school.
But it was too late for pleases, since sparkles were cartwheeling all around us.
And then just as soon as the mini fireworks show started, it stopped.
Then something else began; the overhead sprinkler system burst into life, sending lookalike showers of rain over us, over the whole dining room, over meanie Mrs Sweeney, our school’s very own gloomy storm-cloud.
Wait a minute – I could see the droplets all around, but I couldn’t feel them.
I was dry, and so was Jackson. So was a startled-looking Thing. It was as if we all had invisible umbrellas hovering above us.
Hold on; there was something a bit odd about the sprinkler rain. It was steaming. Which meant …
‘The water’s hot!’ I blurted out in surprise.
Well, this wasn’t exactly a tornado (thankfully), but then again, how could hot rain help us out of our sticky situation?
‘Rubby! Boy! Look – noodle-doodles deaded!’ Thing squeaked.
It was right.
The giant pasta ropes were shrinking to string-sized bits of spaghetti and flopping limp and lifeless onto the floor.
They’d been overcooked in the sprinkler water, turning from monster pasta to gluey mush, just like they’d been on my plate at lunchtime!
Phew – she seemed dry, same as us.
(Trying to explain a boiled catering assistant sounded way too complicated.)
‘Help!’
‘What?’
‘Eeeek!!’
Uh-oh. From the shocked and startled cries coming from the direction of the kitchen, I realised that the sprinkler system had gone off in there too. Which meant it would only be a matter of seconds before the catering staff came hurtling out here to see what was going on.
‘You, me and Thing,’ I said to Jackson, ‘have to get to the sick-room, quick!’
‘But what if Mrs Sweeney tells on us?’ Jackson worried, shovelling Thing into the rucksack so quickly that it squeaked in surprise.
The temperature was cooling; the water was turning from hot to cold; the sprinklers were turning themselves off …
‘Let’s see,’ I said, pretending to mull over his dumb question as we splashed through lino puddles and headed out into the playground. ‘Mrs Sweeney wakes up and tells everyone that the noodles came alive and tied her to a chair, and then we walked in with a talking squirrel!’
‘I get it! They’re going to think she’s gone absolutely and totally bananas, aren’t they?’ Jackson grinned, knowing we were safe, safe safe.
Though there was just one little problem.
Mrs Sweeney might not tell the whole truth to the rest of the staff, in case they thought she was bonkers. (And the staff might think she’d just fainted, dropping all the noodles on the floor, and that the sprinklers came on by some faulty coincidence.)
But what was going to happen next time me and Jackson were in the queue for lunch?
Was Mrs Sweeney going to silently punish us for messing with her mind?
Would she make Jackson write out the dining hall rules a hundred times?
And was I going to get served lettuce with everything for the rest of my school life?
Apple pie, custard and lettuce; I couldn’t wait …
