The next morning is Tuesday and I steal Mum’s newspaper on the way out the front door so I can check for shark-sighting stories on the way to school. By the time I reach my classroom, I’ve been through the paper four and a half times and there’s nothing!
‘There’s nothing in the Redhill Daily about the pool! Can you believe that?’ I announce as I walk into the classroom a little late, waving the newspaper in the air dramatically.
The second I’ve said it I know something is wrong. It’s like it’s cold in the classroom, only it’s not cold. It’s silent though. And still. No one’s smiling. In fact, Miss Sweet is the opposite of smiling.
‘Sit down, Max,’ she says.
‘But, Miss Sweet? Did you hear?’ I keep talking, which any sensible person will tell you is a really bad idea, but, hey, maybe I’m having an off day. ‘There was a shark at Redhill Pool. I’m not sure that it’s safe to have the swimming–’
‘MAX!’ Miss Sweet yells at me. That was a little uncalled for. ‘Sit down and be quiet!’
I scamper to my seat next to Abby.
Hugo walks in. He heads towards where I’m sitting.
‘Hugo!’ Miss Sweet barks. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘But, Miss Sweet!’ Hugo protests, swinging around and lifting his shirt. ‘Look at my tummy!’ This is becoming a morning routine – start each day with an inspection of Hugo’s belly.
Miss Sweet screws up her face. She’s not having it.
‘I think it’s worse, Hugo. You know where you sit.’
‘But, Miss Sweet –!’
What happens next is something I have no excuse for. It just . . . happens. It’s like an impulse that surges up in my body and I’m powerless to resist it. You just need to understand, it’s really not my fault.
Firstly, Miss Sweet loses it.
‘If I hear one more “But, Miss Sweet” in this classroom,’ she yells, ‘I’m going to –’
And she pauses. For a split second. If she hadn’t paused I wouldn’t have said anything, but she stops to breathe or something and I hear myself say, ‘Turn into Miss Sour?’
The whole class gasps. I know! I know! What am I, crazy?
Miss Sweet turns into a sonic boom!
* * * *
Apparently fresh air will fix things, because Miss Sweet marches the whole class across the courtyard to the grassy area.
‘So, did it have a plug?’
‘Ah!’ I yelp. Hugo’s turned up right beside me as we walk. ‘Too close, Hugo!’
‘Oh, come on!’ Hugo complains, stepping away. He’s clearly getting frustrated by all of this, but it’s his fault for getting spotty, isn’t it? ‘I did have an idea,’ he says.
‘No, and that’s the whole point,’ Hugo says. ‘Maybe you actually want to catch this . . .’
‘You keep saying it isn’t contagious,’ Abby butts in.
‘Why would I want to catch your spots?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’ll get you out of the swimming carnival. You too, Abby,’ Hugo says. He’s kind of skipping sideways, trying to keep up and face us at the same time. ‘Maybe we should . . . you know . . . have a group hug?’
What?
‘Hugo, I wouldn’t hug you normally,’ I say. ‘Didn’t we already talk about this?’
‘Yes, but if you wanted to get out of swimming, wouldn’t it be worth it?’ Hugo asks, hopeful. He plasters this big, closed-mouth smile across his face.
‘I thought it wasn’t contagious, Hugo!’ Abby repeats, louder this time.
‘It’s not,’ he says quickly.
Oh, I know what’s going on here.
‘You just want a hug!’ I say. I’m awake to this sort of trickery.
‘Maybe I do,’ Hugo shrugs.
‘You’re just trying to get me to hug you!’
Hugo throws his hands up in the air. ‘Someone! ANYONE!’
We’ve arrived at the grass. Everyone gathers around Miss Sweet, except for Hugo, who stands over to the side by himself, wishing someone would hug him.
‘All right, everyone. We’re going to try starting this day again with some fresh air and exercise. You have the swimming carnival this Friday and you need to be fighting fit. It’s time for burpees.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I say automatically. How embarrassing!
‘No, Max,’ my teacher says, rolling her eyes. ‘I didn’t say “burp”. I said a “burp-EE”. Who’s happy to demonstrate what a burpee is?’
‘I will, Miss Sweet,’ says Tyson, who’s never volunteered to help the teacher in his entire life. But he’s the good twin now and he’s trying hard.
‘Thank you, Tyson.’
Tyson shows us all what a burpee is. You start face down on the ground like you’re going to do a push-up, but instead of pushing up, you lift up into a squat position so you look like a frog. From there you leap straight into the air and clap your hands together above your head so you look like a pencil. Then you drop down into the push-up position again.
It all goes fine the first time. It’s when Tyson tries to do a second one that it goes horribly wrong. As he’s lifting up into the frog-squat, one of nature’s horrible tricks occurs. It could happen to anyone of course. With his bum pushed out behind him like that, he farts!
It’s not a little one either.
Miss Sweet’s eyes almost pop out of her head. The rest of the class starts laughing.
‘TYSON! I thought you were the good twin!’ our teacher exclaims.
‘I didn’t mean to!’ Tyson protests, while we all wipe tears out of our eyes from laughing so hard. ‘It was an accident. Seriously!’
‘Everyone, do ten right now. Go!’ Miss Sweet yells and whatever benefit the fresh air had given to her mood, it’s over now.
She marches around like an army commander, yelling at us as we suffer and struggle. This is not a natural movement after all. In what situation in life would you ever have to do a silly exercise like this? If you were asleep on the floor and suddenly needed to change a light globe?
Besides, after about two and half burpees, it really starts to hurt!
‘You lot need to stop trying to get out of things,’ Miss Sweet orders, keeping her voice stern. ‘You know what? I’ve had an idea. New rule! You all have to compete in every race on Friday. Every single swimming race. All of you.’
‘But, Miss Sweet!’
‘Even butterfly?’ Abby asks.
Apparently, that was the wrong question.
‘Max! Ten extra burpees.’