I spend the whole weekend hatching plans and scrapping most of them. It’s important to be realistic. After all, I’m probably not going to be able to get all the way to the ocean, harvest one thousand jellyfish, transport them back to Redhill and dump them into the swimming pool before the carnival on Friday. If I had more time? No dramas.
By Monday I’m back in my classroom and ready to do my absolute best at not learning anything.
That’s when Hugo walks in.
‘Hugo! You’re back,’ Miss Sweet says.
She seems pretty happy this morning. She’s been leaning on her desk and telling us about her wonderful, relaxing weekend. Apparently, she went to the movies, went out for dinner, and took a long walk through Redhill Park. Well, good for her. Some of us had to work! The swimming carnival isn’t going to cancel itself.
I wasn’t expecting to see Hugo back at school so soon, and by the look on Miss Sweet’s face, I don’t think she was either.
‘Hi everyone,’ Hugo says, standing awkwardly in the doorway and giving us a funny little wave. He seems to be concentrating really hard on something.
Hugo doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. There’s a really strange pause. And then, eventually, he opens the corner of his mouth and squeaks, ‘I’m still quite itchy.’
He lifts up his shirt.
‘Aaarrrggggghhhhh!’ Suddenly everyone’s screaming again! It’s just like at the pool, only worse! Now there are even more spots on Hugo’s tummy.
‘What?’ Hugo says, dropping his shirt and having a scratch. ‘The doctor said it wasn’t chicken pox.’
It’s not?
‘What did the doctor say it was?’ Miss Sweet asks.
‘Aaarrrggggghhhhh!’ The class bursts into action again. Jade hides behind her chair. Layla climbs over her desk towards the window.
Hugo holds up his hands and yells over the screaming, ‘She doesn’t think it’s contagious!’
This level of certainty doesn’t seem to calm anyone down.
‘It could be typhus!’ Abby yells. ‘Could be measles!’
‘She did say it wasn’t measles,’ Hugo responds.
Miss Sweet quietens everybody by flapping one arm at us, like a bird that wants to fly in a circle. She looks at Hugo, clearly confused. ‘But the doctor said you could come to school?’
‘Oh yeah. She said it was probably fine.’ Hugo shrugs.
‘Probably?’ I repeat. Is this doctor even thinking about public safety?
‘Aaarrrggggghhhhh!’ That certainly sets everyone off again. I mean no one knows what the plague is, but it sounds bad.
‘That’s enough, everyone,’ Miss Sweet says, flapping that arm again. ‘Hugo, I’ll talk to your parents but, in the meantime, I’d like you to sit all the way over here.’
She grabs one of the spare desks and drags it across to the front corner of the room. She puts a chair behind it and points.
‘Just there,’ she says.
Hugo looks mortified.
‘But,’ he says, ‘I want to sit with Max . . .!’
‘NO!’ I leap to my feet without even thinking. I have big plans this week and those plans do not include getting weird mystery rashes!
Hugo turns and pleads with Miss Sweet. ‘He’s my best –’
‘NO!’ I repeat. I have boundaries. And Hugo and his germs are staying on the other side of those boundaries.
Miss Sweet nods at the desk she’s put up front and shrugs as if to say ‘sorry’. No need to be sorry, Miss Sweet. You’re keeping us all safe.
‘Just until we have more information, Hugo,’ she says.
‘You’re treating me like I have cooties,’ Hugo mumbles as he drags his feet across the floor. Miss Sweet presses herself against the wall as he shuffles past.
Miss Sweet turns to the rest of us.
‘Okay, maths, everyone. Time for 144 squares. Pencils ready? Go!’
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate 144 squares? It’s this maths game that Miss Sweet likes to start the day with.
To play 144 squares, we all get a piece of paper with a grid of – you guessed it – 144 squares. We write the numbers one to twelve across the top and again down the side. When Miss Sweet says ‘go’, we have to fill out all the squares with the answers you get when you multiply the top by the side. So . . . one times one is one. You get the idea.
Oh, and did I mention it’s a race? Abby loves it. I can see her pencil flying across the paper.
‘Why are there one hundred and forty-four squares?’ I wonder out loud. Abby’s pencil pauses for a moment.
‘Because twelve times twelve is one hundred and forty-four,’ she mutters as though I was supposed to know that.
‘Ooh, thanks,’ I say. ‘You just gave me one of the answers!’
I write ‘144’ into the bottom–right-hand square. One down, one hundred and forty-three to go. Abby looks like she’s almost finished, but we all know slow and steady wins the race: I start on my one times tables.
‘So,’ Abby whispers as she keeps scribbling answers. ‘Cancelling the swimming carnival – what’s your plan, Max?’
‘I have a great plan.’
‘What is it?’ Abby asks. I decide to do the twos next. I’m quite good at getting even.
‘Boiling it,’ I say proudly. Her pencil stops again.
‘Boiling what?’
‘Redhill Pool.’ This might be my chance to catch up. She’s not even looking at her paper now. She’s frowning at me.
‘And burn everyone?’ Abby asks in horror. ‘Max! That’s awful!’
‘What? Are you crazy? I’m not going to burn everyone!’ I reply. Come on, Abby. Use your brain. ‘I’m going to evaporate the pool.’
‘Evaporate the pool?’
Why is she repeating what I’m saying? I don’t know if this ‘friends’ thing is going to work out. She’s pretty annoying.
‘I know what evaporation is!’ Abby whisper-yells at me.
‘Oh, good.’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll evaporate the water in the pool. Once the pool is empty, they won’t be able to have the swimming carnival there, will they?’
Her pencil is still stopped. She’s looking at me but she’s not talking. Her mouth is hanging open. Jeepers! Do I really have to explain it?
‘Because there’ll be no water, Abby. You can’t swim without –’
‘I understand the concept, Max!’ she interrupts and turns back to her paper. Her pencil starts flying again. Really flying. And she keeps talking! ‘That doesn’t make it any less stupid! How are you going to boil it?’
‘Ah . . .’ I hadn’t gotten that far in my plan. ‘Hmmm . . .’
That’s a good question actually. It’s not like I can put the pool water in the kettle. Well, I could, but that would take a very long time . . .
‘I think you’re going to have to come up with a better idea, Max,’ Abby says. Then she stands up and waves her paper in the air. ‘Finished!’
‘But I haven’t even finished my twos!’ I protest.
‘Lucky you’re not in the Maths Olympiad, Max,’ Abby says.
This Maths Olympiad thing she’s obsessed with sounds like the most horrible thing ever. I mean, I like competitions because I like to win. In fact, it’s pretty much the only thing that matters in life. But maths races? Talk about taking a competition and draining all the fun out of it!
Draining . . . drains . . . DRAINS!
‘Abby, do swimming pools have plugs?’