‘Samantha Foster, B.’
Samantha smiled at Tina Vu, both acknowledging their rewarding results.
‘Ifraan Ghazali, B.’
Ifraan high-fived Cameron Bird. Both were happy with their marks.
I put my head on my desk. I didn’t want to see them all looking at me. I could only hope she wouldn’t read it out.
‘Paddy Thompson, E.’
There were gasps and mumbles around the room. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like it came as a shock. Everyone knows I’m a bad writer. Everyone knows I can’t string two sentences together. It’s not like I can’t read. Or do maths. Or even talk properly. I just can’t write well. I mean, my handwriting is all right. But what use is neat handwriting when the words I write down don’t make sense? And it doesn’t help that Mrs Brown is the most boring teacher I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ve lasted a single writing lesson without my eyelids drooping.
‘Quiet please!’ Mrs Brown demanded.
The bell for lunch rang. Everyone stood up and started leaving the room. I avoided their stares by pretending to find something in my tidy tray. I was embarrassed. Ashamed.
I started putting my pencil case in my desk when Mrs Brown approached.
‘That’s two Es for writing this term, Paddy.’ Mrs Brown placed my paper on my desk. It was a Picasso of red pen with a giant E circled a dozen times on the top corner of the page, just to rub it in.
‘I know, Mrs Brown,’ I replied grimly.
‘Well, Mr Thompson, you’ll need at least a C on your next assessment to pass Literacy.’ Mrs Brown’s beady eyes burned into mine.
‘Yes, Mrs Brown,’ I replied, my tone still flat.
‘And you know what happens if you don’t pass Literacy, don’t you, Mr Thompson?’
‘Yes, Mrs Brown; I have to repeat grade five.’
Mrs Brown continued to stare at me with her beady eyes. I was too scared to blink. Too afraid to breathe. It felt like an eternity.
She finally stood up and started walking back to her desk.
‘Go to lunch now, Paddy.’
‘Yes, Mrs Brown.’
I stood up and left the classroom as quickly as I could.
A week passed and any motivation I’d felt about writing something passable had gone out the window. I hadn’t written a thing. I’d come up with every possible excuse to avoid doing the task. But now, it was due tomorrow.
I sat on my bed and looked at the assessment task Mrs Brown had given us. A two-page argumentative essay on why wood is better than metal. Like I said before, Mrs Brown is the most boring teacher in the universe.
I felt like Mrs Brown had also sprinkled a little bit of her drowsy-dust on the paper, as I felt my body begging to crawl under the covers and never come out.
Mum stopped at my bedroom door. She must have seen the worry on my face.
‘You feeling crook, mate?’
‘I wish,’ I said as I sat back up. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to write this stupid assignment.’
Mum walked in and sat on the end of the bed.
‘You know, if you’re really that stuck for ideas, you could always go and ask Paul next door.’
My eyes widened. Mum was right. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Paul Paynter was going to save me.
I jumped out of bed, grabbed the assignment off my desk and hurried out of my room.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I called from the hallway. ‘I’m going next door.’
According to Mum, our neighbour, Paul Paynter, was once a world-renowned journalist. Back in the 1970s, he used to travel the world writing stories about anything and everything. He got to interview world leaders and famous artists and attend significant events, which resulted in Paul winning heaps of awards. Other journalists even started writing about him!
But then, Mum told me, without any warning, he stopped writing. He left the high life and disappeared into the normal world.
Paul was a quiet, friendly neighbour. He rarely left his house unless it was to get groceries or collect the newspapers from his driveway. I have never seen someone buy so many newspapers. Each day, a pile as high as his letterbox would be delivered. Papers from all around the world. England, Japan, Brazil, Iceland. When I delivered his paper on Saturdays, he would always smile and wave as he carried the other twenty from his driveway. Unlike our ‘new’ neighbours on the other side of the house, Paul had lived next to us for as long as I could remember.
But now, I needed more than a friendly smile. I needed a neighbourly favour.
I knocked on the door and took a step back. I could hear the muffled sound of a television inside. Thinking that he may not have heard me, I stepped forward to knock again, a little louder. The door immediately swung open.
‘Hello?’ Paul’s eyes adjusted to the sunlight. He was dressed in an old pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt that read ‘Happy Easter’. It was December.
‘Uh, hello, Mr Paynter,’ I stumbled. ‘It’s me, Paddy from next door.’
Paul pulled his glasses down from his head. He instantly recognised who I was and opened the screen door.
‘Well, good morning, Paddy. It is still morning, right?’
‘It’s um, about three-thirty,’ I politely corrected.
‘Ah, it’s morning somewhere around the world.’ He chuckled. ‘Come on in.’
I stepped into the house. It was now me who had to adjust my eyes. It was dark. All the blinds were closed. Other than a few old dusty lamps, all the lights were off. Paul’s room was lit up by not one, not two, but five giant television sets. Each TV played a different news station with headlines in all different languages.
‘So, how can I help you, Paddy?’ Paul asked as we dodged the thousands upon thousands of newspapers stacked on the floor.
‘I, um, have an assignment due tomorrow…’
‘Is it on politics? Hollywood movies? Alien invasions?’
‘Actually, it’s on wood.’
Paul stopped and turned back with a confused expression.
‘Wood?’
‘And metal,’ I stated.
‘I see,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Well, that sounds a little boring.’
I chuckled. It was true. He was right.
‘My biggest problem is I don’t know how I should write it,’ I continued. ‘And Mum said you’re a pretty good writer, and—’
‘So you need help writing it, then?’ Paul interrupted.
‘Could you?’ I asked.
Paul rubbed his grey beard before clicking his fingers.
‘Hang on two ticks. Let me grab a few things.’
On that note, Paul mazed his way around the newspapers and disappeared into another room.
I stood there looking around at the house. At all the old newspapers covered in dust. All the television screens sharing pictures from around the world in languages I had never seen before.
And that’s when I saw the glass cabinet. The light from the televisions flickered on rows of shiny objects. I walked over to see it up close. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Trophies and medals. Old photos of Paul with celebrities dressed in fancy clothes. In a frame was the front page of a magazine with Paul’s face in the middle. The caption ‘Greatest Writer of All Time?’ was underneath. Mum was right; Paul was famous!
But among all his prized possessions, on a shelf of its own, sat a glass box. And inside the glass box sat a lead pencil. A lead pencil unlike any pencil I had ever seen. Its body was bright green. A green so bright it appeared to glow. Spiralling around the illuminating pencil was a pink stripe. My eyes followed the line all the way to the tip of the pencil. To the sharpest lead I had ever seen. The perfect point.
I could hear Paul sifting through papers in the other room. I couldn’t help myself. I had to hold the pencil.
I carefully reached into the cabinet and opened the glass box. I lifted the pencil off its perch. It was heavier than I expected. I studied it in awe. It was the most beautiful pencil I had ever seen. Its pink stripe hypnotised me. Its green glow shone warmly into my unblinking eyes.
I was so captivated by the pencil that I didn’t see the stack of newspapers behind me. I bumped into them, overbalanced, and slipped. Papers flew into the air. So did my legs. I felt like I floated in mid-air before finally hitting the floor hard. My bottom hurt, but not as much as the searing pain in my right hand.
‘Everything all right out there?’ Paul called.
I quickly stood up and shook my hand.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘Just some newspapers fell over.’
‘Ah, that’s okay,’ Paul replied, continuing to rifle through his drawers. ‘Happens all the time.’
I looked frantically for the pencil. Thanks to the glow of the televisions, the pink stripe of the pencil reflected behind a sheet of newspaper. I snatched it off the ground and quietly sat it back inside the glass box. I took a step back from the cupboard. And that’s when I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. The tip of the lead pencil was missing. It had been snapped off.
I knew instantly what had happened. I knew exactly where the tip of the pencil had gone. I looked down at my throbbing right hand. Deep in the palm between my pinky and ring finger was a dot. A dot that flashed green and pink under my skin.
‘Rightio.’
Paul wove his way back into the living room. I quickly threw my hand behind my back.
‘This is an old journal made from recycled wood and these two pens are aluminium. Let’s get started.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Paynter, but I just heard Dad calling for me,’ I lied.
‘Oh, I didn’t hear a thing,’ Paul said. ‘But then again, these ears don’t work like they used to.’
‘Thanks anyway, Mr Paynter.’
I turned and hastily made for the door. I needed to escape before he found out.
‘Hey!’ Paul called.
I froze in fear. He knew. I was in a world of trouble.
‘Let me know how you go.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, then bolted back to my house.
I ran my hand under the tap for almost an hour. Eventually, the throbbing stopped. I tried using tweezers to pull the glowing lead from my hand like a splinter. But it was no use. It was lodged too deep.
I looked at the clock. It was already past five and I hadn’t even started my assessment. I was doomed.
I couldn’t eat dinner. My stomach was in a mass of knots. The combination of knowing I was about to fail Literacy and the fact that I had ruined my neighbour’s prized possession made me feel ill.
I went up to my room and sat at my desk. I opened my exercise book and stared at the blank page. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up my pen. I dropped my head on the book and gave up.
I woke to the sound of the newspaper delivery truck taking off after dropping a hundred papers on Paul Paynter’s driveway. I was still at my desk. My back ached from sleeping in my hard desk chair. But that pain was forgotten the moment I remembered what day it was. Assessment day. The day I was going to fail Literacy. The day I say goodbye to going to grade six.
I looked down at the closed exercise book. I decided the only thing I could do was write a quick apology to Mrs Brown for not finishing my assignment. Maybe she would be understanding. Maybe she would let me off with a warning. Deep down I knew that was impossible.
I opened my book and gasped.
The paper was no longer blank. There was page after page of handwriting. My handwriting. I knew it was my handwriting because of the particular way I write my Zs and Fs. And the way I dot my Is a little to the right. I quickly read a few lines to find it was the essay I needed. It was all there. All mine.
But how?
I was startled by a knock on my door.
‘Time to get up, Paddy,’ Mum called.
‘I’m awake,’ I replied, still staring in disbelief at the essay.
I didn’t have time to think about how it got there. I had to go – to hopefully pass my Literacy class.
I was about to find out my future. I had handed in my assessment without reading it. And ever since, Mrs Brown had been staring at me with her beady black eyes. I could see her reading it. I could see her face twitching. Her head shaking. Her long wiry fingers tapping the table. And then I saw her red pen making circle after circle.
Mrs Brown stood from her desk.
‘Class, your writing assessments have been marked and I have your results.’
Everyone sat up tall in their seats. Everyone except for me. I just wanted to get this over with.
‘But before I begin, I must acknowledge one student who has stood out from the rest. One student who has written an assessment so good, it could be published in Australian Scientific magazine.’
The class started mumbling to one another. Students started to shrug their shoulders. Some pointed at Jessica Goldwin. She was by far the best writer in our class. By the smile on her face, even Jessica thought Mrs Brown was referring to her.
‘This piece of writing is so good, it could change the way we think about the relationship between wood and metal.’
The mumbling continued to grow. Mrs Brown started walking towards me.
‘This piece of writing is so good,’ she continued as she approached my desk, ‘that it is too good to be true.’
Mrs Brown slammed the paper on my desk.
‘And for that reason, Mr Thompson, you have failed Literacy.’
Everyone gasped. Then the room was silent. I looked down at my paper. Circled at least a dozen times in red pen was the word ‘CHEATER’.
Mr Gill, the school principal, sat at his desk reading through my assessment. Every now and then he looked up at me with a confused expression. Mrs Brown sat beside me with her arms crossed, her eyes darting between my paper and me.
I tried not to sink into my chair. I didn’t want Mr Gill to think I had copied my assignment. I had written it. I don’t know how, but it was definitely my handwriting. There was no way anyone else in my house could have written it. I’ve seen my parents’ shopping lists. There must not have been spelling back when they went to school.
Mr Gill lifted his head from the paper and looked me in the eye. The deep wrinkles on his forehead formed a stern arrow.
‘So, Mr Thompson, where exactly did you copy this from?’
I could feel Mrs Brown’s beady eyes burning into the side of my head.
‘I didn’t copy it.’ I could hear the desperation in my voice. ‘I swear, Mr Gill, this is my work.’
Mr Gill looked over at Mrs Brown. The wrinkles on his head didn’t move.
‘According to your past results, Mr Thompson …’ He stood up from his desk with the paper in his hand. ‘This seems almost impossible.’
Mr Gill tossed my assignment on his desk. I didn’t know what to say. He was right. It was impossible. I couldn’t explain how the writing got there. How ten pages of beautifully crafted work appeared overnight.
I looked up at Mr Gill.
‘I can prove it,’ I stated.
Mr Gill and Mrs Brown looked at each other in surprise.
‘I can prove that my writing is amazing.’
Mr Gill scratched his bald head.
‘And how do you intend to prove this?’ he asked.
Mrs Brown started tapping her foot on the floor. Mr Gill put his hands in his pockets.
‘Give me a topic,’ I answered. ‘Anything at all. I’ll prove to you both that I am a fantastic writer.’
Mr Gill looked over at Mrs Brown, then back at me.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Anything,’ I repeated.
With her arms still crossed, Mrs Brown stood up and walked over to Mr Gill. Smirks appeared on their faces as they looked at each other.
‘All right, Mr Thompson,’ said Mrs Brown, the smirk still spread across her face, ‘I want you to write about a flying cane toad.’
‘And the flying cane toad has a sausage dressed as a ballerina for a friend,’ Mr Gill added.
‘And the cane toad is allergic to insects.’
‘And the sausage has a purple moustache.’
‘And together, they save the day,’ Mrs Brown finished.
I was stunned. I mean, this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. How did they expect me to write about that?
‘And you can do it right here,’ Mr Gill insisted. ‘In my office after lunch.’
I was done. Dead meat. But I couldn’t help myself.
I sat at a small table in the corner of the office while Mr Gill sorted through piles of papers on his desk. I kept my pencil busy to avoid gaining his attention. If he looked closely, he would see that I was writing the words ‘flying cane toad’ over and over.
The only good thing about being in Mr Gill’s office was the air conditioning. It was set at the lowest temperature possible – just low enough to stop the nervous beads of sweat from dripping down my face.
‘How are you going, Mr Thompson?’ Mr Gill asked, making me sit up straight in my chair.
‘It’s sounding great,’ I lied.
That’s when he stood up.
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘I’d love to see it.’
Mr Gill started walking around his desk. This was it. The moment I was found out. The moment that I, Paddy Thompson, become known as the biggest cheater of all time.
But just as Mr Gill drew closer to my table, his office door swung open, making a loud bang as it hit the wall. Mr Gill and I turned our heads like a shot. Mrs Beaman, the school administrator, stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, breathing heavily. I felt the heat of the summer day invade the room.
‘Mr Gill, we have a Code Two,’ she gasped between heavy breaths.
Mr Gill started towards the door.
‘Code Two?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Jaden is on the roof again!’
Mr Gill hurried out the door. Mrs Beaman followed, closing it behind her. I was all alone in the principal’s office.
I didn’t know what to do. I sat and looked at my paper. It was a mess. I scrunched it into a ball and tossed it in the bin.
I picked up my pencil and stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me. At all the empty space between the blue lines. As empty as the thoughts in my brain. I had nothing. I dropped the pencil onto the desk and put my head in my hands.
I decided to give up. When Mr Gill returned I would tell him I didn’t write my assignment. I would lie and tell him I found it on the internet.
I could feel the cool breeze of the air conditioning on the back of my neck. There are no air conditioners in the classrooms. We don’t even have one at home. The feeling of the cold air hitting my skin made me relax in my chair. It made my brain stop worrying about my problems. It made my eyes heavy. And before I knew it, I fell asleep.
‘I didn’t do nuffin!’
I was startled awake by the loud voice of another student. I looked across to see Jaden Jackson enter the office. His school shirt was covered in dirt and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
Behind Jaden was Mr Gill. His shirt was saturated and also covered in dirt. Beads of sweat were dancing down his forehead wrinkles.
Jaden threw himself on the floor in the corner of the room and leaned his head against the wall. Mr Gill walked over and stood under the air conditioner. He aimed his red, bald head at the vents.
‘All right,’ he said, and turned towards me. ‘You finished?’
My eyes grew wide. I had completely forgotten why I was here. I had forgotten about being exposed as a ‘cheater’.
I turned around to grab my paper and hand it to Mr Gill. But when I saw it, my heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Sitting on the table was the paper. But it wasn’t empty. There was page after page of neat handwriting underneath my pencil. The high crossed Ts and the Is dotted to the right. My handwriting. My work. My story.
Mr Gill leaned over and grabbed the pages.
‘Well, Mr Thompson, it seems you have been busy.’
All I could do was nod. It was more of a nod of disbelief than agreement.
Mr Gill sat at his desk and started reading my story. I sat in my chair twiddling the pencil. I was nervous. I had no idea what I had written. No idea whether it made any sense.
Every now and then I could see a twitch in Mr Gill’s wrinkles. I could see his face turning pink like Jaden’s sunburn. Eventually he stopped reading. He stood up from behind his desk.
This was it.
This was when I would fail grade five.
Mr Gill’s face continued to grow red. His lips were pressed tightly together. His eyes started filling up with water. I could feel it. He was about to explode with anger.
But then he did something I never expected. Even Jaden jumped up in fright. Mr Gill burst out in a hysterical laugh. So loud it knocked the pencil out of my hand.
‘Mr Thompson!’ he cackled, holding the pages above his head. ‘This is the funniest thing I have read in my entire life! Pure genius!’
That’s when I smiled. I knew I was bound for grade six.
I walk onto the red carpet. Cameras begin to click and flash in my direction. ‘Paddy, can I get a selfie?’ says one of my fans, who has come out to celebrate the release of my twentieth bestselling book, The Perfect Point. I lean in and give a smile.
I look around at the thousands of people all holding a copy of my latest novel, waving them in the air as a desperate plea to get me to sign them. Among the crazy parade of people stands someone familiar.
It’s Paul Paynter. He gives me a wink. I wink back. We know how this writing works. How to use the pencil’s magic. Our secret is safe.
I continue to walk down the red carpet. Standing at the end is a reporter holding a microphone.
‘Paddy, Paddy!’ the reporter calls for me. She too has stars in her eyes. ‘You must tell us, what is the secret to your success?’
I look back to where Paul Paynter was standing. He has disappeared.
‘The secret,’ I begin, ‘is to have a good night’s sleep.’
