So Sick! (13 page)

‘Tell us,’ says Kieran, giving me a nudge — a nudge so gentle I almost ram into Mr Epeler who’s on bus-line duty.

It’s not Mr Epeler’s angry face that helps me to find my feet and back off, it’s the arm he puts out to catch me. Steady … Enough with the arm … That armpit’s ripe for nuclear fusion.

‘Watch where you’re going!’ exclaims Mr Epeler.

‘Sorry, Mr Epeler,’ I mutter. With the spelling bee looming the last thing I need is to get on his bad side.

Getting on Mr Epeler’s bad side is exactly what I do the next morning when I collide into him coming out of the classroom as I am going in. But, it’s a different sort of bad side. I manage to find myself wedged under his pecs. Far too close to the dreaded armpits. The smell’s so bad I can taste it. ‘‘Sguse be,’ I manage to say as I wrench myself free and stagger to my seat.

‘Don’t forget that Epeler loves classroom etiquette?’ whispers Kieran. ‘Pull that stunt again and you’ll be dead meat.’

Dead meat. That’s it! That’s exactly what his armpits remind me
of. Dead meat and Tinkerbell. Tink was my mouse. She’s dead now. We found her wedged under the toaster ten days after she went missing. I tell you, toasters aren’t good for mice. For days we teased Mum that her cooking was so bad she could even kill toast.

My mind wanders. I am thinking mouse. A tiny little mouse that would like to build its nest in Mr Epeler’s warm underarm hair. It could snuggle down, all cosy like, in its burrow. It could eat the bacteria that bred there and drink the moisture. Did I say moisture? I mean sweat. Uggh!

Which reminds me … Have you ever drank sweat? I have. Once. Not intentionally. It was last year in Mrs Weston’s class. She wouldn’t let me get a drink, even though it was hot enough to make your teeth blister. Anyway, Adam says he wants to go to the can and Mrs Weston says, ‘Yes’. So Adam leaves but winks when he comes back. As he goes past my desk he drops this wet hanky in my lap. Straight away I pounce. You see, wet means water. I squeeze the hanky into the palm of my hand and take a big slurp.

Instant projectile.

Salt and BO. The moron must’ve wiped himself with the hanky! I have never drunk water again, unless it’s out of a bottle.

I think of Mr Epeler whose armpits remind me of a mouse. But what if it died like Tinkerbell? I have visions of this poor little mouse, dead under
Mr Epeler’s armpit. Flattened body, flattened fur — rotting, rotting.

That’s it, I decide. Mr Epeler has a rotten mouse under each armpit.

‘Jake Kimmorley!’

I am back in the classroom. Mr Epeler is ten centimetres away, looking more agitated than a swarm of bees.

‘I asked you a question!’ barks Mr Epeler.

I blink, trying to trawl for a memory of the question. I blink again and again. I blink a blank. ‘Sorry Mr Epeler,’ I say. ‘Could you repeat the question?’

Classroom etiquette crumbles. Some kids giggle, some kids laugh and Angus roars so loud the hairs in my ears bristle.

I look at Kieran and raise my eyebrows for help. Maybe he can whisper the answer? But Kieran’s guffawing so loudly his jaw is about to dislocate. He looks like a death adder eating a rabbit. I glance at Adam. Useless. That dislocated jaw must be catchy.

Mr Epeler is still ten centimetres from my face. ‘I
can
repeat my question,’ he says. ‘I asked, Have you been paying attention?’

Well, of course I haven’t, I think to myself.

‘Of course, he hasn’t,’ says Angus real loud.

Everyone is looking at me like I’m an idiot. Everyone, except Ivy Tan. Ivy knows what it’s like to be a member of the brain amputee club. Ivy’s furiously copying her words. I hope it helps. Laughter swells in my ears. I want to curl up and die. I want to be that baby mouse …

‘We were discussing the spelling bee,’ explains Mr Epeler.

‘Ohhh!’ I say.

‘On Friday.’

‘Aahh.’ I nod, trying to look intelligent. Suddenly I spy those words he’s written on the blackboard. ‘The A-mor,’ I read. ‘A-mor-pho-pha-llus … ’

‘Amorphophallus titanum.’ The words rip out of Mr Epeler’s mouth and bite me on the bum. ‘I expect every one in this class to be able to spell that for Friday.’ He impales me with his stare. ‘Even you, Jake.’ He holds my gaze long enough to act like poison then lifts his eyes to the class. ‘Or beware …’ Mr Epeler smiles, like he’s having a joke. But this is no joke.

Beware can mean a lot of things. Beware or you’ll be first out of the spelling bee. Beware or you’ll get ten more words to learn. Beware or I’ll write a note to your parents.

‘Beware or you’ll be spending every lunch time the following week helping me with Grade 5 netball training.’

Netball training! Normally that wouldn’t be so bad. Lots of girls with short skirts yelling, ‘Me, me!’ as they leap and prance about giving you an eyeful with every sudden stop. No, netball training wouldn’t be that bad, except for one thing. Goal Defence. It’s where you have to stop the opposition shooting a goal. You stand there flapping your hand in the air, trying to block the path of the ball. It’s Mr Epeler’s favourite position. The thought of standing there every lunchtime with Mr Epeler’s arm high in the air is enough to give me anal cramp.

‘Understand?’ asks Mr Epeler, looking at me.

I nod. Very quietly, I say, ‘Yes.’

I dare to look around the room. Angus is wearing a cloak of smugness. I stare down at my spelling book. I am biting my lip and trying to look like I know what I am doing when a dead bee lands in my lap. I look up to see where it came from. Ivy winks. I wonder if dead bees are good or bad Feng Shui.

‘Thanks for the dead bee,’ I say to Ivy later in the playground. ‘It’s, um, just what I’ve always wanted.’

She smiles. Only one side of her lips curls up. Funny, I’ve never noticed it before. ‘Don’t mention it,’ she says. ‘I thought it might distract you. You’re going to kill it in the spelling bee.’

I stand there looking at her, trying to think of something else to say — something intelligent. Nothing pops into my head. A mute monkey has nothing on me.

Ivy laughs. She nods her head, just a little nod, then walks away.

Somehow, the spelling bee doesn’t seem that bad …

The next morning in class I go about my usual routine. I pass a note to Kieran telling him to meet me for a game of touch at lunchtime. I colour in the empty letters on my book that say, Homework. I draw a mo on the photo of the author at the back of our class novel, then add fangs, horns and a tail. Anyone who writes crap like that deserves it.

Mr Epeler is handing out crosswords to help our spelling. Being told how many letters we have to aim for is meant to miraculously turn us into spellers. But, hey? Knowing there’s twenty-one letters in that flower word only tells me that I’ll have to know nearly the whole alphabet — all jumbled up! Not much comfort in that.

Mr Epeler has done one group and is moving to another. By the protest from my nostrils I can tell he’s getting close. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pass. Holding my breath is something I’m quite good at. It started with holding my breath when I go past a cemetery, to holding my breath going over bridges and through tunnels. You name it, and I can hold my breath for it. My best breath-holding stunt ever was when I pretended to drown at the school camp while we were canoeing. Everyone’s clutching their canoes and peering into the water, looking for signs of life, when up I swim beside Mrs Weston. It was the Boo! that did her in. The Boo, and the fact that she jerked and ended up in the drink.

I see Mr Epeler’s shoes stopped at my desk, and wonder what’s going on.

‘Bit of a problem, Jake,’ he says as a statement, not a question.

He means well, I know he does. He leans over and puts an arm around my shoulder. How could he? Today he’s worse than a nest of dead mice. I hold my breath and try to concentrate on what he’s saying. Maybe it will help him move on.

‘Can I help?’ asks Mr Epeler. He points to one of the clues. ‘What about starting with this one? Three down.’

I stare at the clue but I can’t read it. My eyes have started to water. I develop double vision.

Mr Epeler thinks I’m stalling. How can I explain? It’s lack of oxygen. ‘Go on Jake,’ he says. ‘Have a go.’

Once more he reaches out to point at the clue. Once more I’m smothered in After-Shave à la Pong! I look up.

Kieran’s frowning.

Adam’s clowning.

And I’m drowning.

Angus is doing his work.

‘Come come,’ says Mr Epeler. He looks at me with this half-smile on his dial.

The classroom has gone very quiet.

Ivy looks concerned. She grimaces, then shrugs as if to say, sorry I can’t help you.

Mr Epeler ploughs on. ‘It’s quite simple, really. Five letters. A small black and white animal …’ he reads.

My head’s spinning. What’s the answer? A cat? Dog? Ferret, perhaps?

‘… from North America … ’

Now, that changes things. Despite being blind, I try to pull up an internal picture of this animal.

‘… which gives off an unpleasant smell when it is frightened!’ finishes Mr Epeler triumphantly.