The Girl Who Blew Up Her Brother and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls (5 page)

Next, Bernie would check his crayfish pots. Finally, just before breakfast, he would comb the beach looking for money and watches and stuff that might have fallen out of people's bags. Especially after a hot, crowded weekend.

Once, Bernie found fifty bucks. He took it to the police but they just said that unless someone claimed it, which they didn't, the money was his. Another time he found a full set of clothes. Fitted him perfectly, they did. Trouble was, it was only after Bernie tried them on that he remembered to check if they were clean. They weren't. Especially the undies.
Poo!

I should have explained earlier that it wasn't as if Bernie didn't let us other kids onto ‘his' beach. We all spent half our lives there. After school, sometimes before, and on holidays and weekends. But any shells, any coins, any anythings were certainly Bernie's. And if anyone thought otherwise, look out!

It wasn't as if Bernie acted tough all the time. The opposite, really. But his eyes had this look which said, ‘I know I'm big, but I'm really a nice sort of kid. Unless you want to mess with me, of course. Because then I'll turn. And it won't be a pretty sight.'

And so it was. Like an unwritten rule. The beach belonged to Bernie and that was that. Until, as I said, big Bossy Bob Keck arrived.

Bossy Bob had started school that morning and he must have seen us all in a huddle. We were having one of our regular sunburn peeling competitions and Guy Pearson had just ripped a bit off his back so big you could have made a kite out of it. Earlier, Damien Scott had removed what seemed like half his nose and I almost puked.

That was when this big, deep voice said from behind, ‘I've seen some bogans in my time, but you guys take the cake. Ever heard of skin cancer?'

‘Maybe,' said Bernie. ‘Who wants to know?'

‘I do,' said Bossy Bob. ‘My uncle died of skin cancer and I tell you what, if I see any of you jerks on the beach without sunblock and a hat, I'll rip your arms off.'

Well, you could have cut the air with a knife. All of us could see trouble coming with a capital T.

Bossy Bob stared Bernie in the eye, and Bernie stared straight back.

Poor Bernie wasn't quite sure what to do. He felt he could take this dude, deck him no worries, but what Bossy Bob had said was probably fair enough. They were idiots for getting sunburnt! It was the bit about ‘any of you jerks on the beach' that upset Bernie. This was Bernie's beach he was talking about. As if Bossy Bob suddenly owned it!

Maybe it was time to show Bob who was really the boss. But a teacher came up, probably smelling trouble, and told us all to start picking up papers. So, no fight. Not for now, anyway. And how's this for luck? The very first piece of ‘paper' I picked up turned out to be a piece of Damien Scott's nose!

It so happened that Bossy Bob was a bit of a beach boy himself. He could swim and surf and fish and slide down sand hills as well as anyone else.

So, when Bossy Bob started spending a lot of time on Bernie's beach, and bossing kids around all the time, the fight that had only just been stopped was suddenly about to happen again. The fight to be King of Craven Cove.

Well, it didn't ever turn out to be a fight. Not in the real sense, anyway. More a test of strength. Bernie had been giving this whole thing with Bossy Bob a lot of thought and he remembered something his dad once said.

‘Fighting is for losers. Because no-one ever wins. Sure, you might knock the other bloke down, but then you spend half your life waiting for him to get back at you one night. Or it might be his brother. Or someone totally new. Who needs that?'

So, Bernie had decided instead on a challenge. A test.

This was the deal. A race would be held combining running on the beach, running on the sand hills and a swim out to the pier. The winner would be the boss, the loser had to find himself another beach. Simple as that.

‘Sounds good to me,' said Bossy. ‘Enjoy your last day at Craven Cove.'

The race was a beauty. Kids lined the route and yelled their hearts out.

‘Come on, Bernie!'

‘Go, Bernie!'

But Bernie struggled. Badly. You see, Bossy was fast. And strong. He shot across the flat, tore through the sand hills and, by the time they'd hit the water, Bernie was a good thirty metres behind.

Suddenly, Bernie's head disappeared beneath the water. Panic seized the other kids on the beach.

‘Bernie!'

‘He's drowning!'

Oh, no he wasn't. Instead, Bernie had duck-dived to grab the biggest crab you've ever seen in your life. He took a deep breath, gulped, stuck it down the back of his shorts and waited.

‘Yeeow!'

As I mentioned, Bernie had been bitten on the bum by a crab before, but this one had a claw the size of a pair of hedge clippers. With teeth. The kids watching said Bernie swam so fast they had trouble seeing through the spray.

Of course, Bernie won. Easily. No flies on Bernie. Just a crab on the bum.

Bossy hasn't been seen at Craven Cove since. Bernie asked him back but Bossy said Bernie could stick it. Fair enough.

And do you know what? No-one is King of Craven Cove these days. Bernie decided that being a king just means getting a hard time. There's always someone who's going to come along and try to take your place. As his dad had said, ‘Who needs that?'

You'll still see Bernie at Craven Cove, though. He's the one in the deck chair, wearing a big smile. And an even bigger hat.

the kindy kid
from
Hell

From the moment Mrs Waite mentioned a double excursion, our whole class was abuzz with excitement. A whole day off school to visit the State Library, and then a tour of an ice-cream factory! Eat as much as you like!

But there was a catch.

Isn't there always?

‘As part of your education,' said Mrs Waite, ‘we are going to be joined by our kindergarteners, or kindy kids as we call them. And guess what? Each of you will be given one kindy kid to hold by the hand and it's your job to look after them. We'll be there to watch over everybody, of course, but it's basically up to you.'

‘Hold their hand?' asked Trevor Prior. ‘They'll have probably just had their finger up their nose!'

‘Quite possibly,' said Mrs Waite. ‘And in a way, that's the point. Teaching you that being in charge isn't always easy. That with freedom comes responsibility.'

‘Sounds like a load of bull,' whispered Trevor. ‘If my kindy kid tries anything, I'll kick his butt.'

It wasn't long before we were standing outside the library, surrounded by the roughest-looking lot of kindy kids I've ever seen. Some had runny noses, others scratched their smelly little bottoms, a few even had bits of breakfast still on their faces. And you should have seen mine! He was the most
evil-looking little monster
you could imagine.

He had sticky-up hair, dirty hands, a nasty-looking grin, smelly socks and a large boogie smeared right across his face. And just to say hello, by way of a joke, he kicked me right in the shin.

‘Hello,' I said, ‘my name's Phillip. What's yours?'

‘Oscar,' he replied.

‘Well, Oscar,' I said, ‘kick me like that again and I'll push you in front of a truck.'

Oscar seemed to go all quiet after that.

Or so I thought. It was only a short time later that I looked down to drag Oscar by the hand into the library – and realised that he'd gone! Disappeared off the face of the planet.

How dare he!
I thought.
I'll wring his little
neck.

Then I had another thought.
What if he's
run onto the road? And he does get hit by a truck!

I'd never forgive myself.

I started to panic. Should I tell the teachers? Then I felt a sharp pain in my toe.

It was Oscar suddenly back by my side and stamping on my foot.

‘You little idiot!' I yelled. ‘Nick off like that again and you're history.'

And you'll never guess – Oscar grinned, turned, and ran off again!

‘Did you see that?' I said to Mrs Waite. ‘He didn't even listen!'

‘Do you always do what you're told?' asked Mrs Waite.

‘Yes,' I said quickly. Then, ‘No.'

Off I ran, chasing the little rat, only to find that Oscar was already in the library, tearing pages out of a very old-looking book.

‘No!' I screamed, then, as I dived to catch him, he shot off again, straight under a table.

A reading table, with lots of serious-looking men seated around it. Guess who they glared at? Not Oscar – they hadn't even seen him.

‘There's a boy under –' I tried to say.

‘Shush!' they hissed back.

‘But –' ‘Shush!'

What could I do but wait? From under the table I could see Oscar grinning at me as he quietly tied the men's shoelaces together.

Who is this little ratbag?
I thought.
The kindy
kid from hell?

Of course, Oscar quickly became bored.

No sooner had I turned to see the rest of my class walking in than I realised he'd gone again! Suddenly, I saw him, hiding behind a shelf. I could see his dirty little knees through a gap in the books.

I sneaked up from behind, slowly, quietly, and grabbed him by the collar. ‘What do you think you're doing?' I hissed. ‘I should knock your stupid block off. Lucky you're not my brother or I would!'

‘But I want you to be my brother,' said Oscar.

‘What?' I replied, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about.

But Oscar didn't say anything else. Instead, he started crying and hugged into my leg.

It was Mrs Waite who explained it to me later. ‘Poor Oscar lost his brother last year. Knocked over by a car. Oscar has been looking for a new brother ever since. He misses him so badly that somehow he thinks that if he could invent a new brother, the pain will go away.'

Well, Oscar isn't my new brother, but I've started to play with him at school as if he is. Each morning, when I see his little face light up, it makes me feel like I've never felt before. Sort of needed. And I like it.

Is it OK to love a kid like he is your brother, even when he's just a smelly kindy kid? I think it is.

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