Belly Flop Read Online Free Page A

Conkey’s, buy guns for ourselves, unwrap them and load them before the farmers started firing.
    I wanted Dad to hold my hand tight, but he was busy wiping peach and mango ripple off his elbow.
    Then the posters started flapping outside the newsagents and I knew it was you, Doug.
    As usual you were amazing. In less than thirty seconds the farmers remembered some urgent fence repairs they had to do and went home in an orderly manner.
    And I’ve woken up with a really good feeling.
    That ripper peaceful feeling of knowing you’re looking after me.
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    Emergency call to Doug.
    Emergency call to Doug.
    Dad’s in a bad way.
    I’ve never seen him so clumsy.
    He usually has one accident on his way to the car, maybe two, but I’ve never seen him have four.
    Getting his keys tangled up in his hanky, dropping his briefcase, tripping over the garden hose and banging his knee on the carport all on the same morning’d be a record, I’d say.
    I was at the mail box when he came a cropper over the hose, which he’d have to be pretty tense to do as it’s been in the same spot untouched for eight years.
    Then, when he was in the car, I understood.
    Mum came out and before she got in the car herself she asked him if he needed some goanna oil for his knee.
    â€˜I’ll be right,’ he said. ‘I’ll just be doing desk work most of the day. I’m not due out at the Malleys with their eviction papers till three.’
    My insides plummeted.
    I went stiff with shock.
    If there had been any birthday cards for me I’d probably have dropped them.
    Mr and Mrs Malley are just as muscly as Troy and Brent, and taller, and they own about six guns each.
    They shoot things for fun, not just sick sheep.
    Doug, I know you’re busy and I know guardian angels are really only meant to look after kids, but could you keep an eye on Dad this arvo?
    He needs you, Doug.
    Don’t worry about me.
    I’ll have come up with a plan by then to win the hearts of everyone in town, including Troy and Brent Malley.
    I know I will.
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    Thanks, Doug.
    By the time I got to school I was so tense I couldn’t think straight.
    I couldn’t stop imagining Dad’s bullet-riddled body stuffed in the Malleys’ sock drawer.
    It took me a couple of minutes to notice Troy and Brent weren’t around.
    Even then I had the awful thought that perhaps they’d been kept at home to help load the guns so Mr and Mrs Malley won’t have to stop to do it this arvo and lose concentration while they’re shooting at Dad.
    Then I realised it wasn’t that, it was you, Doug.
    You’ve made Troy and Brent late so I can get into class in one piece.
    Simple and clever.
    Which is also how I’d describe the idea I’ve just had, even though I say it myself.
    It came to me while I was hanging up my bag.
    I saw the permission form for the school excursion sticking out the top.
    Have I told you about the school excursion?
    A school way over on the coast has invited our school to go and take part in their swimming carnival on account of us being drought-struck. Someone must have told them about us not having any water in our town pool for the last eight years.
    I was meant to get Mum or Dad to fill out the form over the weekend.
    Poop, I thought when I saw it, and started filling it out myself.
    Then the idea hit me.
    The bus trip to the coast is gunna take about a million hours.
    Kids get bored to death on buses.
    So I’ll have my party on the bus.
    Pretty good, eh?
    Most of the party food’ll keep in the freezer till then and I can get Mum and Gran and Dad to teach me the jokes and card tricks and ping-pong ball juggling.
    I’m on my way into class now.
    I can’t wait to tell everyone.
    I reckon they’ll be really grateful.
    They’d have to really hate someone to knock back the chance of a long bus trip with no boredom and heaps of chocolate crackles and taco dip.
    I