Belly Flop Read Online Free Page B

don’t reckon even they hate me that much.
    They hate me that much.
    I remembered they did the moment I walked into class and saw them all crowded round my desk.
    And saw what was waiting for me.
    A present, wrapped in shiny paper with a frilly bow.
    And a card saying ‘Happy Birthday Webface, hope you had a good party.’
    I’d have ignored it if Mr Tristos hadn’t walked in at that moment and seen it.
    â€˜Mitch,’ he said, looking surprised, ‘you’re popular today.’
    The kids started chanting ‘Open it! Open it!’
    I gave Mr Tristos a pleading look.
    He doesn’t usually let kids open presents in class and I was hoping desperately he’d stop me.
    â€˜Go on, Mitch,’ he said, ‘open it.’
    Then I remembered that last year the bank chucked his wife’s parents off their farm.
    The kids cheered and Mr Tristos said he reckoned it was socks and the kids kacked themselves.
    The smell hit me while I was still undoing the ribbon, but I carried on even though I knew before the paper fell open and the kids went hysterical that it was dog poo.
    I pretended I wasn’t hurt.
    Mr Tristos pretended to explode with rage.
    â€˜Whoever brought this into class,’ he yelled, ‘will be punished,’ but I could see his heart wasn’t in it.
    If he’d really wanted to punish someone he’d have kept the poo as evidence instead of taking it outside and chucking it in the bin.
    In a town where the dogs are as friendly as this one, dog poo can be identified pretty easily.
    I only got to look at it for a few seconds before my eyes got hot and my vision went blurry, and even after that short time I had the suspects narrowed down to a shortlist of three.
    It doesn’t matter.
    A party on a bus was a dopey idea.
    I’m just grateful I’ve realised that now instead of on the excursion.
    Because now I’ve got the chance to come up with a better plan.
    Doug, help.
    We’re handing in our permission forms and when I turned just now to give mine to Mr Tristos, I saw them.
    Troy and Brent Malley.
    They’re outside the window, staring at me.
    Even their freckles are scowling.
    What makes it worse is that their eyes are red.
    Jeez, if the bank’s made them cry I’m in deep poop.
    Everyone knows the Malleys don’t cry.
    Perhaps it’s just dust. Their Dad’s ute hasn’t got side windows.
    Except if it is dust, why are they looking at the playground where we all have to go at lunchtime and then back at me and mouthing words that almost all look like they begin with the letter F?
    I’m trying to give them a friendly smile.
    It’s not easy.
    My mouth doesn’t want to smile, it wants to shout ‘help’.
    Troy and Brent aren’t smiling back.
    They’re swinging their school bags over their shoulders like they probably do with wild pigs they’ve shot or bashed up and now they’re going down to their classroom.
    I’m desperately trying to think what to do, Doug.
    I could offer to find Mr and Mrs Malley other work, but I don’t think that’d calm Troy and Brent down.
    Not even if I offer to write to Hollywood and see if they can fit Mr and Mrs Malley into their next movie as hired guns.
    I hope you’re receiving this, Doug, and I hope you’re not busy in seventeen minutes.
    That’s when the lunch bell goes.

 
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    The lunch bell’s just gone, Doug.
    I’ve squeezed my brain into turnip mash trying to work out how you can save me.
    All I’ve come up with is you appearing in the playground and dazzling Troy and Brent with flying tricks and possibly some juggling.
    Which shows how panicked I am.
    I know perfectly well you’re invisible so you won’t show up on air traffic controllers’ radar screens and so your work won’t be hindered by adoring crowds trying to mob you.
    Hang on, what’s this?
    A Year Two kid sticking her head