children’s book

THE GREEN STREAK FROM BUSHY CREEK

ARRE!, ARRE!—Sounds like someone is using a baseball bat to break into U3. “ARRE” is m’ Aunt E’s favourite word whenever she’s surprised-as.

YADSEUT—11:35 am.

Tuesdays aren’t my bestest day because Tuesday ball games and me aren’t bestest mates.

Anyway, the door flies open and Angela sticks her face into the room.

“We aren’t comin’ for readin’ ‘n’ writin’ ‘cause Mr Patterson changed his mind.” Her voice rattles the windows as she slams the door―loud-as.

Sooo, no buddy activity today and Mrs B is handing out sheets of cardboard. I reckon she’s pulled a crafty-task from her cabinet with the blue padlock.

“Shade and cut out the net of each solid, my sparklies,” she says. “One folds to make a striped cube and the other makes a paisley pyramid.”

 My twisty-pens live in my backpack so I grab the zip.

“Great Swampy Springers.” Couldn’t help yelling, but a gimungous frog just bounced from my bag.

“Whaaat? What are sweaty singers?”

“Swampy springers, Mason. Springers, from the creek: it’s a frog, see.”

 Froggy smacks into the window, but my stupid glasses plus the trees outside are making it difficult to see. Zzzzzzzzzzzip, sproing, splat, ribbit, ribbit. And those noises will probably haunt me forever.

My eyes focus, but quicker than Mrs Barter mumbles, “Who’s opened their lunch box?” the frog sproings right at me. The Barter tells her lunch-box line when someone makes a terrible smell. No-one owns up, not ever, but we reckon it’s Declan. I mean, he’s the only kid in Blue Hills who packs a baked-bean sandwich.

Anyway, the frog doesn’t reach me, but lands on Greenland. Not the real country, but the white map on top of the world globe near the window. Yep, a green frog lands on Green-land. We studied G-land in Human Society. OK for Eskimos, but too cold for frogs.

Now Mrs Barter is giving me her squinty-eye face. She plonks her hands on her hips, and takes a deep breath.

“Blake Edun-Espinoza, what have you done?” Uh-oh, last names appear when trouble looms and my seventeen letters are soundin’ cranky-as. Bothermacready. Chances are, croaky’s about to create a classroom riot. Even worse, I’m in strife.

“It’s not my fault, Mrs B.” But the Farter’s grumpy dial tells me she’s never going to believe me.

“Hey, Blake. I can’t believe my eyes;

I’m thinkin’ this frog is my prince in disguise.”

“Clever, Holly. But in ya dreams, so wish away.”

Maddie laughs. “Terrificness, Blakey. So how long has Kermit been ya buddy?”

She’s green―the frog, not Maddie―or maybe he’s green. Yep, the wet skin reminds me of Dad’s goo for fixing bicycle-tyre punctures, and its red eyes are the colour of the Barter’s Monday fingernails.

And now goggly-eyes is a-turnin’ its head like those clowns in sideshow alley—waiting for someone to react, for sure.

“Sparklies, it’s just a harmless …” But the Barter’s words come too late, even three late.

“It’s a free trog, a free trog.” Wesley’s voice fills the room, followed by shrieks that are runnin’ shivers down m’ spine.

I know those squeals. Jessica and Anika tumble over themselves if a bug bigger than a fly gets inside. When Mr D showed us a spider video last year, a Christmas beetle appeared from nowhere and landed on their desk. Well, they screamed louder than an elephant with a bee up its snozzle—a messaballoo no-one will ever forget. The Duncan freaked out, his lesson got wrecked, and he didn’t show the next day.

Anyway, Jessica and Anika are screeching and squawking. Mrs B is waving her hands to calm everyone, but the class is going bonkers. Daniel and Zoe are sending pencils, rulers, glue sticks and paper scraps around the room as they clamber from desk to desk.

Brooke, my twin sister, is making silly finger-circles around her ears. We pack our bags together and she knows the frog didn’t come from home.

Martina is hiding behind her bag clutching Tippy-K, and Mason is crouching under his table which is dumb-as. I mean, what’s stoppin’ froggy bouncing across the floor? Declan and Sheree snatch at goggly, but the frog dodges them and hops to the smartboard.

Cooper hollers above the racket, “Behind ya, Mrs Barter! Behind ya. It’s on the spelling words.” But the Farter ignores him and glares over her glasses—at me.

“Hey Blakey, is today Thursday?”

“No, Dimitri! And can’t ya see I’m in the middle of the biggest catastrophe ever?”

The frogger’s legs sway like kite tails as it jumps from the smartboard to the cupboards. From the cupboards, it makes a giant leap and plonks on the desk beside Anika. We cover our ears and laugh, but Kermie isn’t scared.

“I didn’t put the frog in my bag. Please, Mrs Barter, don’t blame me.” But she’s pointing to the door.

Kids are giggling, wriggling, jumping on tables or chasing froggy around the room. Pens, pencils, scissors and bits of paper are flying everywhere. Jessica and Anika are squealing and Wesley is bellowing, “free trog, free trog”. Yep, this is one gimungous disaster.

“So, Blake, did it eat any of your lunch? Frogs are coniferous you know.”

“Grrrr. Car-nivorous, Harlow, not Con-iferous! Conifers are plants with cones. Sooo, con-iferous is a tree word, but car-nivorous is a meat eater. And nooo, my food is safe because it’s in m’ lunch box.”

Anyway, Kermit is still galumphing about. Trouble is, the thick glass in my lensicles is making him hard to follow. The Barter has grabbed the waste bin and is trying to catch Kermie. She skids on Wednesday’s pencils and lands on her bottom. We freeze, like someone bellowed, “Simon says, stop!”

Mrs B smiles. “I’m alright, children,” so the chaos continues.

“Golly gosh, Blake. The classroom sure is a mess, hasn’t it?”

“Isn’t it, Baxter, isn’t it. But it’s not my fault.”

I can’t believe Ethan, though. He’s the only one still colouring his craft sheet: maroon marker in one hand, electric-green pencil in the other. You can bet he’ll be the only kid to finish a paisley pyramid.

Mr Mendez, from U4, throws the door open and grabs goggly. He probably heard the racket.

“It’s just a friendly green tree frog, kids. I’ll find a safe spot for him behind the school in Bushy Creek.” On his way out, he gives it an extra-long name. Mr M is a frogspert, for sure.

Wesley at the next table flicks Ethan on the shoulder, “See, I told you it was a freen gree trog.”

The Barter thanks the Mendez and straightens her shirt.

“Yes, what is it, Tippy-K?” she says.

“The frog knows more about the rain than the calendar, Mrs Barter.”

“You might be right, but—c’mon m’ sparklies, it’s time to tidy the room,” she says as she fixes her hair.

Bothermacready. Tomorrow I’ll hide under my pillow and pretend today’s disaster didn’t happen. Maybe I can even change today to Friday, but chubby-chance that’s a-gonna happen.

“Blake Edun-Espinoza, I will speak with you outside.”

Uh-oh, full title―again, and I’m freaking out, big time.

“B-L-AKE-Ǝ-Ǝ-Ǝ-Ǝ-Ǝ-Ǝ.” Under the verandah roof the words echo, like bad-tempered thunder, as I skulk from the room.

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