CHAPTER A – ADIOS AWFUL TROLL
ARRE!, ARRE!—Brooke is makin’ mini mayhem and her squawking is callin’ the shots in U5. We’re fraternal twins, but we’re different-as ‘cause I don’t chuck wobblies.
YADSRUHT—1:32 pm.
Lunch is over and Brooke is tossin’ the tissues―big time. Her favourite dangly has disappeared and anyone would think the Choc-Chip-Cookie Ice-Cream had bottomed out. It’s a weird-as, goofy-haired, troll-on-wheels which is clipped on a silver chain and spends its entire, miserable existence hanging from her backpack.
I’m not supposed to say this, but it’s a girl thing. Every girl hangs swingy-thingies from their backpack. The whole hideous heap would swamp a Christmas tree.
But there is one gimungous problem with swingin’ stuff―it falls off. A broken dangly is worse than toast falling nutty-butter-side down. If one drops in the mud, double yuck and panic. Step on one and you’re a criminal, but lose one—the Choc-Chip-Cookie Ice-Cream has a-gone, gone,gone.
My opinion doesn’t count, but the colours of Brooke’s troll remind me of a baboon’s bottom. The hot-pink head with shaggy, orange hair sticks out of a red outfit—clash, clash and clash. Ethan packs the biggest coloured pencil set in the country and keeps ‘em sharpened. But he’d never create a masterpiece with those shades, for sure.
Anyway, the doll is gone. The skateboarding troll didn’t do a 180-air and zoom out the door so did Brooke leave the ugly guy at home or is he lost?
Now when Brooke gets sad, I get down. That’s the way the popcorn pops and has been since nappy days.
“Sir, like, someone’s pinched my troll.”
“Brooke, are you sure you clipped the toy on your backpack today?”
“It’s always on the very top of my bag, Mr Pugh. The orange hair got caught in the zip when I unpacked my lunch. It’s a special clip-on, and it’s gone.”
Brooke is searching under the tables in her group. Except for Ethan’s pencil shavings and Wednesday’s purple smudges, the floor is clean-as.
“I’ve looked in my bag and under my chair;
I’m sure it’s here somewhere, so don’t despair,” said Holly.
Holly, Wesley and Baxter sit near Brooke’s group.
“And there’s no whinky ted roy on peels under my desk.”
“Golly gosh, I doesn’t seen it, either.”
“We’ll help ya Specky.”
OK, Specky isn’t a nasty tag, but I prefer Blake or Blakey.
“Check when you get home, Brooke. We need to start our music lesson.” The Pugh’s voice rumbles in my noggin.
“Noooo! not singin’ time.” The words just tumbled out.
“Whaaat? Stinkin’ slime? Where?”
“Singin’ time, Mason! follow my lips—sing-ing-ti-im.”
“Blake?”
“Nothin’ Mr P.”
Brooke scrunches her nose. Mr Pugh doesn’t understand the importance of school-bag danglies.
He’s our teacher this year and is tall and skinny, like a flagpole. He ducks going through the door and his deep voice sounds like it’s up in the clouds if we’re sitting down. The smartboard is his special toy and the speakers he fixed each side sound cool-as.
The problem with Sir is, well … kids struggle with his name.
“Mr Poo, can you help me with this sentence?” they ask. Or, “I can’t do this sum, Mr Poo.” He smiles because they’re not trying to be rude.
Sometimes he stops them. “I am Mr Pugh: P followed by U. You try, Holly. Mr P-U.”
I can pronounce his name. The trouble is, the way I speak to teachers can land me in strife. Last year’s teacher was Mrs B or the Barter so this year, I say Mr P or the Pugh. Mum and Dad reckon I’m saying Mr Pee and the Poo. Not me, I’m respectful—most of the time.
Holly knows how I call teachers and wrote a verse which made us giggle.
“There once was a teacher called Pugh,
Whose name sort of sounded like poo.
It starts with a P,
Not good, you’ll agree,
For a name with a pee and a poo.”
Wesley always muddled Mr P’s name. “Mr Soo-Per”, he’d say instead of “Mr Pugh, Sir”, so now he calls him Mr Super. Mr P smiles and well, I reckon Mr P is su-per-as.
Anyway, Brooke’s ugly doll is missing and both of us are glum-as. Brooke isn’t happy because her troll is gone, and me, I’m suffering gloomies on top of gloomy. First up, because Brooke has the miseries and second, sing-songing is painful-as. It reminds me of the time Mum pulled a splinter from my bottom—ouch plus embarrassing-as. Tippy-K says, “Some sing who are not merry,” and that’s me.
My afternoon is dragging like a ten-day visit with Great-Aunt Emmaline. Our pill-popping auntie still has see-through hair, but now she wears pooey-bluey slippers.
The bell rings and we race home.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
3:42 pm. “Mum! Like, someone stole my troll.”
“Oh no, Brooke, As my friend Billy-Bard says, ‘I am most unhappy in the loss of it’.”
Silly-Billy. Why didn’t he say, ‘I’m sad it’s gone’. Anyway, imaginary friends don’t get unhappy.
“Check your room, Brooke. Maybe you didn’t take it.”
“That’s what the Poo-ooo said.” Oops.
“Blake Edun-Espinoza!”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s just … well, the P-U said she should check when she got home.
I can hear Brooke rummaging through her room. She told Mr P her bestest dangly went to school, and she was right.
The troll got pinched, for sure.
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