OH DEAR! WHAT CAN THE MATTER BE?
ARRE!, ARRE!—Principal C is wearing her glum face.
YADSEUT—9:05 am.
“Children, sad news is never easy to share.”
We’re sitting under the COLA. The assembly siren—three short blasts—sounded a minute ago.
The staff are standing in groups, mumbling behind their hands. What an unhappy-looking bunch. Ethan met me at the gate before school and said Mr M-D had frowned at him.
It was a no-good kinda day from the start because Mum burnt the toast.
“I’ve scraped off the black bits, Blake,” were her exact words. Yep, I couldn’t tell the difference between the Vegemite and the charcoal. Bothermacready. How can a new toaster, with more buttons than our TV, ruin a perfect piece of bread?
Anyway, Mrs Cannon hasn’t been this gloomy since last term when everyone in Blue Hills turned cranky-as. On that day, the flagpole rope broke, and the wind blew the school flag into the gimungous tree near the front gates. Mr Opwell, our outside go-to man, fetched his stepladder and heaved himself up to the bottom fork.
The Big-O scrambled from branch to branch, higher and higher, until he grabbed the flag. But his plan came unstuck when he couldn’t get down and no-one could climb up and help him.
Principal C rang the fire brigade, but the ladder truck got bogged in the front flower-bed and blocked the road. The school buses, parents’ cars and nosey onlookers caused one gimungous traffic jam. Photographers took snaps of the disaster and the police arrived to fix the mess.
Her grouchy voice is still ringing in my ears.
“I’m sorry children, but the buses won’t be leaving for some time. Our secretaries are ringing your parents to tell them you’ll be late home.”
Yep, cranky parents, cranky kids, cranky drivers, cranky fire people, cranky secretaries, cranky police, a cranky Cannon, plus The Big-O with two cranky toes.
Mason nick-named him The Big-O. His live-in Pop talked about a singer called The Big-O and Mr Oppwell’s chubby tummy meant The Big-O was a cool tag. After the flag drama though, we called him Oppy.
Anyway, the Cannon looks just a taddle-do worried.
“Golly gosh, Blake. Principal hasn’t happy, has she?”
“Shhh, Baxter.”
“Children ….” She’s stopped, as if she doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s Billy.” She sniffles and blows her nose.
“Students from grade six played with Billy and Buck after class yesterday. Mr Oppwell and I saw them at five o’clock as we checked the school grounds, but when Mr Donald arrived at seven-thirty this morning, he couldn’t find Billy. Children, it makes me sad to tell you, but … Billy is missing.”
“Great rambling ruminants.” No Billy? No way. Our class completed a project last week which included Billy and Buck.
“Whaat? Wrapping remnants? leftover wrapping paper? Where?”
“Ruminants, Mason. Billy is a ruminant and he’s rambled away some place. But shhh, Principal C is still talking.” We’re at the back of the assembly today so I reckon he’s got no idea what the Cannon is talking about.
“And children, the police will be here shortly to investigate his disappearance.”
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
9:25 am.
We’re back in L5 and well, Principal C’s news has unsetled everyone. Sheree is all teary and when one kid turns on the wiper-eyes, it spreads. Wednesday, Zoe, Ethan, and Maddie are crying, even my twin sister Brooke.
“Hey Blakey, misery loves company.”
“Well, that’s not helping, Tippy-K.”
“I’m bad about silly. I think tuck will see bad boo. Sorry, that’s not right.”
“It’s OK, Wes. We’re all miserable.” I pat him on the back. Yep, I don’t enjoy being upset either. Billy and I played heaps of games. I blow my nose. Nope, I’m no wiper-eyes guy, although my lensicles are a taddle-do foggy. He needs to come back though ‘cause we’ll miss him.
“So, Blake, I’m feeling sooo quasi.”
“Harlow, Harlow, Harlow. Wrong again. The word is ‘queasy’, meaning ‘upset’, I haven’t a clue about ‘quasi’ so you’ll need to ask Mr P if you want to know its meaning”
Kids are sniffling and snorting and Mrs Russo doesn’t know what to do. She’s not our regular teacher, but Mr Pugh didn’t show today.
“Golly gosh Blake, Buck haven’t got a mate now.”
“Mrs Russo, may I read my poem in memory of Billy.”
“Holly, is your poetry suitable to share?”
“Yes, Mrs Russo.”
“Quiet please children, Holly wants to read her verse.”
Holly jumps to her feet:
Billy was cool, a neat friend,
And so much fun till the end.
He sure liked to play,
But he vanished today.
And who knows what he ate on the weekend.
Holly is super quick at throwing rhyming stuff together.
“Hmmm, so thoughtful of you Holly.” Mrs R smiles and rubs her chin: what else could she say? Everything Holly said was true. If you asked me though, nobody ever thought about Billy’s Saturday and Sunday snacks.
Some kids are smiling, others are drying their eyes. And me? Well, I don’t like a verse in memory of Billy. “So much fun till the end,” sounds as if he’s not coming back. The Cannon said the police are coming to investigate. They’ll find him and return him, for sure.
Holly’s poems often change the mood in the classroom so, on the upside, most kids seem happier. Mrs Russo has handed out a find-a-word and everyone is quiet-as while hunting for geometry words.
I spot ‘level’ because the letters are the same forwards and backwards. The Pugh says ‘level’ is a palindrome, and he gets sooo excited about palindromic numbers.
“Have I told you my daughter was born on a palindromic day?” he says. Now nobody wants to say, “Yep, every week, Sir,” so he tells us—again and again. Why do teachers say the same things over ‘n’ over?
Anyway, I’m sure Billy has wandered off somewhere. Come Thursday or Friday, he’ll be back where he belongs.
Besides, no-one pinches a goat, do they?
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