Just Crazy (9 page)

I turn my head and see a large biplane with orange wings.

Uh-oh. I'm in trouble.

Or am I?

This could be just what I need to get me away from here and back to the school. I might even beat Danny's dad.

I watch as the plane flies closer and closer. I flex my fingers and wait for my chance. I'm only going to get one shot at this.

As it passes me I shoot my hand out and grab onto its tail.

It starts pulling me away at high speed. I can feel the wind from the propeller on my face.

I carefully turn the plane towards the right. I fly around in a wide semicircle and head back towards the school.

I hear yelling.

‘Hey, you little thief! Let go of my plane!' calls a man in a red cap.

‘I'm not stealing it,' I yell. ‘I'm just borrowing it. I'll bring it back. I promise!'

But he obviously doesn't believe me. He is furiously working away at his controls and I feel the plane start to turn back again.

‘Oh no you don't,' I say. I reach over and pull the aerial out of the cockpit of the plane. I'm in control now.

I turn the plane towards the school and travel back the way I came. Over the houses, over the yards. It's the same as before except now I'm travelling ten times faster and this time I go
under
the power lines instead of over them.

I can see the school oval ahead of me. There are a few more people there now than
when I left. They're unpacking cars and setting up tables. The jumping castle is being inflated. Imagine one of them filled with helium. Now that is a good idea. You could float
really
high.

There's Danny, at the edge of the oval. He's still sitting on the ground, holding his leg. He's looking up, talking to somebody. Who is that?

Oh no.

It's Mr Pickett!

Rats. I didn't beat him. I'm going to cop it after all.

They look up and see me.

Danny gets to his feet and waves.

I point the plane downwards and head towards the cricket pitch. It will make a great landing strip.

When I'm a few metres from the pitch I straighten the plane up and level out.

‘Grab me!' I yell.

Mr Pickett starts running. He wraps his arms around my legs and pulls me to the ground.

Danny limps over and takes the plane out of my hand. He flicks the throttle switch off.

‘That was so cool!' he says. ‘You're amazing!'

‘Shut up!' growls Mr Pickett. He keeps hold of me while he takes the pack off my back. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?' he yells. ‘Of all the irresponsible, fool-hardy stunts to pull!'

‘It's not his fault, Dad,' says Danny. ‘I shouldn't have let go of the rope.'

‘That's beside the point!' yells Mr Pickett. ‘He should never have been up there in the first place!'

Danny looks at me and shrugs. It was a good try and I appreciate it, but Mr Pickett is on a roll.

‘You could have been killed!' he says and points at the sky. ‘These balloons were supposed to be used to advertise the fete. They should have been up there by now. Instead I come back and find that you've taken them for a joy flight. An insanely dangerous one, I might add!'

I look over Mr Pickett's shoulder.

The small crowd that was following me through the streets is coming through the gates of the school. But it's not a small crowd anymore. It's huge!

There are kids, adults, dogs, cars, police, an angry-looking man in a red cap and even
a television news van with a satellite dish on the roof. A cameraman is hanging out the window with his camera pointed at us. They must be transmitting live footage back to their newsroom.

Wow! I'm going to be on TV. I'm famous. That's great, but I wish I had some pants on.

Mr Pickett pauses. He's so mad he can't think of what to say next.

A little kid comes up behind him and tugs on his jumper.

He wheels around and looks down.

‘What do you want?' he growls.

‘How much for a ride on the balloons?' says the kid, pointing to my pack, which Mr Pickett is still holding.

‘What?!' he says.

He looks up and notices the crowd. There are people everywhere. Already there's a long queue at the sausage sizzle and the drinks stall. Chasing me through the streets has obviously made everyone pretty hungry and thirsty.

Business is booming. Mr Pickett can't be mad at me now. I wish I could say the same for the man in the red cap, though. He snatches his plane off Danny and walks up to me.

‘I want a word with you,' he says.

‘Smile!' calls a newspaper photographer.

The man turns. He smiles for the camera. Mr Pickett puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles too.

‘Remind me to murder you later,' he grunts.

I grin.

Looking at the crowd I've gathered I can't help thinking that my balloon flight wasn't such a bad idea after all.

In fact it was a good idea.

A great idea.

A brilliant idea.

A good, great, brilliant, great, great, brilliant, good, great idea.

t's Tuesday night.

A very important night.

And not just because it's Valentine's Day, either.

It's rubbish-bin night.

And what's so important about rubbish-bin night?

Well, according to my mum and dad, the health of the entire neighbourhood depends on me remembering to put the rubbish-bin out.

Because if I forget to put the bin out, the garbage men can't empty the bin.

And if the garbage men can't empty the bin then we can't fit any more rubbish into it.

And if we can't fit any more rubbish into
the bin then the rubbish will spill out over the top and onto the ground.

And if there's rubbish on the ground then the rats will come, and if the rats come, people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.

And, the worst thing is that I will get the blame.

That's why rubbish-bin night is the most important night of the week: the fate of the neighbourhood is in my hands. Every man, woman and child is counting on me to remember to put the bin out.

And I haven't failed them yet.

I never forget.

Each week I tie a piece of white string around the little finger on my left hand to remind me.

The trouble is tonight I've tied it a bit too tightly and it's making my little finger throb. It's so tight that I can't get the knot undone. I'm going to have to cut it with a pair of scissors.

I go downstairs to the kitchen.

I pass Dad in the lounge room.

‘Have you remembered what night this is?' he says.

‘Yes, Dad,' I say.

‘Have you put the bin out yet?'

‘Not yet,' I say.

‘Well, don't forget,' he says. ‘I don't want rubbish spilling out all over the ground. It will attract rats and . . .'

‘I know, Dad,' I sigh. ‘If the rats come people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.'

‘You think it's all a bit of a joke, do you?' he says, leaning forward in his chair and pointing his finger at me. ‘Well, we'll see how much of a joke it is when we're up to our ankles in rubbish and rats and you've got bubonic plague and you've got boils all over your body, funny-boy! And we'll all have a good laugh when bits of your lungs come flying out of your mouth and . . .'

‘Okay, Dad!' I say, ‘I get the picture! I'm going to put the bin out, all right?'

‘Now?' he says.

‘In a minute,' I say. ‘Right after I cut this string off my finger.'

‘Don't forget,' he says.

‘I won't, Dad,' I say. ‘I promise.'

I swear my dad's getting crazier by the day.

I go into the kitchen, pull open the second drawer down and start rummaging for the scissors.

Mum comes into the room.

‘Have you put the bin out?' she says.

‘Not yet, Mum,' I say. ‘I'm just about to.'

‘Well, don't forget,' she says. ‘We don't want . . .'

‘Rats,' I say.

‘How did you know I was going to say that?' she says.

‘A lucky guess,' I say.

The phone rings.

I go to pick it up.

‘Don't touch that!' says Jen, pushing past me and beating me to the phone. ‘That'll be Craig. Besides, shouldn't you be putting the bin out? It stinks — I can smell it from my room.'

‘I'm surprised you can smell anything above your own stink,' I say. Jen makes a face and picks up the phone.

I just keep standing there. She hates it when I listen in on her calls.

Jen puts her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Mum,' she says, ‘Andy's listening to my call.'

‘I am not!' I say. ‘How can I be listening if you haven't even started talking?'

‘You're
going
to listen,' she says.

‘Pardon?' I say.

‘I said “you're
going
to listen,”' says Jen in a louder voice.

‘What?' I say. ‘I can't hear you. I think I've gone deaf.'

‘Mum!' says Jen.

‘Andy,' sighs Mum, ‘you've got a job to do. Just go and do it.'