Adam Baron – Untitled Adam Baron 2 (страница 8)

The teachers stepped to the side and the Reception kids at the front squeezed back.

Jen moved to the side of the playground, where she picked up a little blowtorch and turned it on.

She knelt down and pointed the flame at some powder piled up on a metal tray.

The powder lit up, fizzing and crackling until, like a red mouse, it began to scurry along an open metal pipe towards the table.

When the red mouse was nearly at the table, Jen leapt up, ran towards the table and grabbed hold of the sheet.

The mouse flame climbed up the pipe, spluttering for a second then stopping and making us all think it would go out.

It managed to stay lit, though, going up again as Jen pulled off the sheet to reveal Phil the frog, on his rocket, just about to head up to the …

No—

Not Phil.

Not Phil at all.

WHERE WAS PHIL?

We all stared. The scientists, including Jen, were all looking at us – they weren’t looking behind them at the table. And it was weird, really weird, because Phil the frog certainly wasn’t there. Someone must have taken him off. The rocket was there, and something ELSE was on it.

That was the scientists. They’d shouted it, not us, or not many of us, just a few of the smaller kids. Because we were staring, hardly able to believe what we were seeing, the scientists looking confused too – by our reaction – until one by one they turned their heads, to see what we were looking at. And what we were looking at was their experiment – the bucket, the rocket, and the thing tied to it – though instead of what they thought was tied to it there was something else.

Not a frog.

A bag.

A blue, rectangular sports bag, pretty old, with a black stripe across the middle, a bag that was familiar to every single person in our school because of what was on the side of it. Five rings. In different colours. Three on top and two below.

Olympic rings, all linked together with a date above and a word underneath in bold.

BOTSWANA.

Everyone stared. And then everyone’s head swivelled left to where Mrs Martin was standing, her hands still held up in little fists with what had been excitement but which had now been replaced by shock. And surprise. And disbelief. She shook herself together and looked around, at her feet, as if to find her bag there, as if it couldn’t possibly be where it actually was – ON TOP OF THAT ROCKET.

There wasn’t a ‘ONE!’ We just watched, no one able to move as the snapping red flame reached the bottom of the bucket. And it shook, with a really loud BANG. And the rocket took off, though it didn’t go as far as we’d expected. Not to the side wall. Not up to the heath. Just half a metre, before it nosedived on to the table where it rested, as Mrs Martin’s bag slid down on to the ground.

Silence. It struck the teachers and the scientists and all of us sitting on the AstroTurf. No one said a word. Not even Marcus Breen. We all just watched as the bag Mrs Martin had got at the Olympics fizzled and gurgled and spluttered.

And

then

it

I think I need to tell you a bit more about Mrs Martin. She’s got this gappy smile, like I’ve said, that is impossible not to smile back at. You can hear her laugh ALL around the school. She teaches Year 3 but does dance routines at lunchtimes with the Year 5 and 6 girls (but only if they play Abba songs). She begs you not to tell Mr Martin about her mid-morning Twix or how she really wishes she’d married someone called Mr Kipling instead of him. She cheers all the teams on at Saturday football.

She works on the Friends’ Forum, like I said, but I didn’t tell you she was in charge of it, sending out all the letters and emails and organising the fairs and coffee mornings and cake sales and sponsored walks and the carol singing round Blackheath every year. I didn’t tell you that she stays late to clear up after all the evening events because the parents have to get their kids to bed (hers are grown up).

And I didn’t tell you something I learned from Mum, about when all the windows were being replaced in our school. Mrs Martin was the one who found out that the builders were putting in cheaper ones than the ones they’d promised, which wouldn’t have been so soundproof. She forced the council to get them done properly, which means we can all learn in peace. The most important thing, though, is how she makes us feel: good, and safe. Like we’re at home and not at school. Absolutely everyone has called her Mum by mistake at some point – SO embarrassing – and when she tells you that you can do something, you believe her. You can’t help it – and then it turns out to be true.

We have four different houses in our school. They’re named after inspiring people like Nelson and Rosa Parks (which I’m in). When I was on the school council I started a petition to get one of the houses renamed and I’m sure you can guess whose name I wanted. Yes – Jacky Chapman, the best captain Charlton have ever had. I’m still waiting to hear about that, but if they say no I’ll definitely suggest Mrs Martin instead because she’s AMAZING.

So how could anyone DO that to her?

Auntie Mill picked me up that day. Her and Mum, which was weird. Why were they both there? I didn’t really think about it, though, because the Mrs Martin thing was too huge.

Jelly – so what? But THIS …?

As I climbed into Auntie Mill’s car I kept seeing Mrs Martin’s bag before it was blown up, and then again twenty seconds later, after Jen had put it out with a fire extinguisher. It was all blackened and melted, with a gaping hole in the side. And I saw Mrs Martin walking forward and picking it up off the ground, staring at it in total shock before using the same expression as she turned around.

And stared at US.

We’d all stared back, in SILENCE, until Mr Baker towered over us.

‘Classrooms!’

We’d marched off and I felt SO terrible that I got this feeling you might recognise from your own school, when someone’s done something bad. It really did feel like it was me who’d actually done it. And when I passed Mrs Martin it got worse. I didn’t giggle. Not this time. But instead my face went red. And Mrs Martin had been looking at me. I didn’t actually see her because I was keeping my eyes on Daisy right ahead of me, but I could FEEL it, her eyes following me all the way into school and up the stairs, the tops of my ears prickling with heat when I got there.

‘Had a good day?’ Mum asked as Auntie Mill pulled away, barging in front of Lance’s mum’s Fiesta. I didn’t say anything. I just wanted to get home so I could talk to her on her own about what had happened.

AND GET HER TO CALL MRS MARTIN.

But again I didn’t get a chance to.

I expected Auntie Mill to turn right at the little roundabout – towards our house. Instead she went up through Blackheath to her house, which is next door to Veronique’s, actually (Billy Lee lives on the other side of the road). We weren’t giving Veronique a lift because she was doing fencing, which my cousin Juni does as well, though it’s at Juni’s school so no one needs to take her. Why we were going to Auntie Mill’s I didn’t know and I intended to ask, waiting while Auntie Mill’s new electronic gate opened and then as she turned her burglar alarm off. We went inside, where I expected to see Clay (my other cousin), but he was at rugby practice. That just left us three, which seemed a bit weird.

‘What’s going on?’ I said, feeling small in their huge living room.

Auntie Mill held her hands up at that and walked through to their kitchen, as if to say to my mum that it was her job to answer me. Mum took a breath. She walked over to one of the sofas, sat down and took my hand.

‘It’s Stephan,’ she said.

I frowned. ‘Are you going to the pictures tonight? It’s only Thursday.’

‘I know.’ Mum shook her head. ‘And no. I’m staying here.’

‘Good. But what, then?’

She took a breath. ‘Well, Stephan wants to spend more time with me.’

I took that in. ‘Like, maybe, Tuesdays too?’

‘A lot more, actually.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I said I wasn’t sure about that.’

‘There are only so many films you can see, aren’t there?’

‘Right. So I suggested that, before we commit to spending a lot more time together, we get to know him a bit better. And he gets to know my family properly, too.’

‘So?’

‘He’s coming round here.’

‘Couldn’t everyone have come to our house?’

‘That’s what I said. But Mill needs the Internet for some reason and our connection’s not that good.’

‘Oh. But shouldn’t Dad be here too, if Stephan’s getting to know us?’

‘Ah,’ Mum said. ‘No, I … I think your dad’s working.’

That was a shame, but they’d already met, actually. When Dad brought me home after the weekend once, Stephan was already there. He was all friendly, but Dad sort of pretended he was invisible.

‘So just Stephan tonight. He’s staying for supper.’

‘Fine. Though … what is for supper?’

The reason I was asking was simple. When Mum was not well before Christmas, I stayed with Auntie Mill for a while and was exposed to certain foodstuffs. The worst were called artichokes, which take my favourite food (pizza) and make it taste REVOLTING. Auntie Mill also served me fish that was actually RAW, though the people at the takeaway place had tried to disguise that by chopping it small and wrapping it in rice. How lazy can you get?