Free My Life and Other Stuff That Went Wrong by Tristan Bancks

Tower , David Metzenthen
Billionaire Boy , David Walliams
The ‘Just …’ series, Andy Griffiths
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‘This’ll be awesemic,’ Jack says.
    He is standing on the road outside my house searching for customers. I’m kneeling on the front lawn, writing the words ‘Tom’s FunLand’ on a big piece of cardboard.
    â€˜ Tom’s FunLand?’ Jack spits.
    â€˜I thought of it.’
    â€˜No, you didn’t. We both did. It should be Jack and Tom’s FunLand.’
    â€˜Jack and Tom’s FunLand?’ I ask.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜But that sounds dumb.’
    â€˜Only because it’s got the word “Tom” in it.’
    I add Jack’s stupid name to the sign. It messes up the whole look of it. Now we probably won’t get any customers and it will be all his fault.
    â€˜How much should we charge for admission?’ I ask.
    â€˜Ten bucks.’
    â€˜Ten bucks?’
    â€˜Do you think that’s too cheap?’ Jack asks.
    I look down the side of my house to the backyard theme park we have built this morning. In among the rides there are broken bikes, a rusty totem tennis pole, a dog-mauled soccer ball and an above-ground swimming pool that has not been used in five years.
    â€˜Fair enough,’ I say.
    I write ‘$10’ on the sign. As I sticky-tape it to a tree I notice Mr Skroop, the world’s scariest relief teacher, pruning his hedge next door. Mr Fatterkins, his enormous orange cat, sits on his shoulder. Skroop hasn’t beengetting much teaching work at school lately, not since he threw the whiteboard marker at Sam Stubbs and knocked out Sam’s left-front tooth. But, then, a month ago, Skroop moved in next door, which proves my theory that I am cursed.

    â€˜Hey, remember when he chopped your football up and posted it into your letterbox?’ Jack whispers.
    â€˜Yeah. I remember.’
    â€˜And when he ate my scab.’
    â€˜Yes, Jack. I remember that, too. I watched him do it.’
    Mr Skroop catches me staring. ‘What are you up to, Weekly?’ he rasps in a voice like twisted metal.
    â€˜Nothing,’ I say, blocking his view of the sign.
    He slithers towards me, trying to read the sign over my shoulder. He clutches the pruning shears. He has blood from a cut running down the fluorescent-white skin of his arm. Mr Fatterkins licks his ear.
    â€˜FunLand,’ he says. ‘Another harebrained scheme with that idiot friend of yours? Well, Mr Fatterkins is about to have his morning nap, and if I hear anything – anything – from this “FunLand”, I’ll call the cops. And then it won’t be so “fun”, will it?’
    Skroop’s favourite pastime is calling thecops. Last week he called the cops on the postman for not delivering his mail, but it turned out that no-one had sent him anything. Mr Fatterkins hisses at me and claws at the shredded wool of his master’s maroon jumper. Skroop waves a gnarled dinosaur finger. ‘The cops, you hear me?’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Skroop.’
    He flashes his brown, gappy teeth and heads off, stopping at his front gate to glare at me. I’m pretty sure I see a forked tongue slip out of his mouth and back in before he slides up his white-painted front path.
    â€˜Nice guy,’ Jack says. ‘Wonder if he’d be interested in some work on our Haunted House attraction.’
    â€˜Two hours till Mum gets home. We better get some customers.’
    We stand together on the kerb, searching, waiting. It’s not long before Nick Crabtree and his little sister, Elsie, come by.
    â€˜You guys want to do something super-fun?’ Jack asks.
    â€˜What?’ Nick is a tall kid who always seems to have a large Slurpee in his hand.
    Jack points to the sign.
    Nick reads: ‘Tom and Sack’s FunLand.’
    â€˜Not “Sack”. Jack!’ Jack says.
    I laugh. Jack punches me in the arm and tries to scratch the