Free So Sick! by J A Mawter Page A

dead underMr Epeler’s armpit. Flattened body, flattened fur — rotting, rotting.
    That’s it, I decide. Mr Epeler has a rotten mouse under each armpit.
    ‘Jake Kimmorley!’
    I am back in the classroom. Mr Epeler is ten centimetres away, looking more agitated than a swarm of bees.
    ‘I asked you a question!’ barks Mr Epeler.
    I blink, trying to trawl for a memory of the question. I blink again and again. I blink a blank. ‘Sorry Mr Epeler,’ I say. ‘Could you repeat the question?’
    Classroom etiquette crumbles. Some kids giggle, some kids laugh and Angus roars so loud the hairs in my ears bristle.
    I look at Kieran and raise my eyebrows for help. Maybe he can whisper the answer? But Kieran’s guffawing so loudly his jaw is about to dislocate. He looks like a death adder eating a rabbit. I glance at Adam. Useless. That dislocated jaw must be catchy.

    Mr Epeler is still ten centimetres from my face. ‘I
can
repeat my question,’ he says. ‘I asked, Have you been paying attention?’
    Well, of course I haven’t, I think to myself.
    ‘Of course, he hasn’t,’ says Angus real loud.
    Everyone is looking at me like I’m an idiot. Everyone, except Ivy Tan. Ivy knows what it’s like to be a member of the brain amputee club. Ivy’s furiously copying her words. I hope it helps. Laughter swells in my ears. I want to curl up and die. I want to be that baby mouse …
    ‘We were discussing the spelling bee,’ explains Mr Epeler.
    ‘Ohhh!’ I say.
    ‘On Friday.’
    ‘Aahh.’ I nod, trying to look intelligent. Suddenly I spy those words he’s written on the blackboard. ‘The A-mor,’ I read. ‘A-mor-pho-pha-llus … ’
    ‘Amorphophallus titanum.’ The words rip out of Mr Epeler’s mouth and bite me on the bum. ‘I expect every one in this class to be able to spell that for Friday.’ He impales me with his stare. ‘Even you, Jake.’ He holds my gaze long enough to act like poison then lifts his eyes to the class. ‘Or beware …’ Mr Epeler smiles, like he’s having a joke. But this is no joke.
    Beware can mean a lot of things. Beware or you’ll be first out of the spelling bee. Beware or you’ll get ten more words to learn. Beware or I’ll write a note to your parents.
    ‘Beware or you’ll be spending every lunch time the following week helping me with Grade 5 netball training.’
    Netball training! Normally that wouldn’t be so bad. Lots of girls with short skirts yelling, ‘Me, me!’ as they leap and prance about giving you an eyeful with every sudden stop. No, netball training wouldn’t be that bad, except for one thing. Goal Defence. It’s where you have to stop the opposition shooting a goal. You stand there flapping your hand in the air, trying to block the path of the ball. It’s Mr Epeler’s favourite position. The thought of standing there every lunchtime with Mr Epeler’s arm high in the air is enough to give me anal cramp.
    ‘Understand?’ asks Mr Epeler, looking at me.
    I nod. Very quietly, I say, ‘Yes.’
    I dare to look around the room. Angus is wearing a cloak of smugness. I stare down at my spelling book. I am biting my lip and trying to look like I know what I am doing when a dead bee lands in my lap. I look up to see where it came from. Ivy winks. I wonder if dead bees are good or bad Feng Shui.
    ‘Thanks for the dead bee,’ I say to Ivy later in the playground. ‘It’s, um, just what I’ve always wanted.’
    She smiles. Only one side of her lips curls up. Funny, I’ve never noticed it before. ‘Don’t mention it,’ she says. ‘I thought it might distract you. You’re going to kill it in the spelling bee.’
    I stand there looking at her, trying to think of something else to say — something intelligent. Nothing pops into my head. A mute monkey has nothing on me.
    Ivy laughs. She nods her head, just a little nod, then walks away.
    Somehow, the spelling bee doesn’t seem that bad …

Chapter Three
    The next morning in class I go about my usual