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  I’m away for the rest of the day,

  and Class 2K will be in charge.

  Any questions?

  Michael converts to yoga

  Mr Carey’s okay.

  The first week of Bob Dylan

  and poetry

  was bizarre,

  but we all like

  the yoga exercises

  every morning.

  Except Billy

  who gets so tangled up

  it takes three of us

  to untie him.

  And the J-man

  has written a rap about Mr Carey.

  He’s way-cool weird

  Long black beard

  Trousers mighty lairy

  That’s our Mr Carey.

  Alex drew a picture

  of Mr Carey.

  Here it is…

  He’s probably not

  as handsome as this,

  but he’s okay.

  We like him.

  Anna, quiet and still

  It’s worth it,

  all the untangling of Billy,

  for the fifteen minutes of yoga

  every morning

  when we sit

  cross-legged

  on the mat

  and we practise

  thinking of nothing,

  letting our minds go blank.

  When Mr Carey

  first told us that,

  Peter laughed so hard.

  ‘Let my mind go blank?

  I’ll get an A for this,

  no worries.’

  And it works!

  We sit

  lotus position

  every morning

  and all I hear

  is my breathing

  and all I see

  is gentle darkness

  as I close my eyes

  and turn my brain

  to stand-by

  and drift…

  We sit

  quiet and still…

  until Peter farts.

  The boy with the talking bottom

  I can’t help it.

  Okay?

  My bottom has a mind of its own.

  And it speaks at the worst times.

  In exams.

  At the dinner table,

  but only if we have guests.

  On planes.

  At a wedding once,

  right before the bride said ‘I do.’

  I think my family stopped

  going to church when I was young

  because of my ‘problem’.

  Mum even took me to a doctor.

  Can you believe it?

  He said I should eat more fibre,

  whatever that is.

  Dad says it’s nervous tension.

  I reckon my bottom and I

  don’t like long silences,

  and one of us just has to speak.

  And yoga?

  Fifteen minutes of silence.

  What do you expect will happen!

  Billy’s yoga

  I thought Mr Carey said

  he’s going to teach us ‘Yoda’.

  You know,

  the little guy from Star Wars?

  I’ve always wanted to be

  a Jedi Master,

  so I went along with

  the body contortions

  and the exercises

  and the meditation,

  hoping against hope

  that Mr Carey had special powers.

  It’s not that I believe

  everything I see in the movies.

  But my dad told me

  that when the government

  asked the population

  what religion they were,

  700,000 people wrote

  ‘Jedi Masters’.

  So anything is possible,

  I guess.

  Then Anna told me it was yoga,

  not yoda.

  I still try the exercises,

  but I get so twisted up

  I think my body wants

  to be a Jedi Master,

  not a Yoga Master.

  Michael’s quiet lunch

  Six of us boys

  and three of them girls

  sit on the school fence

  at lunchtime

  waving at the cars.

  (Well, waving at the drivers

  and passengers anyway.)

  No one waves back.

  Some are singing along to the radio,

  or slyly picking their noses,

  or

  they stare straight ahead,

  lost in dreams.

  Billy meows at a dog in a ute.

  The dog barks and growls.

  A boy in a big black Mercedes

  makes a rude hand gesture

  and gets nine rude hand gestures back.

  Another boy pokes his tongue out.

  We ignore him.

  We’re not childish.

  Then a semitrailer storms by.

  We all yank the air,

  blowing imaginery horns,

  hoping…

  The big bearded truckie

  lets rip.

  Hooooooonnnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!

  It’s so loud

  it knocks Billy off the fence!

  We all laugh

  and run back to class,

  yanking the air,

  yelling,

  Hooooooonnnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!

  Co-curricular activities

  Co-curricular activities?

  No, we don’t know what it means either.

  Mr Carey says it’s stuff you do

  on Friday afternoons

  and you don’t have to do tests

  or be marked on it.

  You do it for fun!

  And he’s taking suggestions:

  J-man: Rap singing, sir, and dancing.

  Ahmet: Soccer, cricket, golf

  and swimming in summer, sir.

  Sarah:Tree planting.

  And learning about the environment.

  Frogs, lizards, birds and fish!

  Billy: Climbing trees, sir.

  Me: And falling out of trees!

  Emily: Belly dancing, sir. But only for girls.

  Jason: Ballet dancing, sir. But only for boys!

  Billy: Naked Bunyip Dancing, sir. But only for

  bunyips!

  Anna: Yoga. Lots of yoga.

  Peter: Yoghurt. Yoghurt making, sir.

  Alex: How about co-curricular ice-cream eating, sir?

  Mr Carey crosses his arms and frowns.

  ‘Class 6C, please keep your suggestions sensible.’

  Billy replies:Truck driving, sir!

  Truck driving for children.

  Alex: Advanced butchery, sir.

  Peter: Farting for beginners, sir!

  Now the class is giggling so much,

  we can’t help ourselves.

  Frog throwing.

  Car demolishing.

  Navel gazing.

  Stargazing.

  Daytime stargazing!

  Head shaving for children.

  Head shaving for teachers!

  Mr Carey touches his ponytail,

  gingerly.

  Billy says,

  ‘Tadpole squashing, sir. Advanced tadpole squashing!’

  All the class laugh.

  Even Mr Carey.

  Alex, any day of the week

  Saturday afternoon I go to Dad’s place,

  until Monday.

  Monday morning I catch the bus to school

  and home to Mum’s in the afternoon,

  where I stay until Wednesday,

  when Dad picks me up from school

  and I stay at his place that night

  because Mum has her late class

  at university.

  Thursday, it’s back to Mum’s

  until Saturday,

  when I wait for Dad

  with a bag

  overloaded with books and clothes,

  and things I
might need

  because Dad hasn’t bought everything

  for his little flat yet.

  Mum and Dad try to humour me

  and they talk

  in really fake excited voices

  about how I’ll have two of everything soon.

  Two bedrooms

  two beds

  two televisions

  and maybe even

  two computers

  if Dad gets the promotion at work.

  And I can see they’re serious about all this.

  Two of everything,

  but only one parent at a time.

  Mr Carey announces

  an excursion

  Good morning, students.

  Tomorrow is our first excursion

  for the year.

  We’ll be sharing the day with Class 5P.

  Ms Park and I

  have had long, spirited conversations,

  enjoyable conversations,

  animated conversations

  on where we should go.

  Yes, the beach was mentioned.

  And the zoo.

  I think you’ll all be very surprised

  with our final choice.

  And can I say

  that the destination was influenced

  by a member of this class.

  Someone who,

  what’s the word I’m thinking of...

  broadcast,

  loudly broadcast

  a possible location.

  Anna and the excursion

  Great!

  An excursion!

  The first one of the year.

  The zoo?

  The beach?

  The zoo and the beach?

  What!

  Where?

  The Sewerage Works!

  Well, I hope the sewerage works,

  but we’re not going there,

  are we?

  To see sewerage?

  That stinks!

  Yes, I know it stinks,

  but I mean it stinks

  that we’re going there

  and not to the beach.

  Why?

  For a class assignment

  on the environment.

  The beach is an environment, isn’t it?

  To see where waste goes.

  We know where it goes:

  down the dunny

  (or on Dad’s lemon tree,

  when he’s a little drunk).

  Why don’t we study waves?

  Or tides.

  Seashells. And sand.

  Two dollars.

  Two dollars!

  We have to pay

  to go to the Sewerage Works.

  It stinks!

  Michael on the excursion

  If I pinch my nose

  and close my eyes,

  hold my breath,

  put my fingers in my ears,

  don’t move,

  don’t touch anything,

  and think

  only fresh-air thoughts

  about

  clean surfing waves

  and pure white sand

  and an ice-cream

  with chocolate topping

  well…

  well…

  I’m still

  at the Sewerage Works

  and it still stinks.

  Or, as the J-man says,

  ‘Stunk stank stinky stunky,

  who you calling smelly flunky?

  stunk stank stinky stunky,

  smells like a dead

  smells like a dead

  smells like a dead donkey!’

  Billy and the excursion

  I thought it was cool.

  I agree with Dad –

  no one knows where stuff goes.

  We flush

  and think it disappears

  into the centre of the earth

  and stays there

  with the dinosaur bones

  and oil deposits

  for millions of years.

  How many people live in the world?

  Billions.

  And most flush,

  at least once a day.

  And if it did just disappear into the earth,

  imagine

  it expanding

  as time goes on

  getting bigger and smellier

  deep down,

  until one day –

  one sweltering hot day

  in the middle of summer

  when the earth’s core

  can’t take it any more –

  it just explodes!

  So I’m glad we went

  on the excursion.

  It might not have been

  as much fun as the beach,

  but

  now we know

  that sewerage helps the earth.

  It feeds the soil

  by decomposing.

  I can’t wait until class tomorrow.

  During Maths

  I’m going to raise my hand –

  you know,

  toilet time –

  and I’ll say,

  ‘Mr Carey?

  Can I go fertilise the planet?’

  School Rules!?

  BE POLITE TO FELLOW STUDENTS.

  And rude to the teachers.

  WEAR A HAT OUTDOORS.

  Go naked indoors!

  NO BULLYING ALLOWED.

  Do it quietly instead.

  ADDRESS THE TEACHERS AS ‘SIR’ OR ‘MISS’.

  Call Mr Carey ‘miss’

  and Ms Park ‘sir’.

  SWEARING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

  It will be encouraged!!

  GRAFFITI IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

  Unless you sign your name!

  Peter – the graffiti-artist?

  Every year

  someone graffitis

  on the School Rules.

  It’s always a laugh

  to hear Billy read it out to everyone

  before Mr Corrigan,

  the school cleaner,

  comes along and scratches them off,

  swearing under his breath

  that next year

  he’ll set up a video

  and catch the culprit.

  And rumours sweep

  the schoolyard

  that it’s me.

  Every year:

  ‘Peter did it!’

  or

  ‘It looks like Peter’s writing.’

  I’m cool.

  I don’t mind the gossip

  because I know

  no one can prove it,

  and I also know

  everyone wishes

  they were the secret

  graffiti-scrawler.

  Everyone

  except Mr Corrigan,

  who stares at me

  extra closely

  as he carries the bucket

  back to his shed.

  Billy and poetry

  I can’t get this poetry thing.

  Mr Carey

  asks us each to write one.

  He says write what you think.

  I think nothing.

  Write how you feel.

  I feel stupid.

  Describe your day.

  Too much poetry!

  Your weekend.

  No poetry!

  Does it rhyme?

  NO!

  Is it happy?

  It’s a poem!

  Is it sad?

  It’s a poem, okay?

  Loud?

  YES! VERY LOUD!

  Quiet?

  No way!

  So, Billy.

  What is your poem about?

  IT’S A LOUD PUNK

  POEM ABOUT NOTHING!

  Sophie’s alternative poem . . .

  Our teacher’s name is Mr……………

  Carey, Smith, Barnacle

  He lives on……………… Road

  Dawson, Pearce,Toad

  He rides his……………… to school

 
bicycle, motorbike, donkey

  leaving it locked at the……………….

  gate, shed, dentist

  At lunch, he always eats a………………

  sandwich, pie, cockroach

  and drinks two bottles of his favourite

  ………………

  cola, juice, chilli sauce

  Most afternoons the class sit

  and listen to him read………………

  books, newspapers, toilet paper

  We laugh and giggle, especially

  when he tells us about the………………

  old man, child, goldfish-eating spider

  For sport, he always wants to do…………………

  cricket, soccer, bungee jumping

  He waves us home as we board the ………………

  bus, train, elephant

  As we leave, he shouts,

  ‘Don’t forget, tomorrow is………………

  exam day, an excursion, a turnip

  Class 6C at cricket practice

  I’m a pace bowler.

  I’m an opening batsman.

  I’m a spinner. Yeah, like Warnie.

  I’m a wicket-keeper.

  I’m an all-rounder.

  I’m going to be in big trouble

  when I get home. I’ve lost my batting gloves.

  I’m a swing bowler.

  I’m fast. Fast as the wind.

  I’m an off-spinner.

  I’m captain.

  I’m better than Lleyton Hewitt.

  Oops. I’m at the wrong practice.

  I’m the coach.

  Who wants to bat first?

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Not me. I’ve lost my gloves.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me.

  Me. Can I use my tennis racquet?

  Peter’s magic fingers

  I’ve got the ball on a string.

  I’m magic.

  I can bowl off-breaks,

  leg-breaks,

  zooters,

  wrong-uns.

  The mystery ball is no mystery to me.

  I can turn it at right angles.

  The flipper?

  Easy.

  I’m Shane Warne.

  I’m Stuart McGill.

  I’m Mulith…

  I’m Mullith…

  Thanks Mr Carey, yeah,

  I’m Muralitharan

  the Sri Lankan spinner – he’s great.

  I’m a demon bowler.

  A batsman’s nightmare.