Naked Bunyip Dancing Read online

  or as Peter said,

  ‘chased the anteater off his head’.

  He played punk double-loud

  and drummed the desks in time.

  The J-man?

  You guessed it.

  Rap.

  Baggy pants and breakdance,

  high-fives and calling Mr Carey, ‘Bro!’

  Emily wore her tutu

  and butterflied across the room

  to classical music.

  Mr Carey strummed guitar

  and sang in a nasal voice

  about dead animals and war,

  even though he said the song

  was about love and peace.

  The Principal sat up the back

  and watched the rehearsal.

  When the bell rang,

  she walked to the foot of the stage,

  and said,

  ‘Very dramatic, everyone.

  It’s coming along nicely.

  Well done.’

  She turned to leave,

  stopped,

  and glanced at Billy.

  ‘Interesting haircut, young man.’

  The Co-curricular guest

  Sarah invited her Great Uncle Bob

  to Co-curricular today.

  He was very old,

  with grey hair,

  and a long droopy moustache.

  He was dressed in his old army uniform.

  He talked about all his friends

  who were teenagers,

  just like him,

  when they went to war.

  He talked about the jungle

  and the rains that never stopped,

  and the two years

  in a prisoner-of-war camp,

  and how he still can’t look in a mirror

  without seeing himself as

  a bag of bones.

  And when it was all over

  and the ship docked in Sydney Harbour,

  he saw his family waiting

  and waving

  and he thought of his friends

  left in the jungle…

  Then Great Uncle Bob

  played The Last Post

  on the bugle

  and we all cried,

  except Billy.

  He sniffled a little

  and whispered,

  ‘Punks don’t cry.’

  Billy and the bugle

  I wasn’t crying,

  anyway.

  I had a cold

  and forgot my hanky

  and Dad said

  I shouldn’t wipe my nose

  on my sleeve.

  So I was

  sniffing,

  not sniffling!

  Okay?

  Billy? No way!

  Yeah,

  Billy wasn’t crying,

  no way!

  He probably just

  hurt his hands

  drumming them on the desks,

  before,

  when he played his punk music.

  Punks don’t cry.

  Not even with two broken hands.

  Punks rule!

  Jason

  I like Emily.

  I really do.

  She’s smart

  and funny

  and she’s cool to be around,

  but

  she wants me to perform

  in the school concert with her,

  as a dancer!

  In tights!

  She calls them stretch pants,

  but they look like tights to me!

  I’m supposed to catch her

  as she sails across the stage,

  and spin her in mid-air

  as she raises her hands

  like butterfly wings.

  Me?

  I think I’d rather be Romeo

  in a play,

  but what can I say?

  Every afternoon

  as we walk along our street

  she pirouettes on the footpath

  as she turns into her driveway.

  Me,

  a dancer?

  In tights?

  On stage?

  And I voted for it!

  Jason, the butterfly!

  Emily

  A concert is better than a play.

  I don’t have to learn lines,

  or act,

  or rehearse with the rest of the class.

  And I’m sure Jason loves

  the chance to be onstage together.

  My ballet teacher

  says Jason will need lots of practice,

  but I’m sure she’s exaggerating.

  I mean,

  he only has to catch me.

  Anyone can do that.

  And now we can spend

  every afternoon together,

  just the two of us.

  My mum always says

  things work out for the best,

  and,

  for once,

  maybe she’s right.

  The hero of Macbeth

  This morning

  Class 5P and Class 6C

  went to see a play

  called Macbeth,

  written by William Shakespeare.

  It’s about a bloke with an evil wife

  and how they both want to kill

  this other poor guy.

  It was great.

  Lots of blood

  and guts

  and shouting,

  with everyone talking

  in a really weird language.

  But the highlight

  was just before Macbeth

  was going to murder the king.

  Roberto Baggio

  from Year 5

  stood up in the front row

  and yelled,

  ‘Look out!

  The ugly man’s going to kill you!’

  The actors froze,

  dagger raised,

  as our whole school

  stared at Roberto:

  the hero of Macbeth.

  Anna and the fool

  of Macbeth

  I want to kill him!

  Not the king.

  My brother!

  I swear!

  Roberto is sitting right beside me

  in the dark theatre

  and I’m so involved in the play –

  as Macbeth creeps up on the king –

  I can hardly stand the suspense.

  Will he do it?

  Will the king wake in time?

  And crazy Roberto

  stands up

  and shouts

  at the top of his voice

  and everyone turns

  and looks at him

  and then

  everyone looks at me

  as though

  I know about it,

  as though

  I’ve told him to stand up and shout,

  as though

  I’m the fool of Macbeth!

  How could I know

  what’s going on in my brother’s mind?

  I need yoga!

  I need a whole day of yoga

  to calm me down!

  Electricity in Anna’s house

  Tonight, for homework,

  we had to study electricity.

  Mr Carey told us

  to ask our parents to turn off

  all the power to our house.

  Darkness.

  I can hear my heart

  instead of the refrigerator.

  I can hear the crickets in the garden

  instead of my brother’s music.

  I can see the stars outside

  instead of the bedroom light.

  I can see the moon rising.

  I can hear a bird,

  and a dog barking in the distance,

  but most of all

  when I close my eyes

  I can see Mr Carey,

  smiling to himself,

  and I smile too.

  ‘Right,’ says Dad.

  ‘That’s enough homework.

/>   Let’s watch television.’

  Michael watching the weather

  When Dad’s had a bad day at work,

  he brings home a dark cloud

  that hovers over dinner.

  Stella and me

  (thunder, lightning)

  sorry, Dad – Stella and I

  eat quietly,

  politely,

  not too much food

  mouth closed

  chew slowly

  don’t gulp

  sip our water

  don’t guzzle

  ask, ‘Can you pass the salt please, Dad?’

  Not too much salt,

  no thanks to pepper,

  elbows off the table,

  no wiping your mouth on your sleeve.

  All through dinner

  we bow under the storm cloud,

  wishing for sunshine, not rain.

  Then it happens.

  I push the peas onto my fork,

  slowly,

  carefully

  lift them to my mouth

  and put them all in,

  without dropping one.

  But before I can chew,

  I feel my nose

  itching

  from the inside.

  I’m about to…

  Sneeeeeeeeze!

  It’s raining peas!

  Peas on the table.

  Peas on the floor.

  Peas plopping in the glasses.

  And one pea,

  one super tomahawk-missile pea

  hits Dad smack between the eyes.

  Stella ducks for shelter.

  Mum covers her face.

  And Dad?

  (storm? thunder? lightning?)

  No.

  He rubs his face,

  takes a calm deep breath

  and says,

  ‘Great shot, Michael.’

  Sarah asks

  Mr Jonesforthwalton

  three questions

  Sir, do you know where the Principal is?

  Yes.

  Can you tell me where the Principal is?

  I certainly can.

  Where is the Principal?

  Right behind you!

  Mr Carey jigged school!

  I was eleven.

  My friend Brian and I

  were walking to school.

  It was summer,

  not a cloud in the sky.

  Brian said,

  ‘Let’s go swimming.’

  I said,

  ‘We can’t. It’s a school day.’

  ‘So?’ Brian replied.

  I never did have an answer for ‘So?’

  We sneaked home,

  got our swimmers and towels,

  and raced to the creek,

  not far from school.

  We swung off the rope

  and swam.

  It was great.

  We lay in the cool shade

  and ate our lunch,

  and thought of everyone back at school.

  Then we heard footsteps…

  In the distance we saw our principal

  marching down to the creek.

  ‘Quick,’ said Brian,

  ‘jump in and we’ll swim

  to the other side.’

  We did.

  We scrambled up the opposite bank,

  and hid under some bushes.

  Perfect.

  He’d never see us.

  He didn’t.

  The principal went straight

  to our clothes and towels,

  on the bank where we’d left them.

  He picked them up

  and said to the silent bush,

  ‘These will be in my office, gentlemen.

  Have a pleasant swim.’

  The principal, and our clothes,

  returned to school.

  Brian looked at me.

  I looked at Brian.

  That was the first

  and last

  time I jigged school.

  Jason foresees the future

  A crowded school hall.

  Emily’s parents sitting

  in the front row,

  next to Mum and Dad.

  The music starts,

  Emily floats across stage

  to ripples of applause.

  She executes a perfect spin

  and tiptoes elegantly

  into the centre

  with the lights

  beaming down brightly

  as she smiles at the audience

  and prances in ever-widening circles,

  gathering speed,

  heading to where I’m standing

  in black tights

  with the words of Peter

  echoing in my ear:

  ‘Nice legs, Jason.’

  The music reaches a crescendo

  as Emily leaps

  and flies,

  arms outstretched,

  as I turn to tell Peter

  what I think of him.

  And the crowd gasps

  as I turn to punch Peter,

  whose face is filled with horror…

  not because he’s afraid of my fists,

  but he sees Emily

  flying towards me…

  Sophie forsees her future

  I’ll be standing

  alone

  on stage,

  deathly quiet,

  everyone expecting

  music

  and dancing

  and wild costumes,

  and I’ll be up there

  reciting

  in my loudest voice,

  which

  is not that loud.

  A poem.

  A poem I still haven’t written.

  And you’ll be able to hear a pin

  d

  r

  o

  p.

  And when I finish

  they probably won’t understand.

  They’ll think

  I’ve forgotten the next line,

  or

  I’m taking an extra-long breath,

  and

  I’ll be standing there

  alone

  alone, with my poem.

  The poems Sophie

  didn’t finish

  One:

  The class sat at their desks

  like sheep,

  although if a sheep sat on a chair

  it would probably fall off

  and run out the room

  looking for grass

  and its sheep friends

  in a meadow somewhere.

  Two:

  The moon glows

  like the lightbulb

  before my brother

  smashed it,

  swinging his golf club.

  Dad put in a new one

  and turned it on

  but it still didn’t work,

  not like the moon,

  which works every night,

  even without Dad turning it on.

  Three:

  The day woke like sunshine

  then went back to sleep

  because it was Saturday

  and I didn’t have school.

  Four:

  She was so happy

  she purred like a cat

  right before getting its tail

  stepped on by a blind man.

  Five:

  He loved her so much

  he gave up chewing gum

  and eating peas with his knife.

  But he kept cracking his knuckles

  because he liked the sound.

  Class 6C and their

  favourite birds

  ‘I’ll start,’ says Mr Carey.

  ‘My favourite bird is a kookaburra.

  A bird that laughs.

  What more could you ask?’

  ‘And kills snakes too, sir.’

  ‘Mine’s a swallow.

  Swooping a centimetre from the ground.’

  Sarah says,

 
; ‘A white dove. For peace, sir.’

  Billy says,

  ‘I love a cockatoo. A bird with a mohawk!’

  ‘Or a king parrot. A king!’

  Emily says,

  ‘A swan, sir. A beautiful floating swan.’

  Jason replies,

  ‘A dodo. An extinct bird, sir.’

  ‘A pelican.

  So big, and they sit on the beach all day, fishing.’

  ‘A seagull.

  He sits on the beach, too, and eats chips!’

  ‘And what’s your favourite, Peter?’ asks Mr Carey.

  Peter smiles, licks his lips, and says,

  ‘A chicken, sir.

  With roast potatoes, peas and lots of gravy!’

  Windy

  Six of us

  in the playground

  kicking a ball

  when

  Billy kicks it high,

  too high,

  and the wind gets it

  and it flies

  over our heads

  and bounces

  on the school roof,

  not once,

  not twice,

  but three times,

  then it rolls down

  over the gutter

  and lands

  at the feet

  of our Principal.

  Billy whispers, ‘I’m dead!’

  Alex:‘We’re all dead!’

  Jason: ‘A week’s detention, for sure.’

  Peter: ‘A letter home. Mum will kill me!’

  Me:‘Extra homework. An essay,

  or something stupid like that.’

  Ahmet: ‘That’s my ball!’

  What does the Principal do?

  She puts her foot on the ball,

  rolls it back

  and in one swift move,

  flicks it into the air

  and kicks it to us.

  She smiles and says,

  ‘It’s very windy today, isn’t it?’

  Mr Holditz

  Good morning, Class 6C.

  I’m Mr Holditz,

  your casual teacher for today.

  Yes, Michael,

  I know I’m wearing a suit and tie.

  And I know that’s not exactly casual.

  I don’t mean casual in clothes,

  I mean casual as in…

  as in…

  I’m your relief teacher for today.

  Yes, Sophie,

  it is a relief you’ve got a teacher today

  because Mr Carey is sick.

  No, not dying, Emily.

  He has a bug of some sort.

  No. He couldn’t kill the bug with flyspray, Billy.