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
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.