It’s not that type of bug.
He is ill with a bug.
Sick with the flu.
Not a flying bug, Peter!
Please, Class 6C!
Yes, I guess
we could be Class 6H, today,
if you’d prefer.
H for Holditz.
No, Billy, not
‘Holditz by the tail until it barks.’
Class 6H!
And Peter,
Class 6 Spiderman
is certainly not an appropriate name.
Can we get started Class 6C?
I mean Class 6H.
Today, I thought we’d talk about Economics.
Does anyone know anything
about Economics?
No, Anna,
it’s not the gym class
your mum goes to on Friday mornings.
And no, we can’t do exercise, instead.
Economics means
money, commerce, business.
Yes, Jackson,
I’m sure your dad says
it’s no one’s business
how much money he makes.
And Peter,
I’m sorry you don’t have any money
for lunch.
Well, I suppose
Peter could get a loan from a bank, Sarah,
that’s part of Economics.
Peter, sit down, please.
Where do you think you’re going?
To the bank for lunch money.
Perhaps I can loan you $2,
would that be suitable, Peter?
Yes, $2.50 is fine.
You can pay me back tomorrow.
What?
Yes, Mr Carey is off for the week,
I’m afraid.
Yes, it was a very big bug, Michael.
No, we can’t visit him at home
to squash the bug, Billy.
It’s not that sort of bug, remember?
Economics!
Not Health. Not Medicine.
Not Biology. Not Zoology.
Economics!
Yes, Peter, let’s make it $3
so you can get a drink as well.
Was that the bell?
It was.
My how time has flown.
Like a bird.
Yes, Michael, like a bug!
No, not like the flying bug that
made Mr Carey sick!
It’s not that sort of…
See you after lunch, class.
We’ll talk about bugs!
Mr Carey’s first day back
Good morning, Class 6C.
It’s good to be back.
I’d like to thank you all
for your get-well cards.
They made me feel much better
and I thought the class drawing
of Bob Dylan
was rather lifelike,
right down to his prominent nose
and curly hair.
I’d particularly like to thank
the student who sent me
the can of insect spray
with a note about killing the bug.
Very clever.
He didn’t sign his name,
but the spelling revealed
a true sense of originality.
So, thank you,
you know who you are.
And all the class looked at Billy,
who looked out the window,
whistling a quiet tune.
Doodle Alex
Mr Carey saw the doodles
all over my school bag,
and on my exercise books,
and even on my pencil case.
I wasn’t sure what he’d say,
but he smiled,
and said,
‘Great drawings, Alex.
Lots of character.’
For the rest of class,
he sat at his desk
while we did our
comprehension test.
Every time I looked up,
I’d catch him,
staring out the window,
deep in thought.
Maybe he was still feeling sick?
When the bell rang,
he asked me to stay behind.
That’s it.
Trouble for sure,
and all over some stupid doodles.
But he asked me
to forget my homework tonight
and instead
to do some drawings,
simple line drawings
of a few classmates,
and, if I didn’t mind,
he’d show them to Ms Park
because he had an idea,
an idea he’d tell me about tomorrow
after he’d looked at the drawings.
Alex the cartoonist
I couldn’t wait to get home.
I raced to my room,
got my best pencil
and my art book
Billy was first.
He’s easy –
tall, big, gangly,
with stubbly hair.
I just had to draw Anna
as a dancing pop star.
And the J-man,
rapping,
baggy pants and baseball cap.
Emily and Jason
I drew together,
close together.
I sketched Ahmet
juggling five balls all at once.
And finally,
I did Mr Carey,
only I was careful
not to go overboard
on the big nose
and ponytail.
I drew him playing guitar
standing in front
of this huge peace sign.
I knew he’d like that.
Emily learns the truth
It was something Peter said.
I couldn’t sleep all night
thinking about it.
We were in the school hall,
onstage,
rehearsing for the concert,
and Mr Carey said
it was a dress rehearsal
so I brought my spare tights
for Jason,
and he took an awful long time
to put them on.
Ms Libradore sat at her piano,
calling Jason to come out
from behind the curtain.
And when he plodded across stage,
Peter smirked and said,
‘Smart move, Jason.
Voting to wear tights.’
I didn’t think about it then.
I was too busy hoping Jason
wouldn’t drop me.
But when I got home
and thought about it…
Didn’t Jason vote for a play?
For Romeo?
Jason
That’s it.
I’m going to punch Peter.
Simple.
I should get detention
for something sensible
like fighting,
not kissing.
And then I’ll face Emily.
And I’ll try to explain
but something tells me
I’ve got more chance
of surviving a fight
with Peter,
than with Emily.
Sophie tells
Have you heard?
It’s true.
Emily dumped Jason
or
Jason dumped Emily
or
they double-dumped!
They won’t look at each other,
or talk.
They won’t stand
at the same bus stop,
or in the same line at the canteen.
They sit on opposite sides of the classroom.
When Jason answers wrong
Emily scoffs.
When Emily answers right
Jason scoffs.
They’ve crossed hearts off their pencil cases.
They both swear
they’ll hate each other…
forever.
It’s so romantic.
Jason
I hate her.
She’s crazy.
She hurt my heart
and my leg.
She kicked my leg.
She missed my heart
but it still hurt.
She doesn’t understand.
She thinks she’s always right.
I hate her.
It’s over.
Never again.
I won’t even look at her.
Or talk to her.
Or sit near her on the bus.
No more movies.
No more lunchtimes sharing
Cherry Ripes.
I love chocolate.
I hate her.
Another chance?
Ring her and say I’m sorry?
Ring her and see if she’s sorry?
Oh, well…
Maybe tomorrow.
Now?
But I hate her.
Yes, I know I said she was sunshine
yesterday.
Oh, okay.
I’ll call her now.
I guess she’d like to apologise…
Emily
Emily walks home,
throws her schoolbag
on the kitchen floor,
ignores the cat,
the chocolate cake on the table,
and says,
‘I never ever
want to talk to that
lying
rotten
smelly
slobbery
mean
heartless
careless
stupid
evil
uncool
stinking
worse than brussel sprouts
and
uglier than a hippopotamus
babbling
awful
Jason
again.
Never.
Ever.’
And then, the phone rings…
Jason explains...
It took hours,
well,
ten minutes,
but it seemed like hours
trying to explain to Emily
why I voted for a concert.
I wasn’t lying,
like she kept saying –
I just didn’t want to be Romeo.
And I think
we’re going out again,
because she didn’t call me names
and threaten to kick me again,
and she said she’d see me
at the bus stop tomorrow,
and I think everything will be all right,
even though I’m stuck
with dancing at the concert.
But we agreed,
no tights,
just normal pants.
And I’m glad it’s worked out.
I’m already preparing for detention
this week,
which will get in the way of rehearsal.
But all this was caused by Peter,
who’s going to get punched
first thing tomorrow morning.
Billy saves the day
Jason walks right up to Peter
at the bus stop
and pushes him hard,
so hard
he falls over a little kindy boy.
And Peter
hurts his hand,
landing on the gravel,
and the little boy starts crying,
so I step in between Peter and Jason,
while Michael helps the little kid to his feet.
It seems really weird,
but Jason wants to fight Peter
right in front of everyone
because of something Peter said.
And Alex is holding Jason back,
and no one is holding Peter,
which makes me think that,
maybe,
Peter might like to apologise
for whatever it was he said.
So I suggest that,
and Peter shrugs
and says sorry.
That sounds fine to me,
so I do what my dad taught me.
I look Jason straight in the eye,
and I say,
‘He’s sorry.
That’s enough. Right?’
And Jason looks at me,
and he thinks for a bit.
I can see his brain ticking over,
slow,
like my brain does in Maths,
and Jason shakes hands with Peter,
and they both say sorry again
and it’s all over,
except we have to work out
how to get this kindy boy
to stop crying
before a teacher
comes along
and we’re all in trouble!
Peter
Yeah.
I guess Jason
had a right to be angry.
But the knucklehead
didn’t have to push me over
in front of everyone.
I’m not stupid.
I apologised
and forgot about it.
Teachers always
go on about us calling names
and making each other feel bad
and all that stuff,
so I didn’t mind saying sorry.
Maybe teasing Jason
wasn’t such a harmless joke.
Alex agrees
I gave Mr Carey the drawings,
first thing this morning.
He said he’d show them
to Ms Park at recess
and he’d talk to me
during lunch,
in the school hall.
I could hardly eat,
I was so nervous.
What was this all about?
At lunch I quietly
entered the hall
to see Mr Carey
standing on the stage, waiting.
He smiled and said,
‘Alex, thanks for coming.
Can you answer a simple question?
What am I standing in front of?’
I didn’t understand.
Mr Carey was onstage,
there was nothing behind him
but a wall.
So I said,
‘Nothing, sir.
A blank wall.’
He grinned.
‘Precisely, Alex.
A boring blank bland brick wall,
if you’ll pardon the b’s!
How can we present a concert
in front of something so uninspiring?’
I was beginning to understand,
so I answered,
‘You can’t, sir.
We need a backdrop.
But not a boring bland brick backdrop!’
Mr Carey laughed.
‘You see my point,
don’t you, Alex?
How about you, me and Ms Park
drawing,
no, painting,
a bright, brilliant, beautiful backdrop?’
I loved the idea.
‘It would BE a pleasure, sir.’
Anna and the lasting war
It’s been a month
since Sarah’s Great Uncle Bob
came to school
and played bugle.
But every time
Mr Carey mentions war
and what’s happening in the world,
it’s like that haunting sound
returns to the room
and lingers.
Michael asked Mr Carey
if we could write a poem
about war
and maybe
the best one
could be read
at the school concert.
Michael said
y
ou can’t just have
singing and dancing.
You should have spoken words.
And even though Mr Carey
was a little nervous
about what our parents would say,
he let us write the poems,
and read them aloud,
and vote.
Yes,
a secret ballot,
again.
Anna’s poem on
World War One
If they called World War One
‘the war to end all wars’,
what happened?
Peter’s war poem
If everybody dies,
how do you know who won?
Billy’s war poem
My dad says
that if someone
breaks into his house
and tries to hurt us,
he’s going to get really angry
and fight back
and not stop fighting
until they leave us alone,
or the cops come.
Mr Carey’s war poem
All around the world
the birds were singing
the salmon swam upstream to spawn
a crab scuttled sideways
on a lonesome beach
enjoying the crazy dance
a dog lazily wagged his tail
as he dozed
under a spreading oak tree
and two butterflies floated
on the warm east breeze
to show us all
how stupid we humans are.
War (a poem by Sophie)
Tanks on dirt roads,
guns firing a deadly echo,
planes swooping low.
Green tracer lines across the night sky.
Noise.
Lots of noise.
And dust,
choking dust
and
and
and
children in hospitals,
their mothers hunched over,
wailing;
and old men
with sad vacant eyes
walking on crutches,
an empty flap where their leg should be.
Bodies by the roadside.
Bodies of ordinary people
and none of them
are wearing uniforms.
They are dressed like you and me.
And our Prime Minister
stands in Parliament
dressed in a suit
with a clean white shirt and tie,
and he has shiny glasses
and he tells us
we need to fight
to help all the people we’ve seen