in hospitals,
in burnt out buildings,
in old cars fleeing the tanks,
in dusty streets
and
I don’t think
we’re doing a very good job.
Michael and the winner
Billy put his hand up
as soon as Sophie
finished her poem
and said,
‘Sir. I don’t think
we need a secret ballot.’
And even though
he didn’t mention Sophie,
we all knew what he meant.
So I said,
‘Yes, sir.
I reckon we all know
who should read her poem,
don’t you?’
And Mr Carey looked around
at each of us in class,
and he smiled
and said,
‘Great.
Congratulations, Sophie.’
And we all cheered,
except big strong Billy
who went over and gave Sophie
a huge hug,
and held her hand high,
like a winner.
Billy
I didn’t mean anything by it.
I really loved her poem,
so I gave her a hug,
and raised her arm,
like they do in
World Championship Wrestling
when Killer Kostassi
spins off the ropes
and lands slam flat
on his opponent for a knock-out.
The referee holds Killer’s hand high.
So I did the same for Sophie.
But what worries me is,
on the bus home,
Sophie sat beside me
and talked to me
about poetry!
And you know what’s worse?
I kind of enjoyed it.
Talking about poetry!
Maybe I could invent
a new sort of poetry,
with Sophie’s help.
Punk poetry?
Anna and the genius
Billy is a genius.
We’re all sitting around class
talking to Mr Carey
about how busy we are
with all the rehearsals,
and Sophie is practising
how to perform her poem,
and the J-man’s
rapping every night,
and Emily’s dancing,
and Jason has joined a gym –
pumping weights so he can catch Emily –
and I’m having a rethink…
Beyonce? Or an original number?
And Ms Libradore
still won’t let Billy play punk piano,
and Ahmet is mastering his
soccer ball juggling act,
which the Principal says is
‘an insurance question mark’,
whatever that means…
when Billy leans back is his chair
and says,
in the most sincere voice
I’ve ever heard in my life,
‘Sir, I’d love to finish
my Maths homework tonight,
but I have to spend all evening
working on my song.’
And Mr Carey laughs,
and says,
‘All homework is cancelled
until after the concert.’
Everyone cheers,
and I swear Mr Carey
winks at Billy,
who just keeps grinning
all afternoon.
Love is in the air
(Anna’s latest secret)
Peter said it’s true
and he wouldn’t lie,
well, not often, anyway.
He said he saw
Mr Carey and Ms Park,
the Year 5 teacher,
at the movies,
together,
on Saturday.
And they were laughing,
even though the movie wasn’t that funny.
Sophie reckons it’s marriage.
Sarah reckons they already live together
but Sarah also thought
Mr Carey had a fake beard
when he first arrived,
so I wouldn’t believe that.
Billy says his dad says
teachers always marry other teachers
like movie stars marry movie stars
and pop stars marry pop stars.
While we all thought about that,
Michael said,
‘No way can they marry.’
‘Why?’ everyone asked.
‘Because of Ms Park.’
‘What about Ms Park?’
‘Her first name,’ said Michael.
‘What?’
‘It’s Sherry!
Sherry Carey!’
Emily suggested Mr Carey
could take Ms Park’s name.
‘Even worse,’ said Michael.
‘It’s Mark.
Mark Park!’
Mark Park
or Sherry Carey.
The bell rang for class,
and Sarah said,
‘Let’s hope they
keep living together!’
The Billy poem to end
all poems, okay!
There are lots of poems about
streams bubbling along nicely
over rocks and pebbles and
the guggle giggle tinkle pinkle
sound they make.
There’s lots of poems like that.
Well, this isn’t one of them.
There are lots of poems about Auntie Jean
who knits colourful socks
for her pet goldfish and
talks to the parrot named Pete
who’s been dead for months and
she wonders why he doesn’t sing.
There’s lots of poems like that.
Well, this isn’t one of them.
There are lots of poems about food.
Spaghetti on babies’ heads
and ice-cream with nuts and
chocolate sprinkles and topping,
yeah, caramel topping, and
a double-crunch cone with maple flavouring.
Yeah, there’s lots of poems like that.
Well, this isn’t one of them.
My poem is an invisible poem about whales!
Yeah, whales.
It goes like this…
Anna and the big night
We all get to the school hall
really early for our big night.
Everyone is rushing around backstage,
fixing their costumes,
finding the marks on the stage
where they should stand.
Ms Libradore sits at the piano,
humming along as she plays
endless slow ballads.
Ms Park scurries around
adjusting the props
and checking the lights.
Alex is admiring his fantastic backdrop –
an amazing mural of Class 6C.
He’s drawn me
dancing and singing and smiling.
I hope it comes true tonight!
Peter stands at the microphone,
repeating the words,
‘Check. 1, 2, 3, 4, 79. Check, check.’
Ahmet sits against the wall
with his soccer ball
rolling it slowly, hand to hand.
Sophie stands behind the curtain
with her eyes closed,
mouthing the words to her poem,
over and over.
Mr Carey is super calm.
He sits on his ‘director’s chair’
beside the stage,
saying softly,
‘Don’t worry, Class 6C.
Everything will be fine.’
The only time he looks anxious
is when he s
ees Billy’s outfit.
You guessed it:
torn jeans, big boots,
and a mohawk!
Mr Carey says,
‘There will be young children
in the audience remember, Billy.’
Billy grins,
‘Trust me, sir.
Have I ever let you down?’
Silence hangs in the air
as Mr Carey considers his answer.
Michael and the raffle
Maybe Mr Holditz
and all his talk about Economics
somehow
wore off on me.
I volunteer to sell raffle tickets
before the concert begins.
So I wander among the teachers,
and the parents
who are all talking excitedly
and checking their video cameras,
ready for the big event.
Only problem is I’ve forgotten
to organise a prize...
So I tell everyone
that Mr Carey
will shave his head
and we’ll donate all the money
to charity,
to the Save the Children fund.
I don’t know why I said that.
It was the first thing
that popped into my head.
Why would I buy a raffle ticket?
To win a trip to Disneyland,
or to see Mr Carey bald?
Simple.
I can’t believe how many tickets I sell!
Billy’s dad even offers
to get his shears from home,
and do it onstage tonight.
I reckon I’m the best salesman in school!
J-man Class 6C Rap
Well, yo there! Family,
I’m up here tonight
to bring you Class 6C…
We got Sarah, Michael, Billy and Peter,
who moves so fast you’d swear he was a cheetah.
Don’t forget Rachel, Sean and Ahmet,
he’s the funkiest ball-juggler, no sweat!
Then there’s Jessica, Bella and Emily,
she’s a wicked dancer, I think you’ll agree.
Wait one second, remember Anna?
She’s going to sing a tune to the piana.
So sit right down, stay cool, you can’t lose.
Let old Class 6C, entertain youse!
Emily
I’m not nervous.
Not at all.
I’m not shaking.
It’s just a little cold,
so I’m shivering,
standing here
behind the curtain,
in my leotard.
I see Jason
stage right,
ready.
He doesn’t look too scared,
but it’s hard to tell,
because he has his head in his hands,
and I think I hear him moaning.
Maybe he’s just trying
to remember his moves.
That’s it.
He’s going through each dance step.
He’s not groaning,
he’s whispering to himself.
He’s whispering every move.
What a professional!
Ms Libradore plays piano,
just softly,
as the curtain slowly parts,
and the first people I see
are Mum and Dad
in the front row.
They’re beaming
and the crowd starts to applaud
but I haven’t done anything yet.
Then I hear my cue,
I raise my arms high,
gracefully,
and pirouette…
Jason
I’m standing in the wings,
holding my head in my hands
and all I can think of
is when I was six years old
and I went to Michael’s birthday party
and they had so much food:
chocolates,
lollies,
potato chips,
red cordial – litres of it!
and ice-cream cake
and trifle
with lots of green jelly.
I remember I ate everything.
I stood by the table
for the whole party,
reaching for a new treat every minute.
When Dad came to pick me up,
that’s what he had to do –
pick me up!
He carried me to the car
and I’ve never felt so sick
in my short little life
until now,
when I’m standing here
and I know Emily is looking across,
but I can’t raise my head
to smile at her
because if I open my eyes
I’ll be sick.
I moan slowly,
in time with the music,
waiting for my cue…
Sophie
It’s like I thought it would be.
Absolute silence.
Just me and my poem.
But,
as I stand onstage
preparing to start,
I realise the audience is quiet
because they want to hear me.
Silence isn’t scary.
It’s like Mr Carey said,
silence is my chance.
And so I speak,
slowly
and clearly,
and I don’t see
the faces in front of me.
I see the images of my poem,
and I think only of what I’m saying
and how much it means to me.
My voice grows stronger
and I don’t have to struggle
to remember the words.
I know them
because I wrote them.
Ahmet
It’s like being in my backyard,
just me and the ball,
with a hundred neighbours watching!
I start on my thigh,
my eyes on the ball,
my breath steady,
and then I let it drop to my instep.
This is a breeze.
Hands wide for balance,
counting,
51-52-53-54-55,
and all of a sudden
I hear the audience
gently clapping in time…
in time with my juggling
and it makes it even easier.
I can’t stop.
I’m sure I could do this forever.
I’m one with the ball.
Like Mr Carey says at yoga,
‘Relax.
Be at peace.’
So this is what he meant…
Billy’s surprise
We all expect Billy
to come out screaming,
and yes,
his mohawk looks deadly,
especially with the ragged jeans,
and safety pins everywhere.
I’m sure I see Mr Carey
close his eyes
waiting for the worst,
until we hear
the lone sound of a bugle –
the gentle, haunting,
unforgettable sound of
Sarah’s Great Uncle Bob
playing.
He’s in uniform,
in the darkness,
offstage,
blowing softly
as Billy plays a single snare drum –
a quiet steady drum-roll,
getting faster, louder,
as the bugle moans behind
and Billy’s drum
sounds like distant gunfire
echoing.
Great Uncle Bob
plays so sadly
as he slowly marches onstage
to stand beside Billy,
who plays softer, slower,
so it’s like the gunfire is fading,
fading away to nothing.
Then all we hear is the bugle
and Billy stands to attention
with Great Uncle Bob
blowing a final lingering note.
No one makes a sound.
It’s a minute’s silence.
A perfect silence.
Peter
I couldn’t believe it.
Not one mistake.
Jason not only caught Emily,
he spun her in mid-air,
and everyone held their breath,
but Jason wrapped his arms around her,
swaying ever so slightly
in time with the music.
I think he was even smiling.
The J-man shuffled across stage
and did the Class 6C rap.
He finished with a wild breakdance
singing,
‘Remember me, I’m free.
I’m J-man, call me Jackson.’
Everyone loved Sophie’s poem.
We knew they would.
And Anna sang like a nightingale.
I don’t know how a nightingale sings,
but that’s what Mr Carey suggested I say.
But I reckon he was wrong, you know,
not because Anna didn’t sing well –
she was fantastic.
But a nightingale is a bird,
and Anna didn’t sound like a bird.
So instead of saying what Mr Carey told me,
I announced,
‘Anna Baggio,
better than Beyonce!’
Mr Carey smiled
and gave me the thumbs-up.
And rumour has it
that Ahmet might be signed up
by the local football team
after his soccer-juggling act.
He can’t stop –
he kept juggling the ball
like a crazy seal at a circus.
We had to close the curtain
or he would have gone on forever.
Billy’s peace song
touched us all
and Great Uncle Bob
stood proudly
all night, backstage,
watching every performer.
Mr Carey was very pleased
Billy didn’t swear once.
And Mr Carey said that the school
is going to keep Alex’s mural
as the backdrop for the school stage.
But this is the strange thing.
When I go onstage at the end
to ask everyone,
including Mr Carey,
Ms Park,
and Ms Libradore
to join us for a final bow,