Also by Morris Gleitzman
The Other Facts of Life
Second Childhood
Two Weeks with the Queen
Misery Guts
Worry Warts
Puppy Fat
Blabber Mouth
Sticky Beak
Gift of the Gab
Belly Flop
Water Wings
Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)
Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)
Bumface
Adults Only
Teacher’s Pet
Toad Rage
Toad Heaven
Toad Away
Toad Surprise
Boy Overboard
Girl Underground
Worm Story
Aristotle’s Nostril
Doubting Thomas
Give Peas a Chance
Once
Then
Grace
morris
gleitzman
Now
VIKING
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
For all the children who never had the chance to do their best
Now, at last.
It’s arrived.
I can see it on the post office shelf.
Good on you Australia Post and your very kind pick-up counter that stores parcels instead of delivering them to grandfathers and spoiling their birthday surprises.
‘That one there,’ I say to the man behind the counter. ‘The one with my name on it.’
I show him my homework exercise book to prove I’m me.
‘Hmmm,’ says the man. ‘Zelda. Nice name that. Daringly exotic and a bit unusual.’
‘Actually it belongs to someone else,’ I say. ‘I got it second-hand.’
‘I know the feeling,’ says the man.
He points to his name tag, which says Elvis.
We give each other sympathetic looks. Elvis hands me the padded post bag.
‘There you go, second-hand Zelda,’ he says. ‘Hope it’s something good.’
‘It’s for my grandfather,’ I say. ‘He’s eighty tomorrow.’
Elvis says something about how he wishes he was eighty so he could retire. I sympathise, but I’m not completely listening. At last I’m holding Felix’s present and I can’t wait to give it to him. I can’t wait for his big grin when he sees what it is.
Oops, I didn’t mean to make an excited noise in the post office.
Calm down, Zelda, you’re not a squeaky toy.
I thank Elvis and head for the door.
My phone beeps in my school bag. I know who it is without even looking. Poor Felix. He gets worried if I’m late home from school. He’s not used to being my substitute parent.
I text him back.
on my way see ya soon
I hug his present to my chest and hurry out of the post office. If I run fast and don’t faint in this heat or trip over and fall into any ditches, I can be home in fifteen minutes.
But I don’t get far.
‘Hey, shorty,’ says an unfriendly voice. ‘Where’s the fire?’
Three girls are blocking the footpath. They’re older than me, year eight or year nine. Their uniforms are creased like they get into lots of fights and never do any ironing. The toughest-looking one’s got a badge on her school bag that says Carmody’s Pest Removal.
She’s looking at me like I’m the pest.
I don’t know why. I’ve never met these girls before.
Escape plans flash through my head.
I could climb up the mobile phone tower on top of the post office or I could dash round the back of the video store and through the fence and hide in the forest or I could run into the bank and get a personal loan and buy a ticket to Africa on a flight that leaves in the next two or three seconds.
No, I couldn’t.
‘So,’ says the pest-removal girl. ‘Doctor Zelda, I presume?’
I try to work out what she means. And how she knows my name.
Adults are walking past, not even looking at us. Don’t they realise that when three year nines are standing this close to a year six kid, it’s not a social event?
‘Hope we’re not keeping you from a medical emergency, Doctor Zelda,’ says the pest-removal girl.
Oh, OK. I get what she’s on about. And it’s my fault. A few days ago in class, when I was the new kid, Ms Canny asked me to tell everyone about my family. I told them about my parents being devoted doctors in Africa and my grandfather being a retired brilliant surgeon.
I shouldn’t have said brilliant. It’s true, Felix is brilliant, but it sounds like boasting. I should have said quite good or average.
‘I’m on my way home,’ I say to the girl. ‘It’s not a medical emergency.’
‘Yes, it is,’ says one of the other girls. She points to the pest-removal girl. ‘Tonya needs medical attention. She’s swallowed her gum.’
I smile to show them I know that’s a joke.
They don’t smile back.
‘Come on,’ says Tonya. ‘Cure me.’
Lots of other kids walking home from school are stopping and staring now.
‘Or is that stuff all lies?’ says Tonya. ‘About your family being Australia’s top medical geniuses.’
‘I never said that,’ I reply.
‘My little brother’s in your class and he reckons you did,’ says Tonya. ‘Is that why you had to leave your last school, Doctor Zelda? Cause you make up stories?’
I don’t know who her brother is, but he’s wrong. He’s also lucky. I wish I had an older sister. Then she could help me explain to these three bullies the real reason I had to change schools.
More kids are gathering. Tonya grins.
‘Doctor Zelda’s new in town,’ she says to them. ‘We’re all very excited. She’s a medical genius. She can cure zits and bed-wetting and do heart transplants.’
I try to leave.
Tonya’s bully-girl mates drag me back.
‘Not so fast, shorty,’ says Tonya. ‘What have you got there?’
I hold onto the padded post bag as tightly as I can. I might not be the biggest or toughest person in the world, but when I’m defending a precious birthday present I can be very determined.
‘None of your business,’ I say.
Tonya prods the post bag.
‘You look swotty so it’s probably a text book,’ she says. ‘Let me guess. Boasting For Dummies.’
A couple of kids snigger.
‘It’s for my grandfather,’ I say. ‘If you harm it, I’ll tell the police you damaged the property of a senior citizen.’
Tonya’s face goes a bit uncertain. I should get away while I can, but I don’t.
‘I’ll tell the local paper as well,’ I say. ‘It’ll be front-page news, an eighty-year-old man having his birthday present vandalised. And when I tell them who did it, your photos’ll be on the front page too.’
I stop, out of breath. I’m taking a risk because I’m not sure if there is a local paper around here.
Tonya glances at the other kids. Some are looking uncomfortable. A few are moving away.
‘What a storyteller,’ says Tonya. ‘Spellbinding. Mesmerising. I’m totally entranced. No I’m not.’
She grabs the post bag and yanks it out of my hands.
‘Give it back,’ I say, lunging at her.
‘Make me,’ says Tonya.
She ducks away and pushes past the kids and dances down the street. Her two mates go with her.
I run after them.
I know what I should be doing. I should be ringing the police.
But I haven’t got time for phone calls.
Inside that post bag is something very rare and precious and I think it’s going to make Felix very happy and I want it back now.
‘Now,’ I say.
‘Give me that post bag back now.’
Tonya has stopped on the river bank. She’s standing under the trees, panting.
I’m panting too. So are the other kids who’ve followed us. Nobody can run far in this heat, not with school bags, not even year nines.
‘Zelda the storyteller,’ sneers Tonya. ‘Trying to impress everyone at her new school by boasting about her family. Pathetic.’
‘Give it back,’ I say.
‘Only if you admit you’re a liar,’ says Tonya loudly so the other kids can hear. ‘You can have your dumb grandad’s dumb present back if you say you’re a liar.’
I won’t say it because I’m not.
I have an idea. I take out my phone and find the text Mum sent me a couple of days ago. The one about how the weather in Darfur is even hotter than here in Australia.
I take a step towards Tonya, holding out the phone.
‘This is from Africa,’ I say. ‘From the clinic where my parents are working. They’re helping wounded children. They volunteered to do it. Nobody made them.’
One of Tonya’s bully-girl mates grabs the phone and peers at it.
‘Could be true,’ she says to Tonya. ‘If she was my kid I’d run away to Africa.’
I want to tell her that Mum and Dad didn’t run away. They’re so kind and compassionate and caring, they couldn’t help going. But I don’t say anything in case it sounds like more boasting.
Tonya is looking around. She sees she hasn’t got much audience left. She raises her hand and for an awful moment I think she’s going to chuck Felix’s present into the river.
But she doesn’t, probably because in this heat there isn’t any water.
She throws the post bag down near my feet.
Before I can pick it up, one of Tonya’s bully-girl mates grabs me round the neck. For the millionth time in my life I wish I had a big sister. But I haven’t. I don’t blame Mum and Dad. They’re too busy for more kids.
‘Our turn,’ the bully girl says to Tonya.
For a moment Tonya looks like she’s going to tell them to leave me alone. Then she just shrugs.
The girl tightens her grip and hisses in my ear.
‘We want more proof,’ she says. ‘If your grampy-pamps is a medical genius, prove it.’
I don’t know what to say. Felix is a medical genius, but how can you prove something like that with your head in someone’s armpit? It’s not like I can snap my fingers and one of Felix’s ex-patients will stroll up and show them the amazing job Felix did on his bladder.
I need time to think, so I try to keep the girls talking.
‘For a start,’ I say to them, ‘his name isn’t grampy-pamps.’
I’m about to tell them his name isn’t grandpa either, or grandad. When Felix was a kid hiding from the Nazi soldiers in World War Two he had to use a fake name and now he prefers people to use his actual name whenever possible.
Before I can say any of that, the girl whose armpit I’m in grabs the little heart-shaped locket round my neck and pulls the chain tight.
I panic.
Whatever happens, I mustn’t lose this locket. It’s Felix’s most precious possession and he doesn’t know I’ve got it.
‘Leave it alone,’ I say.
‘Why?’ says the girl. ‘Is it from your boyfriend?’
The other girl sniggers.
‘It belonged to a little kid,’ I say. ‘Who was murdered.’
The armpit girl blinks.
‘By bullies,’ I say.
I glare at the girls to show them what I’m saying is true. OK, it happened in 1942, but it’s still true.
‘You’re right, Tonya,’ says the other girl. ‘She’s a total liar.’
‘Totally,’ says the armpit girl. She yanks the locket off the chain.
I stagger away from her. I want to yell, but I see what the other girl has in her hand and my voice dries up.
It’s something small and brown and furry. A dead bush mouse. Poor thing must have been killed by the heat.
I stare horrified as the girls stuff the locket into the mouth of the dead mouse. One of them grabs a stick and uses it to push the locket down the mouse’s throat.
‘No,’ I croak.
They throw the mouse at my feet. I can see the shape of the locket bulging in its little tummy.
‘Don’t worry, shorty,’ says the girl with the stick. ‘If grampy-pamps is a medical genius, he’ll know what to do.’
Tonya comes over and punches the girl in the shoulder.
‘Ow,’ says the girl. ‘What was that for?’
‘You idiots always go too far,’ says Tonya.
‘You started it,’ says the other girl.
‘Use your brain,’ says Tonya. ‘We’re trying to let people know there’s a lying scumbag on the loose. They won’t listen if you gross them out.’
The three of them head off, arguing. The other kids who followed us are leaving too. I don’t blame them. I wish I could go home myself.
But I can’t.
Not without the locket.
Felix has treasured it for seventy years. It belonged to his best friend when he was a kid. Her name was Zelda too and she was killed by the Nazis. Dad reckons she was the bravest six year old who ever lived.
Gently, I pick up the mouse and lay it on a rock. I open my school bag and take out my project scissors.
One cut is all it will take.
I hold the scissors like a knife. I tell myself it’s just like slicing up meat for dinner. But it’s not. Meat for dinner doesn’t have little whiskers, or soft brown fur.
I can’t do it.
Somebody takes the scissors from me.
I look up, startled.
It’s a boy.
At first I don’t recognise him, but then I do. He’s in my class. I can’t remember his name but I remember his friendly face. He’s in the science club and sometimes when he breathes he makes a wheezing sound.
The boy slices open the mouse’s tummy. Blood dribbles out, and tiny intestines.
I’m feeling hot and dizzy and sick.
I close my eyes.
When I open them again, the boy is crouched next to the tap in the picnic area. He comes back and gives me the locket and the scissors, both wet and clean.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble.
He hands me my phone. The bully girls must have dropped it.
‘Thanks,’ I say again.
‘You OK?’ he says.
I nod.
The boy gives me a concerned look. I get the feeling he wants to say something else, but he just wheezes for a moment, then hurries away.
I wait until my dizziness goes. Then I dig a small hole with my scissors and bury the mouse.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper.
I don’t cry. It wasn’t so bad. Bullying can be much worse than this. I only had to survive half an hour with three year-nine girls. Poor Felix was bullied by the Nazi army for most of his childhood.
I examine the locket. The gold colour is dull and faded, but it was like that before. There isn’t any real damage, which is a relief. You can still read the letters F and Z scratched inside it.
The metal link that connects the locket to the chain has come open, that’s all. I put the locket back on the chain and close the link with my teeth.
I remember Felix’s birthday present. I pick up the post bag. It isn’t damaged either, which is also a relief.
I sit by the river for a while, feeling sad.
Sad for the mouse and sad for me.
There was something I didn’t tell the kids in my new class. When I grow up, I want to be a doctor like Mum and Dad and Felix. So I can help people when they’ve been wounded by cruel illnesses or other people’s cruel behaviour.
Sometimes, to fix people up, you have to be brave. You have to cut them open. Felix has done it heaps of times.
I hoped I could do it too, one day. I hoped I could be brave and fearless like Felix’s friend Zelda was.
I think that’s w
hy Mum and Dad gave me her name. I think they hoped some of her bravery might rub off on me.
Which is why I secretly borrowed her locket. To see if it would.
But it hasn’t.
I’ll never be like the real Zelda.
And I’ll never be a doctor. I’m not even brave enough to cut open a dead mouse. How could I help a sick person?
Now I’m nearly at the house and I’m feeling better.
Felix is so kind and loving, letting me share his comfy home and his beautiful trees and his unusual but mostly delicious meals.
OK, I do feel a bit guilty about the bad thing I did.
Taking Zelda’s locket without asking.
And yes, Mum and Dad would be horrified, probably with migraines. They explained years ago what Zelda’s locket means to Felix. How it’s the only thing of hers he’s got left.
I agree I should have asked his permission, but I was too embarrassed.
I’ll put it back carefully. And in a few years, when I’m brave enough to confess to Felix what I did, I think he’ll understand how embarrassing it felt trying to get help from a dead person.
So I think it’ll be OK.
My phone beeps in my school bag.
Probably another message from Felix wondering why I’m late. He’s amazing. I only taught him how to text a few days ago. What a quick learner.
I get my phone out.
It’s not Felix.
liar liar pants on fire no wonder yr parents ditched u
A sick hot feeling jabs me in my cardiovascular system. I realise what’s happened. The bully girls have got my number off my phone.
I pull myself together and delete the text and head towards the house. On the way I check myself in Felix’s car mirror for signs of bullying.
Good. No bruises on my arms or neck, or rips in my school uniform. I don’t want Felix to have his birthday spoiled with worry.
Jumble comes scrabbling round the side of the house to meet me.
He’s the best dog in the world. His fur’s a bit scratchy and his legs look like they’re on back to front and he’s fairly cross-eyed, but I love him. We’ve been friends for years and we’ve always wanted to live in the same house and thirteen days ago our wish came true.
I pick him up and let him lick my face. He also licks my neck. Dogs don’t need to see bruises to know when you’ve been bullied.