The Great Gatenby by John Marsden Read Free Book Online Page A

must admit that thought had crossed my mind already. But I wouldn’t have exactly called it a light punishment. When my parents got the bill for the roof they were going to explode worse than a gastric volcano. I mean, how many newspapers do you have to sell to pay for half an Art Room ceiling? A lot, that’s how many. And guess who was going to have to do paper rounds in his next holidays to pay his parents back? Me, that’s who. God, here I was ploughing furrows in that damn pool every morning for dear old Linley, and this is how they reward me. Cheap way to get themselves a new roof if you ask me.
    Still, no-one seemed to have much sympathy. Matter of fact, the opposite seemed to be the case. Most people spent all their time trying to think up cute one-liners to try out on us. We’d achieved instant fame — even year twelve kids were stopping to ask how it felt. No-one seemed interested in the dangers that we’d survived, the life-threatening experience that we’d had. They were more interested in making dumb comments like, ‘Hey what was it Gatenby, an exploding cigar?’ Funny one, fellas. I guess it’s like the man said, if you wanna play, you gotta pay.
    The first serious payment came that night, when Gilligan, who had been looking at me all evening like I was a yodeller in a library, made me sit down and write a letter to my parents, spelling out the whole thing in gruesome detail. Melanie was in the Girls’ Prep Room doing the same. It was no easy task. No matter how I tried to explain it to them, it still sounded terrible. My first two attempts, which admittedly made only vague references to an unlucky accident in the Art Room, were rejected by Gilligan, because I hadn’t incriminated myself enough. I tell you, this man would have taken nails to a crucifixion. By the time I wrote one that satisfied him I realised I was playing a game of Monopoly with only two squares: Go and Jail. I was on a water slide that finished in a sewerage pond.
    It was ten o’clock before I had written something abject enough for Gilligan’s liking. By that stage all I had energy for was crawling off to bed, figuring that at least the day was over and nothing else could go wrong. But I’d forgotten my own unique genius for taking a sad song and making it worse. The lights were out in the dorm when I rolled in there with my armful of books, and demanded, ‘Who’s got the cigarettes? I’m hanging out for a smoke.’
    A voice spoke in the darkness. ‘Indeed, Mr Gatenby, and what would you do with one if you had it?’ It was the Headmaster, making one of his rare nocturnal visits to Crapp House and taking the opportunity to slip a few words of wisdom to the boys in Dorm Six.
    â€˜Nothing sir,’ I replied, crawling weakly into bed with half my clothes on. ‘Just kidding, just a little joke.’ But do you know, thinking about it later, as I lay there reviewing the day’s highlights, I wondered if maybe there hadn’t been a hint of a laugh in his voice? That was all I needed — a Headmaster with a sense of humour. I hated it when they turned out to be human. It upset the natural order of the Universe. Life was much easier when people didn’t step out of their roles.
    Now that I was finally in bed and relaxed I could feel the full insult to my body of our graceful descent to the Art Room floor. Those bruises really started to play around. It was a miracle we hadn’t both been killed. Even my eyelashes hurt. My last thought before drifting into the lazy hazy crazy world of dreams was of just how bad swimming was going to be in the morning — and that was my first thought when I woke up. The reality lived up to my expectations. The cold water on my abused body was like rubbing liniment onto blisters. I was not at my best.
    Malcolm Javor, the House Captain, was there. ‘Hey Gatenby, remember to turn at each end, won’t you? We