Cool School by John Marsden Page B

been, you just would have tried again later, and again, and again, and again, until the room was empty. You’re a very persistent person.
    Inside the staff room you quickly locate the third desk from the door.
    You find Ms Janzen’s phone too. You unscrew the base and attach the gadget you bought from Tandy last night. Then you fit the base back on and get out of the room fast, racing into the little booth next to the office where they make the announcements. A bit of work there, then it’s back to the classroom. ‘Feel much better now, sir,’ you pant to the teacher as you sit down, giving a nod and a wink to Sam, to show you’ve succeeded. Sam goes white and dives into a large Science textbook.
    Nothing happens until mid-afternoon. You’re in an Art lesson when there’s a sudden crackle of static over the loudspeakers. No one takes any notice: there’s a constant stream of dumb announcements over the speakers all day long. But this time it’s different. You hear the ringing of an amplified phone. People listen, in surprise. Then you hear a man’s voice. ‘Hello?’ he says.
    â€˜Hello, my sweet little butterfly, my darling cutey-pie,’ says Ms Janzen. ‘Hello, my twinkling star.’ Her voice sounds like she’s soaked it in sugar and honey for an hour and a half.
    â€˜Why hello, my lovely Barbie doll,’ the man replies.
    This is the first announcement in the history of education that everyone’s actually listening to. Even the teacher’s listening. She almost looks like she’s smiling.
    â€˜Are you having a smoothie-woothie day?’ Ms Janzen asks.
    The conversation continues like this for a couple of minutes. The students are in convulsions. Several of them have to leave the room.
    Then there’s a ‘squeech’ noise, and silence. Seems like someone’s finally pulled the plug.
    Next morning there’s a huge witch-hunt to find the person who connected the phone to the amp. The heat’s off Sam, who’s gone on camp for a week, but you’re certainly feeling the pressure. You start wondering whether you should maybe even own up, especially when they start talking about a mass punishment for the whole school . . .

ou sit straight down on the floor and start reading the book. It’s fantastic, wonderful, better than that Shakespeare guy even. You don’t notice the fire any more. You don’t notice anything. All you can do is read this great book. When you’ve finished you decide to send the author all the money you can find to encourage him to keep writing.
    You empty your pockets, your money box, your bank account, and borrow five years’ worth of allowance from your parents. You put it all in a large envelope and send it to the author. He never even bothers to send you a thank you letter, but when his next book comes out you notice that he’s now living in a Beverly Hills mansion, in Hollywood, instead of the tiny bush hut he used to inhabit.
    So you’re sure that he’s grateful; you feel absolutely confident that you’ve done the right thing, and you start looking around for more money to send him.

ou take one look at the corridor and realise that it’s time to get out of there, otherwise you’re going to end up as a smoked student.
    You run from the building and out to the street. There’s a wild wailing noise of sirens, a jangling of bells, and a fire engine pulls up.
    Firefighters jump off the truck and start pulling out hoses and axes and fire extinguishers. ‘I’ll help!’ you cry enthusiastically. A fireman hands you the end of a hose.
    â€˜Quick!’ he says. ‘Attach it to the tank.’
    You’re not sure what he means but you don’t like to admit that. You look around and, yes, there’s a big white tank just fifty metres away, sitting in the corner of the schoolyard. You rush over to it and connect the hose to the