Charlie Burr and the Cockroach Disaster Read online

  For Margrete and Libby—with thanks!

  —SM, AK, BK and EK

  To Macey Grace—PS

  Little Hare Books

  an imprint of

  Hardie Grant Egmont

  Ground Floor, Building 1, 658 Church Street

  Richmond, Victoria 3121, Australia

  www.littleharebooks.com

  Text copyright © Sally Morgan, Blaze Kwaymullina,

  Ambelin Kwaymullina and Ezekiel Kwaymullina 2012

  Illustrated by Peter Sheehan

  Illustrations copyright © CLOP Pty Ltd 2012

  First published 2012

  This edition published 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the

  National Library of Australia

  978 1 742738 81 9

  Cover design by Natalie Winter

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  FRIDAY

  SATURDAY

  SUNDAY

  It wasn’t my fault. Honestly it wasn’t! The joke was meant to freak out my teenage twin sisters. Not make Mum go psycho!

  Lately Mum’s been bugging me to be nicer to Sharni and Tia. She’s always saying, ‘They’re teenagers, Charlie. Teenagers get upset easily. And you go out of your way to annoy them!’

  But Mum doesn’t know the twins played a horrible trick on me yesterday. They sucked me in with a can of my favourite cooldrink—Orange Fizz.

  ‘Want a sip, Charlie?’ they said. I grabbed the can and took a giant swig. Only it wasn’t yummy Orange Fizz, was it? It was lemon juice mixed with salt! Ergh!

  I spent all night worrying about how to pay the girls back. If I don’t, they’ll blab to my mates about how stupid I am.

  Luckily this morning my brain lit up with a brilliant idea. After Mum left to visit Granny Mary at her pensioner unit, I put a giant fake cockroach on top of a box of the girls’ favourite cereal, Crunchies.

  But then Mum came back inside because the car wouldn’t start. She spotted the roach on the lid of the cereal box and went mental! Snakes, spiders, lizards, mozzies, flies—none of those bother Mum. But cockroaches send her into a frenzy.

  She grabbed the broom.

  ‘No, Mum!’ I shouted.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  The roach shot into the air, along with the Crunchies. So did the vase of flowers Dad had bought Mum. (It’s her birthday on Sunday, so Dad’s been making a fuss.)

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  Mum kept on bashing the cereal box, the flowers and the shattered red glass vase. But the roach wasn’t on the floor. It was tucked into Mum’s curls. She must have been so full of rage she didn’t notice when it landed on her head.

  ‘Can you see the filthy thing, Charlie?’ Mum yelled.

  I could see it all right. It was standing upright in her hair and its beady eyes were staring at me.

  ‘M-M-Mum,’ I stuttered. I wanted to tell her the roach was just a fake, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  Dad rushed in. ‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘Did something break?’

  Then he saw the roach perched on top of Mum’s head. He cracked up laughing. At least Dad realised it wasn’t real!

  ‘This isn’t funny, Jim!’ Mum screamed, still hunting on the floor for the cockroach. ‘There’s a huge roach somewhere in my kitchen!’

  My sisters dashed in to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Arrgh!’ they both screamed, pointing to Mum’s head. (Mum has passed her hatred of roaches on to her daughters!)

  ‘Is it in my hair?’ Mum gasped.

  The girls nodded. Mum’s eyes went big as the awful truth sank in.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Charlie?’ Mum shrieked. She leaned the broom against the wall and pulled at her hair with both hands.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Tia. ‘Its spiky legs are getting tangled up!’

  ‘Listen to me, Mum,’ I said. ‘It’s only plas——’

  ‘Shut up, Charlie!’ said Sharni. ‘You’re not being helpful!’

  ‘But the roach is——’

  ‘Dead!’ said Tia, in relief. ‘You’ve killed it, Mum. It’s not moving!’

  Of course it wasn’t moving. It was plastic!

  Mum bellowed like an army general. ‘Get it out—now!’

  Dad grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer. ‘We’ll have to cut it out,’ he said.

  ‘You think this is hilarious, don’t you, Jim?’ said Mum.

  ‘No, no …’ said Dad.

  ‘You laughed your head off when I was bashing at the floor,’ Mum went on. ‘Here!’ She grabbed the broom and shoved it at him. ‘You can clean up the broken glass! The girls will sort my hair.’

  Mum threw herself into a kitchen chair. Sharni and Tia pulled on one pink dishwashing glove each. Neither of them wanted to touch the roach.

  My guts started tying themselves in knots. Things had gone too far. I was going to be in hot water when Mum realised the roach was a fake.

  ‘I’ll help,’ I told the girls. I was hoping I could snip the roach out of Mum’s hair and pretend to chuck it out before Mum or the girls got a good look at it.

  ‘Get lost, Fizz-Face!’ said Sharni.

  Tia laughed. ‘Good one, Sharni!’

  ‘Grab the dustpan and broom, will you, son?’ Dad said.

  I had no choice but to help Dad finish cleaning up the mess on the floor. Then I watched in fear as the girls snipped the monster roach free. It was a wild hairy beast by the time they pulled it out.

  But Mum was a lot less hairy. Actually, a part of her head was almost hairless.

  The girls were too busy looking in disgust at the roach to notice what they’d done. But Dad noticed. He saw Mum’s bald patch and made a little strangled sound.

  Then the thing I’d been dreading happened.

  ‘This roach isn’t real!’ Sharni said in surprise.

  ‘It’s plastic!’ Tia said.

  Mum took the roach. ‘You’re right!’ she said, holding it in the air and inspecting it. ‘But who …?’

  There was dead silence for about one second.

  ‘Charlie!’ my sisters screamed.

  Boy, was I in trouble!

  ‘Was this your idea of a silly joke, Charlie?’ Mum said. ‘And in my birthday week, too!’

  Most people have a birthday. But this year Dad’s given Mum a whole week. Last year, when Mum’s birthday came around, Dad was out bush prospecting for gold and he forgot to buy her a present. He’s trying to make up for it this year by making her birthday extra special.

  ‘Er, Charlie,’ Dad said nervously, ‘why don’t you get your mum a lovely headscarf for her birthday?’ He stared at me like he was trying to avoid looking at Mum’s bald spot.

  I hate it when Dad tries to help.

  ‘Oh no!’ Tia said, eyeing the hairless part of Mum’s scalp.

  Sharni gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘How much hair did you cut out?’ Mum said weakly. She dropped the roach on the floor and groped her head. ‘Do I have a bald patch?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum!’ said Tia.

  ‘It’s all our fault!’ wailed Sharni.

  ‘No, it’s not!’ hissed Mum. ‘It’s Charlie’s!’

  Why do I get blamed for everything?

  In a fury, Mum headed fo
r the big mirror in her and Dad’s bedroom. The girls followed.

  Dad groaned. ‘I hope this doesn’t ruin your mother’s birthday!’

  So did I! I felt sick with guilt, but what could I do? I bent down to rescue the plastic roach before Dad threw it out.

  Fluffy, Mum’s awful cat, tore out from under the table and tried to grab the roach off me. I kept her away from it and put the roach in my pocket. Fluffy gave me a nasty swipe on the hand before tearing out the back door. Sometimes I wish I’d never got Mum that stupid cat!

  ‘You can see my scalp!’ we heard Mum shriek from her bedroom. ‘This morning I found a grey hair and now I’ve got an ugly bald spot. All in my birthday week!’

  Dad stopped sweeping the kitchen floor and rolled his eyes at me. ‘Thanks, Charlie!’ he said. ‘You know I’m trying to make it up to your mum for forgetting her birthday last year. Why did you have to play such a crazy prank?’

  Aw, come on! I hadn’t planned to give Mum a bald spot!

  But I couldn’t tell Dad the truth—that the roach was meant to scare my sisters. If Dad told Mum about that, I’d be in even more trouble.

  ‘I was going to chuck it in the bin, Dad,’ I lied. ‘Mum hates roaches so much, I knew she wouldn’t want even a fake one in the house. But I forgot where I left it!’

  He obviously didn’t believe a word. ‘No more mucking up, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Not this week!’

  I felt bad. Everything had backfired! Instead of paying back my sisters for their mean trick, I’d upset Mum.

  Now her best red glass vase was smashed and she had a bald spot.

  Not that the bald spot was really my fault.

  Well … maybe it was. I suppose if the roach hadn’t got stuck in Mum’s hair, then the girls wouldn’t have had to use the scissors to cut it out.

  I had to make it up to Mum somehow. But how?

  ‘Reckon I might head off to school early, Dad,’ I said. I didn’t want to be home when Mum came out of her room.

  Dad nodded. ‘Reckon that’s a good idea, Charlie!’

  At school, Tim Slade was boasting to my best mate, Johnno, about how much money he was going to make at the school fete on Saturday. The teachers are setting up trestle tables so people can have stalls. Adults have to make a gold coin donation to the school if they want to use a table, but kids are allowed to have a stall for free.

  The money raised is going towards a bush camp. The teachers and some of the Elders are going to take us kids out bush for a few days. There’ll be camp fires, cooking, laughing, singing and dancing with the Elders.

  I reckon my Grandpa Ted will come. He loves to tell us kids stories about all the different places he camped at when he was our age.

  ‘Ay, Charlie,’ Tim said. ‘Did you hear about my wicked talking galah? He’s going to make me big bucks at the fete.’

  Tim was always boasting about something. I reckoned he didn’t even have a galah!

  ‘Galahs are lovely birds,’ said Johnno. He’s mad about anything with feathers or fur. ‘When did you get it?’

  ‘Last week,’ said Tim. ‘I told Mrs Wilson about it. She said it can be pet of the week.’

  Okay, so it looked like the galah was real, after all. Every week, from Wednesday to Friday, we’re allowed to have a class pet. Tim has never bothered before. I didn’t think he was into pets.

  Tim handed me and Johnno a flier he’d made.

  BUTCH THE TALKING GALAH

  50 CENTS

  FOR ONE RUDE WORD

  ‘The galah swears?’ I said. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Read the flier, moron!’ Tim said. ‘Fifty cents to find out!’ He went off to hand out fliers to the other kids.

  ‘Do you reckon the galah likes being called Butch?’ said Johnno.

  ‘Who cares?’ I said. I had more important things to think about. Like how to fix things with Mum.

  ‘Galahs have feelings too, Charlie!’

  Yeah, but right then it was Mum’s feelings I was worried about.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Johnno.

  Suddenly the whole stupid situation with the roach came tumbling out.

  ‘Crumbs, Charlie,’ said Johnno when I finished talking. ‘Even I know Aunty Shirl can’t stand roaches!’

  ‘It’s Mum’s birthday on Sunday, too!’ I said. ‘I don’t even have a present for her!’

  ‘You’ll have to get her something extra good now you’re in her bad books,’ said Johnno.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve only got three bucks in my saving sock!’

  Johnno looked worried. ‘You won’t get much for that,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Now that was the million-dollar question!

  When we went into class, there was a surprise waiting for us.

  A galah in a birdcage was sitting on our teacher’s desk. It looked kind of scruffy. Some of its pink and grey feathers were sticking out at odd angles. Also, it was eyeballing our class like it wanted to bite someone.

  ‘Tim’s brought Butch to school!’ whispered Johnno. ‘He looks really smart, Charlie!’

  The bird looked mad to me, not smart. I don’t think it was used to being locked in a cage.

  ‘Timothy,’ said Mrs Wilson crossly, ‘Pet of the week starts on Wednesday, not Monday!’

  Before Tim could reply, the bird shrieked, ‘Bumface!’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘That’s a proper wicked talking bird!’ said Jason, one of our classmates.

  Suddenly I knew why Tim had brought the galah to school early. It was free advertising for his stall! Tim probably reckoned that by Saturday, everyone in our class would be handing over fifty cents to hear what other rude words Butch could say.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wilson,’ Tim said, trying not to grin. ‘I’ll take Butch home.’ He got out of his seat and picked up the birdcage.

  ‘And miss school?’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘I think not, Timothy! Please remove the bird to the staffroom. You may take him home during your lunchbreak.’

  As Tim carried the cage past me and Johnno, the bird scooted along his perch and tried to bite Tim’s fingers through the bars.

  ‘I bet Tim hasn’t fed the poor thing,’ whispered Johnno.

  I thought the galah looked pretty plump!

  Later in the morning, after Tim had returned to class, Mrs Wilson said she had a special announcement to make about the school fete.

  ‘This year,’ she said, ‘there will be an amazing mystery prize for the stall that makes the best extra donation to the school. To make it fair to every stallholder, the donation can be money or it can be something useful the school needs.’

  ‘I’m going to win the amazing mystery prize!’ Tim said loudly.

  ‘Timothy,’ said Mrs Wilson, ‘if you wish to say something, please raise your hand first!’

  Tim grinned, then went quiet.

  ‘There will also be our usual raffle …’ said Mrs Wilson.

  I zoned out. First prize in the raffle was the same every year—a box of canned food like spaghetti and curried beef and peas. But a mystery prize was something special!

  ‘Johnno,’ I whispered, ‘we have to win the mystery prize.’

  ‘But we’re not having a stall,’ he said.

  ‘We are now!’

  At lunchtime, Johnno told me he didn’t want to be stuck with a stall. ‘I want to have fun at the fete,’ he said.

  Sometimes Johnno needs a bit of a reminder about what’s important.

  ‘You heard what Mrs Wilson said,’ I told him. ‘The mystery prize is amazing. And what do I need to fix things with Mum, Johnno?’

  ‘Something amazing, Charlie?’

  ‘Exactly! And best mates help each other out. Remember?’

  ‘Okaay, okaay!’ moaned Johnno. ‘But Tim will make a lot of money with his swearing bird. He’ll be able to donate more than us. And I don’t have anything useful at my house to give to the school. Do you?’

  ‘No, but I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘Maybe
I could even buy something for the school. Like some old books. Or a teapot.’

  ‘I guess we could have a junk stall,’ said Johnno. ‘I’ve got a rusty horseshoe.’

  ‘I haven’t even got that,’ I said. ‘Mum threw all my stuff out a couple of weeks ago.’

  Then Johnno’s eyes lit up. ‘What about that box of practical jokes Granny Mary gave you?’

  Granny Mary is a bargain hunter. She bought the jokes in a second-hand shop in Perth. The jokes were a thank-you present to me for looking after her pet duck, Paddles, while she was away.

  ‘We could donate that toilet monster to the school,’ Johnno went on.

  The toilet monster had come in the joke box. It was made of lumpy green rubber and it had suckers on its hands, so you could stick it inside the toilet bowl.

  ‘Why would we do that, Johnno?’ I asked.

  ‘It would keep snakes out of the toilet block!’ he said. Then he busted out laughing. So did I.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ I said, ‘but it would hurt Granny’s feelings if I didn’t keep it.’

  ‘I guess we’re stuck, then,’ said Johnno. ‘One horseshoe isn’t enough for a stall.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll look through the joke box tonight,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if any of the stuff in there gives me ideas.’

  ‘And I’ll look around my place,’ said Johnno, ‘for other things we can sell.’

  When I was walking home after school, I racked my brains about the whole situation.

  What could I come up with that would make more money than a swearing galah? Did Dad have something good in his shed that the teachers at the school would like as a donation? And even if he did, would he let me have it?

  When I walked into the kitchen my sisters practically attacked me.

  ‘You’re a spoilsport, Charlie!’ Sharni yelled.

  ‘Fun killer!’ said Tia.

  What were they going on about now?

  ‘Dad’s got the car started again and he was going to take Mum for a drive to the coast tomorrow for a lovely lunch,’ said Tia. ‘But now Mum’s too ashamed to go anywhere because of her hair!’

  ‘Dad was going to give us the day off school,’ said Sharni, ‘so we could all go as a family. You’ve killed our fun, too!’