Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy John Michael (fox in socks read aloud .TXT) 📖

as we wouldn’t have the oxygen that we need to stay alive. Thank you for listening.”

I looked around the class and every student was staring at me with their mouths open. I then turned to face Mr Klopsberg who also appeared to be somewhat baffled. He just kept staring at me with those unblinking eyes and it was difficult to read his expression. After a good minute, he finally stirred and cleared his throat as he stood up from his chair.

“Ja... vell done Mr Zootfell. That was zee best speech I have ever heard on photosynthesis... and I have listened to zee esteemed biologist, Professor Ludwig von Presswurst, at zee Max Planck Institute in Dresden.”

Mr Klopsberg started a slow clap and the rest of the students joined in.

“Howard, finally you are not a useless head of cabbage after all!”

“Ah... thanks Mr Klopsberg,” I responded absent-mindedly while trying to figure out if I had just been insulted by the teacher.

Before I had time to reflect on what had just happened, the bell rang and it was time for recess.

Chapter five 

doodackie

Barney and I exited the class and were hurrying to the nearest bench to have some food before our next lesson. This entire exercise usually involved us wolfing down our snacks and, in between bites, talking about nothing in particular. Today, however, I wasn’t that hungry as I was still trying to get my head around my Science speech... not that the carrot and jar of mustard in my bag were particularly enticing. Barney could sense something wasn’t right and broke the lingering silence.

“Good speech Howie,” he mumbled between a mouthful of Oreos.

“Oh, thanks Barney... which part did you like best?”

He offered me an Oreo but I shook my head.

“Um... I dunno... I don’t think I understood what you were talking about... but Mr Klopsberg loved it!”

“I guess he did... I shouldn’t complain... it could have been a lot worse.”

“It was like the last stretch of the 4th innings of the Colton Finals two years ago. Trailing 3-1 but then, Baynard Mosey, the number 3 ranked pitcher tossed a scoreless innings and went on to ride a four-run top to a complete game with four strikeouts and a 4-3 win.”

I wasn’t sure what Barney meant exactly but he would often draw links to sports in order to make sense of a situation.

“Yeah Barn... I guess you’re right.”

He polished off the last Oreo and scrunched up the wrapper and aimed at the nearest bin. As was often the case, he provided some running commentary to make it sound like he was in the playoffs of the National Titles.

“...and with three seconds on the clock Barney ‘the bullet’ Barwick could win the championships! He takes aim! He shoots for the basket! It goes long and...”

Of course, Barney missed... actually the scrunched-up wrapper wasn’t even close to the bin.

“Ooooh... that was so close Howie! So close! Did you see that?! Another centimetre and I would have –”

Barney never got to finish his sentence.

“Hey watcha think yer doin’ boy?” queried a strange voice from the woods.

We both looked around in surprise. It was the school groundskeeper; he was behind a large oak tree sprinkling fertiliser from a hessian bag. His leathery face was scrunched up in a grimace and to emphasise his disappointment he stood there with one hand on his hip. He was a hunched little man with a hump on his back, with squinty dark eyes and receding black hair. He had been at the school as long as anybody could remember and everyone simply called him Red. Little was known about his background, even the origins of his nickname were a mystery. He didn’t have red hair, he didn’t wear red clothes, he didn’t drive a red car, perhaps he got the name because of his fiery temper. The groundskeeper certainly was a surly individual, always muttering and grumbling to himself, and he had a short fuse − he would shout at students at the drop of a hat. And it didn’t take much of a reason − loud chatter, loitering, and especially littering.

Generally, students tried to avoid Red at all costs as it was commonly accepted that he was nuttier than squirrel poop under a pecan tree. I tried to distance myself from Barney by edging a few inches away from him on the bench. My day had been complicated enough as it was, I didn’t need extra grief from the groundskeeper. Besides, Barney really sucked at shooting litter into the bins − I couldn’t recall even one time that he had been successful.

Red ambled over to Barney with a slight limp in his step. He was wearing his trademark blue overalls and thrust his thumbs under the suspenders as he puffed his chest out. The groundskeeper had a pronounced horseshoe imprint on his forehead, some said that it was a lucky birthmark while others believed that he had been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a youngster. Not to be mean, but I had my money on the latter diagnosis as just one look at Red would suggest that he had been beaten by the ugly stick and looked like a guy who had trouble tying his own shoelaces... so, in my books, he was anything but lucky.

“Yer gots ta pick that rubbish up!” snarled the groundskeeper.

Barney immediately got off the bench and walked towards the discarded litter. “Sorry Mr Red,” he mumbled in a contrite whisper.

Barney certainly didn’t want to make the groundskeeper more angry than he already was, there had been instances where he would chase students around the playground with his rake if they had disobeyed him or were disrespectful.

“Whatcha thinks this is boy? Some kinda doodackie?”

“No sir... I don’t think this is a doodackie,” answered Barney as he placed the rubbish carefully in the bin.

“And no more of yer tarradiddles boy!”

Barney stood there shuffling his feet. “No... no more tarradiddles,” he murmured.

“What’s that boy? I cants hear yer!”

“Yes sir, Mr Red,”