Million-Dollar Mess Down Under Read online

  I was so busy thinking about how I could sneak up and push Principal Winton in the deep end that I didn’t notice a lousy, creepy-crawly creepily crawl onto my arm until it was too late.

  The ants here, like everything else, pack a punch. This one was (I found out from a nearby book on Australian ants) a bull ant. By bull ant standards, it wasn’t that big—maybe a yard long? Only kidding. This one was about the size of my thumbnail and had an expression on its face that said Don’t mess with me.

  There was a line of ants leading out from the window. Taking care not to get stung again, I followed the line to a small heap of dirt on the strip of grass outside. Looking up, I saw Principal Winton and—BINGO!—just like that the whole plan came into my head, clear in every last detail.

  “THAT’S IT? That’s the great plan?” Kasey raised an eyebrow.

  We were in her kitchen after I’d finished the last detention of the week and I’d just explained how we’d get revenge on Principal Winton. Revenge on Cory would have to wait. I wasn’t that clever, so I was taking this one mission at a time.

  The whole thing had sounded totally great in my head back in the library, but now I was feeling less sure. Kasey had come back from a session on the mural and her hair was covered in paint. It was all still going okay, but without me there it had slowed down a lot. There was a chance we might not get it done in time for the fundraiser, which only made us even more mad at Principal Winton.

  Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes. Kasey’s eyebrow wasn’t sure about the plan.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, nodding. “That’s the plan. Don’t you like it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  Kasey leaned forward and smiled. “I don’t like it, I LOVE it!” She danced around and punched the air. “Oh, man! This is going to be GREAT! What do we need? Let’s get started!”

  Kasey began opening cupboards and drawers, looking so pleased I immediately began to have second thoughts. Were we going too far? What if I’d started something that got out of control?

  Kasey raised her hands in the air. She was holding a pair of thick rubber gloves, a plastic container (with lid), and a large spoon. “Let’s go!”

  I DON’T THINK it’s giving too much away to tell you that the first component of my utterly fiendish revenge plan involved collecting a bunch of bull ants.

  Kasey was going to handle the actual collection. She’d tried to give me some baloney about me doing the collecting, but I was having none of it.

  “No way!” I protested. “You’re Australian!”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” she said.

  I handed her the gloves. “You’re used to this stuff—snakes, sharks, spiders. Bull ants. Get spooning.”

  We were hiding behind a bush at the back of St. Mungo’s library, roughly where I’d spotted the bull ants the day before.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the target.

  Kasey pulled on the heavy-duty protective gloves and grabbed the spoon. “Get that plastic tub ready. Once these suckers realize what’s going on, they’ll be after us. We have to get in, get out, no hanging around!”

  I nodded and licked my dry lips. Now that we were actually on the mission, I was more than a little nervous. Me and Australian animals (and I was counting bull ants as animals) did not have a happy relationship. They usually bit me, or tried to, as soon as I came within range. I was pretty sure the bull ants would be no different.

  Kasey bent over the heap of dirt that marked the tip of Bull Ant Town. I crouched next to her with the plastic tub ready.

  “All good?” Kasey said. “Are we a go?”

  I nodded. “Affirmative. Operation Bull Ant is a go.”

  Kasey dug the spoon into the dirt. Immediately, a million angry bull ants swarmed out like an army of crazy zombies thirsty for blood.

  “Get them!” I yelped as I watched the ants heading straight for my foot.

  “Aw, gee, really?” Kasey said. “You think I should?” (She was being sarcastic, in case you were wondering.) Kasey scooped up about eight hundred ants and put her hand over the spoon. “Quick!” she hissed. “I can feel ’em biting!”

  This had to be done right. One mistake and we’d be overrun by bull ants.

  I dropped the lid.

  “Run!” I yelled, but Kasey stopped me with an elbow to the ribs.

  “Don’t quit on me, soldier! Pick up that lid!”

  I looked down at the writhing mass of bull ants.

  “Do it!” Kasey shouted. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  I reached down and lifted the lid. Kasey emptied the spoon of ants into the tub and I slammed on the lid.

  “Mission complete!” Kasey yelled, and we bolted for freedom just as the first of the bull ant mutants reached our feet.

  It had been close—too close—but Stage One of my plan had been a success.

  STAGE TWO WAS EASY. We took the box of bull ants and put them in the freezer of kasey’s fridge. Freezing them wouldn’t kill the ants, just slow them right down for a while until they began to warm up. For this thing to work, there had to be a delay.

  With the ants safely stowed, we were ready for Monday.

  I HADN’T REALIZED what a big deal the St. Mungo’s v Loondo College swimming match would be. The event was due to start at midday, with the final race—the relay—happening around three o’clock. People started arriving at eleven, and by eleven-thirty the parking lot was overflowing.

  “This place could do with more car spaces,” I said.

  Kasey kicked me in the shins. I probably deserved it.

  We were at the back of the swimming-pool complex in an area off limits to students. Kasey had “borrowed” a key from her dad. The frozen bull ants were in their tub, stored inside an insulated picnic bag.

  “If we get caught …”

  She didn’t have to finish the sentence. If we got caught, the consequences would be terrible. Death by tiger would seem like a slap on the wrist.

  “We’ll just have to not get caught,” I said, sounding much more confident than I felt.

  I don’t know why, but every time I’m about to do something that’ll get me in trouble, a little voice in my head convinces me that this time everything will work out.

  Today was no different.

  “Everything will work out,” I said. See?

  Kasey opened a service door and we found ourselves inside the guts of the swimming pool, where all the pumps and pipes and ducts lived.

  But we weren’t interested in that stuff. What we were after were the changing rooms.

  “This way,” Kasey said, making a sharp left.

  I followed her down a maze of concrete passageways. Above us, we could hear people taking their seats for the competition.

  Kasey stopped outside a small door. “This is where Principal Winton will get changed,” she whispered. “We have to be quick. In, out, no mess-ups. But there’s a chance Principal Winton will be in the dressing room when we open the door. If that happens, we’re done for.”

  I nodded and gulped. “Let’s do it.”

  THE DRESSING ROOM was empty.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. HUGE.

  My heart slowed down to a manageable six hundred and eighty-two beats per minute.

  Empty was good. Empty was great.

  What had seemed like a fantastic and funny idea outside was feeling a whole lot less fantastic and funny now that we were actually creeping around somewhere we shouldn’t be. My PLs (panic levels) were already at Stage Two. (There are five stages, in case you were wondering.)

  “C’mon,” Kasey whispered. The girl seemed to have absolutely zero fear.

  I unzipped the picnic bag and placed it on one of the benches.

  The dressing room was a small one, reserved for teachers. Principal Winton, although not swimming himself, was one of those coaches who liked to dress in the full kit: swimming trunks, shorts, T-shirt, socks, tracksuit, running shoes, and cap. They were all hung up for h
im, neat and clean and perfect.

  Kasey took the lid off the plastic tub.

  Reluctantly (like, really, really reluctantly), I picked up Principal Winton’s swimming trunks and found the little inside pocket on the waistband. I held it open and Kasey spooned in as many of the frozen ants as she could. I could see one or two of them beginning to move slowly. When all the ants were in, I put the swimming trunks back on the hanger.

  “Okay,” Kasey whispered. “Let’s go.”

  She moved to the door and turned the handle, but it wouldn’t open.

  Kasey gave it a wiggle. Nothing.

  “Is it locked?!” I hissed. My PLs surged to Stage Three and made a start on getting to Stage Four.

  Kasey shook her head. “I reckon it’s stuck.”

  She pulled at the door but again it didn’t budge. I heard voices, one of which was the unmistakable croak of The Velociraptor.

  “We’re trapped!” I squeaked, leaping directly to Panic Level Stage Five.

  “Stop panicking!” she hissed. “Panic is not an option!”

  “Yes, it is!” I hissed back. You might’ve noticed we were doing a LOT of hissing and squeaking. “Panic is definitely an option and I’m taking it!”

  Kasey ignored me, her eyes racing around the room for any means of escape. “In there!” she whispered, pointing to a locker. The dressing room was lined with floor-to-ceiling lockers fitted with slatted wooden doors, like Venetian blinds.

  “We’ll never fit in th—”

  Kasey shoved me inside and closed the door behind us.

  I swiveled around just in time to see Principal Winton entering the room. Up until that point I hadn’t realized there was a panic level past Stage Five. There was.

  I was at Stage Eight.

  STUCK INSIDE ONE of the dressing-room lockers, with our only escape route cut off, we had no choice but to watch as Principal Winton began to get changed. I suppose we could have closed our eyes, but somehow, much like when you want to stop watching a horror movie but can’t, we couldn’t.

  “Oh no …” I breathed as he began taking off his clothes. I don’t know why this came as a shock.

  I mean, there he was, inside a changing room. What else would he be doing?

  Principal Winton took off his shoes and his socks.

  He took off his jacket and shirt.

  He took off his tie.

  He took off his pants and stood directly in front of us, wearing nothing but a pair of white Y-fronts.

  Kasey made a noise like she was going to be sick. I just hoped that Principal Winton wouldn’t take off his underwear.

  Principal Winton took off his underwear.

  It was one of the only times in my life I wished I was an android—the kind of android that has removable eyeballs. That way, after seeing a naked school principal, I’d be able to take out my eyes and steam-clean them before replacing.

  Unfortunately, for Kasey and me, there are some things you can never unsee. The sight of a naked Principal Winton had burned itself into my eyeballs forever. I was probably going to need therapy.

  I’LL SPARE YOU any more description.

  Thankfully, Principal Winton didn’t stand around in the nude for long. He put on his swimming clothes (complete with trunks containing a secret stash of frozen bull ants), adjusted his cap in the mirror, stowed his clothes in a locker—a nasty moment, but fortunately he didn’t pick the one we were hiding in—and left.

  We waited a few seconds and then spilled out of the locker.

  I opened my mouth to speak but Kasey stopped me.

  “No,” she said firmly. “That didn’t happen, okay? We must never speak of this again. Is that understood?”

  I nodded. The last thing I wanted to discuss was Principal Winton in the nuddy.

  Kasey tried the back door of the changing room but it was still stuck fast. She moved to the main door and opened it a crack.

  “All clear,” she said, and we stepped out into the corridor.

  We made our way unseen to the back of the hall, underneath the grandstand.

  The place was pretty much full by now. Rows and rows of parents sat waiting for the races to begin. Since Kasey wasn’t a student at St. Mungo’s, it would have looked odd if she’d been in the audience.

  I followed her through a maze of corridors and up some stairs until we emerged behind the electronic scoreboard. From here, we had a perfect view of the whole swimming pool. The place was buzzing with excitement and getting warm.

  Warm enough to thaw a bunch of frozen ants.

  “There he is,” Kasey said. She pointed to the end of the pool, where Principal Winton was standing on a small stage and holding a microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he said in a clear, confident voice. It was the voice of someone used to being listened to, the voice of authority.

  Everyone went quiet. Principal Winton was a man to be taken seriously.

  “Welcome to another fantastic St. Mungo’s swimming carnival, and a special welcome to—yerk!”

  Not many people noticed that first little yerk, but Kasey and I did. We looked at one another and smirked.

  Principal Winton shuffled uncomfortably on the podium. He waggled his rear end from side to side. A couple of the parents looked at each other, but so far no-one had noticed anything much.

  “Well, yes,” Principal Winton continued, looking less sure of himself than he had two minutes ago. “As I was saying, St. Mungo’s would like to welcome Loondoo College to our school. We hope, as always, that—Yerk! Ungh! Ho!—that—Yoiks! Woo! Hey whoa!—this will be a close—Mwhayhay!—match.”

  Now there was no doubt. Principal Winton’s yerks and yoiks had been heard by plenty of people in the crowd and, to make things worse, he began twitching his left leg and jiggling his butt in a highly noticeable way. Something very wrong was happening in Principal Winton’s pants.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked up at him and raised an eyebrow in question.

  Principal Winton shrugged. I don’t know, his face seemed to say. Recovering a little, he tried to continue as the crowd began to bristle and murmur. “So, erm, as I was, um, saying—NYAAAARGH! HMMF! OHSWEETPOTATOPIE!!!!!”

  There was no hiding it now.

  “I’m terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” Principal Winton said. “I’m not sure exactly wh—HARROOOOOOOOOHAAAA!

  HAHAHAHAHNNNNNGGG!”

  Principal Winton was practically gyrating. His eyes bulged. His butt vibrated. His face turned a deep scarlet. He bit his lip. At one point it looked like he was disco dancing.

  With a final, almost superhuman effort to keep things on track, Principal Winton smiled and turned back to the microphone. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried to ignore what was happening in his swimming trunks.

  But both Kasey and I knew his efforts were doomed.

  The ants had woken up.

  THOSE BULL ANTS must have been plenty angry.

  Wouldn’t you be, if you’d been dug up out of your house, frozen, and then inserted into a pair of budgie smugglers? If I was a bull ant in that situation, I would have started biting anything I could sink my ant fangs into.

  Which, in this case, happened to be Principal Winton’s butt cheeks.

  Leaping from the podium like a man who has suddenly discovered his pants are full of ants, Principal Winton spun wildly along the edge of the pool, ripping frantically at his clothes. Off came his cap, off came his tracksuit top, his T-shirt, and his runners until all that was left were his budgie smugglers. There was a collective gasp from the audience as everyone joined the dots and realized what was going to happen next. Sure enough, Principal Winton grabbed the edge of his swimming trunks and—

  “No!” a woman in the crowd screamed. “For the love of God, don’t do it, Principal Winton! Please! THINK OF THE CHILDREN!”

  It was too late.

  Principal Winton was not thinking of the children. He wasn’t thinking of St. Mungo’s or the School Board. His univers
e had shrunk down to one very simple, very important issue—getting rid of every single angry bull ant currently munching on the most delicate parts of his anatomy.

  “AAAAARRRRGHHHHHHHHNNNNGGGG!” he screamed, ripping off his budgie smugglers.

  Suddenly, shockingly, there was Principal Winton as naked as the day he was born and gyrating in front of a thousand St. Mungo’s parents, students, teachers, and governors. A journalist from the local newspaper could hardly believe his luck and began taking photos. Eight zillion phones started recording the footage. Holly Lindenberg’s grandmother fainted and Henry Tamworth-Blythe—Cory’s father—had to be physically restrained. An elderly gentleman near the back required defibrillation. The St. Mungo’s Parent-Teacher Association Committee wrote a quick memo of disapproval before walking out, while a small sixth-grader in the front row started to cry. Mrs. Fitzpatrick and a bunch of teachers circled the podium, waiting for a chance to grab their wildly flailing boss. Everyone else in the hall was

  (A) screaming;

  (B) laughing;

  (C) pointing;

  (D) staring in disbelief; or

  (E) doing all of the above.

  Principal Winton didn’t care. He really didn’t.

  With his hands scrabbling frantically around his butt (and other butt-related areas), Principal Winton gave one last anguished howl and plunged into the water.

  There was a stunned silence.

  After a few seconds, Principal Winton’s face popped back up. He spat out a mouthful of water and smiled a smile of complete and total bliss. The kind of smile that you will only see on the face of someone who has recently removed eight hundred angry ants from his person.