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Special school assemblies were rare at Quakehaven Public. Noisily, we filed two at a time through the small assembly hall door, like animals fighting for passage on Noah's ark. Kids crowded around Mark and marvelled at the sleek, black cast that covered his wounds.
"Imported from Sweden," Mark said, bravely grimacing as Nicky nodded and stroked his arm. "By Dad. Especially for me. Dressing contains special antibiotics and secret balms from Ecuador to promote fast healing. Doesn't help with the pain, though," he said stoically.
Typical Mark. Always the brave class hero! All I could remember was him on his back blubbering as Mrs Dixon tried to staunch the blood and calm him down. He had been injured. Who was I to deny him the sympathy of the masses?
Mark marched into the hall and sat down in the third row from the stage. We all followed him. Like Passengers. Each class was organised by their teacher, so of course Mrs Dixon had seated us quasi-alphabetically in quadrants, with Nicky separating Mark and me. The back of Joke's head poked over the top of the seat in front of Mark like a shy sock-puppet cowering behind a fence post. I didn't even need to look around to know that Tim was right behind me: the stench of his foul fish paste breath was worse than ever. I lent over Nicky and tried to catch Mark's eye. "OK?" I asked.
"Yeah," said Mark stoically. "Though my memory's a bit patchy, and I feel a bit woozy."
"It's OK, Marky-wark," said Nicky. "I think you'll survive your little possum attack."
I cracked a smile, and she grinned back at me. Until that moment, I hadn't noticed how pretty she was when she smiled, despite the freckles. And she smelt nice too: like strawberry sherbet.
"It wasn't a possum," scowled Mark. "I don't know what attacked me. But I think some people in this hall do," he said, and then reached over and flicked the Joke's right ear lobe with his good index finger and thumb.
"Hey!" squeaked Joke, his puppet head spinning around to reveal a prim buttoned-up face. "Don't blame me, Mark. I didn't have anything to do with it!"
"Master Barker, to you," said Mark. "And eavesdropping, hey? There's a habit that runs in the family."
Mark had that dangerous glint in his eye again. I waggled my fingers at Joke, signalling for him to turn around and ignore Mark. He caught my meaning and turned back to the front, but not quickly enough to avoid Mark's next broadside.
"So it's a coincidence that everywhere you go, foul animals follow? Maybe you should have a wash. Or has the hot water been cut off to your caravan because your dad can't pay the bills."
"Calm down, Mark," I said.
"I'll do what I want to him," said Mark, twisting Joke's other ear, this time cruelly. "I'm getting a bit bored of you sticking up for the cretin. You're meant to be my mate."
"I am your mate," I said. "But take it easy on Joke. He didn't have anything to do with what happened to you. And you know it."
"You seem so sure," said Mark leaning over Nicky and scanning my face like a headline. "Don't think I've forgotten that you were in the toilet when I was attacked. Anything you want to confess?"
I shook my head, innocently. "Why would I want to hurt you?"
"Good question," said Mark. "Because I need to be sure I can trust you. There's a big honour coming your way if I can be sure we're mates. But it's too important a gift to share with someone I can't trust."
"You can trust me," I said, wondering what Mark was talking about.
We shivered on our hard plastic chairs in the semi-darkness. After a few minutes of fidgeting, the stage lights were lit, revealing the school concert band. I groaned inwardly, thinking of my unused French horn.
We all stood up. Ms Crabshank, lumpen, tall and shrivelled like a bipedal prune waddled out onto the stage and waved her conducting stick. The band exploded into sound. A cacophony: horrible, like a whole zoo of terrified animals being squashed into a stinky old shoe with a golf club.
If anything, our school song was even worse than the band. "Youth Of Quakehaven" was over 100 years old and had once been a passable military marching tune. But in the 1970s, an experimental music teacher by the unlikely name of Seamus Fernando-Garcia, had decided to update it by transforming it into a Spanish dance number, spiced up with elements of an Irish reel.
The official party, led by the grizzled principal and the teachers, did their very best to look dignified, march-tangoing down the hall. Mrs Dixon, as the most junior teacher, was usually at the back of the line. But this time she wasn't: Mr Barker stood behind her, unruffled by the discordant trombone slides that book-ended the anthem like peat bog burps.
The 'music' died followed by embarrassed silence. "Hey Mark," I whispered. "What's going on? Why's your dad here?"
"You'll find out soon enough," said Mark, smirking secretively.
Mr Lyons, a barrel shaped man with an enormous orange afro that everyone knew to be an inexpensive wig, switched on the microphone. He'd started out as the football coach and, though he'd run to fat, was still strong, a fact he highlighted to kids on detention.
The microphone screamed, just like Mrs Kroker's headset had done at Mark's birthday. "Better than the band," shouted Mark. Almost everyone - even Mr Lyons and some of the flute players in the front row of the band - burst into laughter. Ms Crabshank lips slid up her teeth, like she had bitten into a chilli dipped in lemon juice.
"Settle down," commanded Mr Lyons wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "As you can see, we have a special guest today, so I want you all to be on your best behaviour. Without further ado, let me welcome Mr Barker to the stage, though he needs no introduction."
"Who?" shouted Mark, and again the hall erupted into raucous laughter.
Mr Barker stepped up to the microphone and held up his hand. A white glossy screen lowered behind him with a serpentine hiss, blocking out all but the teachers' legs from our view.
"Thank you, Mark," he said. "I'll introduce myself to you this evening when you're washing one of my cars."
A few kids sniggered. Mark swore under his breath.
"I'm here to announce something exciting," said Mr Barker. "Quakehaven's seen better days. It seems like many of us are resigned to the Beltway bypassing our town and for Quakehaven to become a forgotten little town that used to be on the way to the City."
"Well, I for one am not prepared for that to happen." (Forger, I thought again.) “But I need your help."
"It's no secret that visitor numbers at Midas Mountain are down this year. When the Beltway opens they are projected to halve."
The assembly gasped. Most of us knew things were bad. But not that bad!
"Honesty is the best policy, and I don't think anything is to be gained in not telling children the truth. So let me be frank with you all: if Midas Mountain closes, this town will become a backwater and will be beyond saving." Mr Barker paused and let his words sink in. For 10 seconds, 300 people in the hall made not one sound.
"But it's not too late!" shouted Mr Barker, beaming.
"I am here to launch a new project that will bring people to our town: let me introduce DinoQuake - the kingdom of the dinosaurs!" The white screen behind Mr Barker ignited. Cartoon dinosaurs - tyrannosaurs, triceratops, stegosaurs - stampeded across the screen and disappeared into a lush green forest. The digital projector zoomed in, then up like it was attached to a rocket to reveal a 3D map of the proposed park. It would be right next to Midas Mountain, separated by the northern most tip of Lake Ebb.
Spontaneously, the school - students and teachers alike - burst into applause and jumped up to give Mr Barker a standing ovation. Mr Barker grinned. After a minute solid of furious applause, he held up his hand and signalled for us to sit down.
"But that's not all. When I said I needed your help, I didn't mean just your congratulations and good will. I've got enough people on my pay roll to do that," he said laughing at his own joke. "Good wishes get you nowhere in life. And compliments are not going to save a single job."
"Here it comes," whispered Mark as th
e laughter subsided. "Time for us to join forces."
"I need real help," said Mr Barker. "Most of the site is ready. I've been building it in secret. Most of dinosaur models and rides arrived from Japan last week and have been assembled in a warehouse in an undisclosed location."
Mr Barker cleared his throat. "I plan to install the models for a soft opening in two weeks. What I'm missing is this," said Mr Barker. He pulled a thin metal tube from his pocket and swiped it. The map on the screen flashed gold, Lake Ebb lit up in silver, and its northernmost tip flashed red and green like a confused traffic light.
"This thin finger of water jutting out from Lake Ebb marks the boundary of the town and the closest Beltway exit to Quakehaven. It will also mark the physical connection between my two marquee attractions: Midas Mountain and DinoQuake. I want to attract tourists to turn off the Beltway. But I don't want them to have to choose between the two park experiences when they get here. So I need a bridge between the parks. And I need someone to design it. Today - right now - I am announcing a competition, only open to students from this school. I need teams of two to design my bridge. And you only have two days to do it."
"This is your chance, space-cadet," said Mark, beaming like his father. "I'm going to let you join my team."
"What about Tim?" I asked. "I thought he was your best friend."
"He is on the football pitch and when I need some muscle," said Mark, smacking his fist into his palm. "But - and this is no secret - he's as thick as a plank of wood. He couldn't design his own lunch, much less a bridge."
I was sure Tim could hear him. I turned my head to check. Sure enough, Tim looked wounded and pale. "He's right, Paddy," slurred Tim, sadly, his eyes glazed yellow like lemon spread.
"I always am," said Mark.
"Don't worry about it, Tim," said Nicky and swivelling around. "I'd love to have you on my team."
"Really?" said Tim, looking blankly at Nicky. Maybe it was the light, but Tim was as white as a spectre.
"Sure," she answered. "No worries at all, though I'm probably even less of an engineer than you!"
Tim smiled wanly and raised his thumbs in appreciation. I caught a glimpse of a blackened band-aid on his left wrist. It looked infected. I was about to tell Tim to go to the school nurse when the projector stopped and the silver, gold, red and green map faded to grey.
"Two days is not much time," said Mr Barker. The winner will be announced by a special judging committee on Thursday night at Quakehaven's Barn Dance. The key criterion on which your design will be assessed is whether it connects the Quakehaven Gold Rush of the 1850s to the age of the dinosaurs effectively. On Monday, my engineers will give the winning entry the once over and then start building it for the opening. The Council has generously pre-cleared the winner for immediate construction.
"Ridiculous," squeaked Joke suddenly jumping to his feet. "We are talking about two completely different eras. Most dinosaurs roamed the earth more than 200 million years ago. You're asking us to find a link between then and something that happened less than 200 hundred years ago! It's time on a different scale. It's unscientific!"
The hall sat in shocked silence. 'Unscientific' was one of Joke's strongest insults. But he was not known for interrupting assemblies. He was not known for interrupting anything! For a moment, even Mr Barker seemed ruffled, but recovered his poise. "That may be the case, young man. But we are after more than technical accuracy. We are after creativity - something that will help draw people to Quakehaven and save our town."
"And your dad's job," sneered Mark, flicking the back of Joke's ear, even harder than before.
Joke slumped deeper into his chair and put his hands over his ears, bracing himself for another attack. From where he was standing, Mr Barker couldn't have heard his son's threat. I wondered if he knew the types of things his son got away with in his name.
With his good fist, Mark reached out to smack the top of Joke's head. Mark's move was telegraphed and I blocked it, almost backhanding Nicky in the process!
"Watch it guys," warned Nicky. She wasn't smiling.
"I'm telling you for the last time, Mark," I said, looking straight ahead at his father. "Lay off Joke."
Mark rubbed his knuckles against his school shirt and sneered: "Remember your station in life, space-cadet. If you keep defending him, I'll kick you off my team."
"What if I don't want to be on your team?" I said, breathing heavily. "You can't treat people like they are dirt on your feet. It's not right."
Mark shuddered with disgust like he'd been doused in sewage and balled his good hand into a fist. Nicky shot me a worried look, and I tried to stay calm.
"Really, Paddy," snarled Mark. "I wasn't going to say anything, but a funny thing happened when I was being tended to by Dr V-V-V-Vassel. While he was setting my arm, he got a call from another patient, that old biddy, Carruthers. Poor man had to take the call in the next room - patient confidentiality and all that. Anyway, while he was gone, his notebook just happened to fall open on my lap. Would you like me to tell everyone what I found out?"
"Shut up, Mark," I said.
"Or what?" said Mark, chuffed he had hit a raw nerve. "You going to lose your mind like your mother and hit me?"
Joke swivelled around in his seat and Nicky looked away. I tried to control my temper.
"That's right, guys," announced Mark, his voice loud enough to carry to the whole class. "Paddy's mum's a madwoman. Who could blame her with such a loser of a son? Probably drove his dad crazy too, before he died!"
I was about to leap across and tackle Mark, when Nicky put her hand on my shoulder, and suddenly pushed herself up onto her feet. "He's not worth it," she whispered to me out of the side of her mouth.
"Yes, dear?" asked Mr Barker.
"What's the prize for winning?" asked Nicky. "The competition, I mean."
"Aah. Of course. Back in my day, the honour of having your design accepted would have been enough. But times have changed, I know. My wonderful son has taught me that lesson!"
Everyone - except Mark and me - laughed.
"I have spoken to Mr Lyons and to the Council," said Mr Barker. We have agreed to award two prizes to the winners, to be divided between the team as they see fit. Around-the-world-airline tickets for two, hotel charges included; and a full scholarship to attend Pinkerton Grammar."
"Grammar?!" caterwailed Joke. "A full scholarship?"
"That's right," said Mr Barker smiling down at the embarrassed boy. "Are you ready to abandon your scientific objections to the contest now?"
The projector screen rose. Nicky sat down. As she did so, Mark shot up like a jack in the box. "Da- I mean, Mr Barker, can anyone compete?"
"Yes then can, son, I mean Mark," answered Mr Barker, smiling. "And to ensure there's no favoritism, the decision will ultimately be made by Mr Lyons and one of Quakehaven's finest engineers, Mr Dixon." Mrs Dixon grinned with pride.
"That's not what I meant," said Mark, looking at Joke. "Can poor kids like Joke and kids with no dad and mad mothers like Paddy enter?"
Mrs Dixon's smile faded, and her forehead furrowed. My ears burned and I wanted to smash Mark to pieces. But Joke was smiling at me, trying to keep me calm, even though he must have been hurt by Mark's words as much as I was.
Mr Barker frowned, unable to think of a sensible response. Mr Lyons, as if sensing his confusion, stepped up to the microphone and said, "That's enough questions for Mr Barker. He's a busy man. I'd like everyone to thank him in the usual way. Mark, I want to see you in my office."
"Haha," laughed Mark as he made his way out of the hall. "Another slap on the wrist coming up. Lyons is too scared of my dad to do anything serious. I've got this competition in the bag."
"Maybe you used to, genius" said Nicky, slapping him on the shoulder, too hard to be called friendly. "But you've just managed to annoy one of the judges, the wife of another, and force two of the smartest guys in the school into a team against you. Good luck."
/> Joke and I looked first at the crestfallen Mark, and then happily shook hands.