Just Stupid! by Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton Page A

sort of homemade jack-in-the-box.’
       Ah! This must be the one that boy was talking about.
       Big Ears forces the spring with the doll’s head on it down into the tin and pushes the lid into place.
       He tilts the tin towards me.
       ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ he says.
       I hear someone calling out behind me.
       I turn around. It’s the boy called Danny.
       ‘Hey, Andy!’ he says. ‘Feeling better?’
       ‘Not really,’ I say.
       But the boy’s not looking at me or listening to me. He’s just staring at the tin.
       ‘Don’t open that, Mr G,’ he says. ‘It’s dangerous!’
       Too late. It’s open. Everything goes into slow motion. The lid of the tin shoots off and whizzes past my ear. The doll’s head comes off the spring and hits me right in the middle of my forehead. The spring goes straight up and hits Big Ears in the face.
       Everything comes flooding back.

       I remember who I am.
       I’m Andy. I don’t like doing housework or working in the garden. I don’t like being Jen’s slave. I don’t like helping people. I like annoying them. I like playing tricks on them. I am stupid. And I love it.
       I hear a moan behind me. I look over.
       It’s Danny.
       He is lying in the driveway. The lid of the biscuit tin is on the ground beside him.
       I run across to him.
       ‘Danny,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’
       He rolls his head from side to side and looks at me with a confused cross-eyed stare.
       ‘Danny,’ he says. ‘Who’s Danny?’
       ‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Help me! Danny’s been hurt.’
       But Dad doesn’t answer.
       I look around.
       He is standing in the middle of the yard, his face in his hands.
       ‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Talk to me!’
       He takes his hands away from his face. He looks at me and frowns.
       ‘Dad?’ he says. ‘Who’s Dad?’

‘m drawing an invisible line down the middle of the table.
       ‘Cross that line and you’re dead meat,’ I say.
       Danny puts his finger over the line.
       ‘You mean this line?’ he says.
       I whack my ruler down the line. He’s too slow. The tip nicks his finger.
       ‘Ow!’ screams Danny.
       ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I did warn you.’
       Mr Dobson turns around from the board. He is glaring at me.
       ‘Please stand up, Andy,’ he says.
       ‘But . . .’
       ‘ Stand up,’ he says.
       I stand up.
       ‘Would you mind telling me what just happened?’ says Mr Dobson.

       ‘Nothing, sir.’ I say.
       ‘Then what was that noise?’ says Mr Dobson. ‘And why is Danny bent over double holding his finger?’
       ‘It’s his own fault,’ I say. ‘He crossed the line.’
       ‘What line?’ says Mr Dobson.
       ‘The line I drew down the middle of the table.’
       ‘Andy,’ sighs Mr Dobson, ‘you are acting like a child.’
       ‘I am a child, sir,’ I remind him.
       ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ says Mr Dobson.
       ‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘It’s a fact.’
       Sometimes I wonder about Mr Dobson. Does he think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t a child? I don’t see too many adults sitting in on his fractions classes for the fun of it. Not that I would ever point this out to him. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. He probably thinks his classes on fractions are the best value entertainment around.
       ‘Facts?’ he says. ‘You want facts? I’ll give you a fact. The fact is that your behaviour is little better than I would expect from a five-year-old,’ he says. ‘In fact, if you don’t start acting your age I’ve got a good mind to take you down to the Preps’ class. How would you like that?’

       ‘But the line was very clearly drawn,’ I say. And I did warn him.’
       Mr Dobson just looks at me. He’s frowning. I don’t think he understands how important invisible lines are in maintaining order in the classroom. The truth is that Mr Dobson