Jungle Tangle E-Book

Debbie Thomas

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Another mad-cap adventure from the author of Dead Hairy. Welcome to the Amazon, where heads shrink and villains slink!   Media-savvy author with connections in the children's book world Established fan-base from Dead Hairy Author available for innovative in-store events  Following a hair-raising adventure last summer, Abbie Hartley can't wait to join her friend Perdita on the trip of a lifetime. Their destination? The Amazon jungle. Their mission? To find the lost wife of their friend Fernando. There's only one problem. Fernando and his wife are shrunken heads … and the Amazon jungle is huge. Oh, and another one. Squashy Grandma insists on coming, with her shopping bag on wheels and her pet wig. Oh, and just one more. Abbie's arch-enemy Dr Hubris Klench, burger-on-legs and villain extraordinaire, is lurking in the undergrowth with some very wicked tricks up his very wide sleeve.

Leseprobe

Praise forDead Hairy

‘We loveDead Hairy!’Woman’s Way– recommended as part of their ‘Bring Back Books’ campaign

‘… extremely well written – immediate, clever, smartalecky … immensely enjoyable.’ The Irish Catholic

‘… romps … with exuberance and sparkling dialogue …’ Mary Arrigan,Irish Examiner

‘… great fun, loaded with laughs … this one is a pure delight.’Fallen Star Stories

‘I can’t recommend it highly enough. I think it’s a brilliant book. I was roaring laughing at the first couple of pages.’ Brendan Nolan, radio presenter and author ofTelling Tales

‘From the first paragraph to the last, this is a laugh-aloud read for any age, with a compelling plot and well-rounded characters.’ Inis magazine

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

http://twitter.com/IrishPublisher

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© Text: Debbie Thomas, 2013

© Images: Stella MacDonald, 2013

ISBN: 978 1 78117 116 5

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 184 4

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 185 1

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

For my superstars:

Stevie, Emily, Ruby and Rosa.

And for Mum and Dad, whose love and encouragement have a lot to answer for.

1 -Hair Ticket

♫ ‘Happy Birthday to You.’ ♪

Everyone round the table hip-hoorayed. Abbie put a paper crown on the birthday boy. Mum, Dad and Ollie clapped. Grandma grunted.

The birthday boy tried to bow. But bowing isn’t easy for a shrunken head. He lost his balance, tipped onto his nose and rolled across the table.

Abbie caught him as he fell off the edge. ‘Careful. You were nearly lunch.’ The table was standing by a pool in the middle of a zoo. On the far side of the pool four penguins flapped their wings and eyed the birthday boy greedily.

Abbie cupped him safely in her palm. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘for the cake.’

The birthday boy blinked. He gasped. He craned his cut-off neck. And well he might. Coming down the path was a cake as big as a bicycle wheel. Candles were crammed on top. The sides were covered with chocolate icing.

The Platts carried the cake between them on a huge tray. Coriander was on the left. Her three red plaits gleamed. Her green dress flapped like a bin liner in the breeze. Her husband Matt was on the right. His three black plaits flopped. His grey boiler suit sagged from his shoulders. Their daughter Perdita was in the middle. Her three black plaits bounced. Her orange trousers shone like carrots in cling film.

She was lighting the candles with a flaming stick. ‘Four hundred and sixty … four hundred and sixty-one … four hundred and sixty-two. Happy birthday, Fernando!’ She blew out the stick. Her parents lowered the tray onto the table.

Abbie popped the birthday boy beside the cake. She wiped her hands discreetly on her trousers. No offence to Fernando, but she still hadn’t got used to touching the hard, shrivelled head of a Spanish conquistador. She grinned. There was a lot she hadn’t got used to. Four months ago life had been duller than duffle coats. But ever since meeting the Platts, it had felt like a firework was strapped to her bottom.

First there had been Coriander’s rescue. Abbie had found her imprisoned in the zoo by the wicked Dr Klench. With the help of three orang-utans and Chester, a trusty patch of chest hair, Abbie had freed Coriander. But returning home to the Platts’ Museum of Hair, they’d been recaptured by Perdita’s aunt and uncle who were in league with Dr Klench. The girls and their families – along with Fernando and the orangs – had barely escaped before the Hair Museum was destroyed.

And that was just the summer holidays.

Since then Abbie had been helping the Platts settle into their new home, the zoo. Looking after the animals with Perdita and her parents had been the biggest adventure of all. There was just one teeny problem.

School.

Perdita’s arrival this term had gone down like a foot in a cowpat. It wasn’t just her oddness. She was smart, too. The smartest in class. Smarter even than Marcus Strode-Boylie. Which, when you thought about it, wasn’t a smart thing to be because Marcus Strode-Boylie hated being outsmarted, especially by a girl.

Talking of smart, thought Abbie – not. Dad was thumping the table with his fist. ♪ ‘For he’s a jolly good shrun-ken,’ he roared. Abbie winced. He really was the brightest star in the nerdiverse.

Everyone else round the table joined in. Two penguins swam across the pool to get a better look at the cake. A third one got so excited he forgot how to swim and had to be rescued from the bottom by his aunt.

Fernando’s eyes glittered. ‘All thees chocky. I never see such cake een all my born days.’

‘Too many born days by ’alf,’ muttered Grandma.

You’re just jealous, thought Abbie. Ever since Dad had suggested a birthday party for Fernando, Grandma had gone all huffy. Mind you, Dad hadn’t exactly helped with comments like, ‘Four hundred and sixty-two, and he’s still got his own hair.’ Grandma relied on Chester – who had become her wig as well as her best friend – to cover her balding head, and she was only seventy-three.

‘Take a deep breath, Fernando,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got to blow out the candles.’

Fernando glared at him. ‘How I suppose to do that?’

Good point, thought Abbie. She’d find it hard enough to blow out that many candles, and she had lungs. Where on earth would a shrunken head find the puff?

Ollie got up from the table and crept over to Abbie. ‘Shall I get Winnie?’ he whispered.

Abbie looked at him. For a maddening little brother, he had his moments. ‘Good idea,’ she murmured. Winnie was the orang-utan mum who’d escaped the Hair Museum with her baby, Minnie, and Vinnie the dad. In all the mayhem Winnie had been injected with a potion that made her superstrong. Blowing out the candles would be a breeze for her mighty lungs. But they mustn’t let Fernando see. The proud little head would never accept help.

So Abbie distracted him while Ollie went to fetch Winnie. ‘You don’t look a day over thirty,’ she said, remembering that was just the kind of thing grown-ups like to hear on their birthdays.

It was a big mistake. ‘Of course not!’ wailed Fernando. ‘At thirty I was shreenked by tribesmen. My ageing estop there, in Amazon jungle.’

Ollie came back leading Winnie by the hand. The orang-utan – whose hair grew mega fast, also thanks to the potion – had been shaved that morning. She looked like a rusty thistle. Abbie winked at her. Winnie stood behind Fernando.

Perdita cleared her throat. ‘One, two, three …’

Fernando blew his hardest. And Winnie blew hers. A mighty wind wrinkled the tablecloth. Cream flew off cupcakes. Sausages shot across the table like supersonic slugs. Chester sailed off Grandma’s head and wrapped round the neck of the penguin that had nearly drowned, almost strangling him.

‘Well done, señor,’ shouted Dad.

‘You did it, Fernando!’ cried Coriander.

‘Good show,’ murmured Matt as four hundred and sixty-two candles smoked in the air.

‘Thanks,’ Abbie whispered to Winnie. ‘Well done,’ she said loudly to Fernando.

He blushed to blackcurrant. ‘You people so kind. I no deserve.’

‘Go on,’ cried Perdita, ‘make a wish.’

Fernando’s lips sagged. ‘You know my weesh. To find my señora, the wife of my life.

The head of my heart, the heart of my head,

Who roll on jungle floor

In deepest Ecuador.

My darling leetle Carmen.

No lady is more charmin’.’

He gave the very deep sigh of a very bad poet.

Perdita winked at Abbie, who winked at Coriander, who winked at Matt, who winked at Dad, who winked at Mum, who winked at Ollie, who winked at Grandma … who burped.

‘Time for your presents,’ said Perdita.

Abbie and Ollie put a small package on the table. There was an awkward silence.

‘For the love of Nora!’ Grandma burst out. ‘’Ow’s ’e s’posed to open that? ’E’s armless.’

‘Of course he’s harmless, Mother,’ said Dad. ‘He’s our friend.’

‘I said armless, brainless. ’Ere, I’ll do it.’ Grandma grabbed the packet and tore off the wrapping paper. The wind snatched it up and blew it towards the penguin pool. It caught in the beak of the nearly drowned, nearly strangled penguin, who nearly choked.

‘Sun cream?’ said Grandma, holding up a white tube. ‘Whassee want that for? ’Is skin’s as tough as a tangerine.’

‘Have you got him a present, Grandma?’ asked Abbie pointedly.

Grandma sniffed. ‘Course I ’ave. Somethin’ useful. Somethin’ that’ll protect that ancient brain of ’is. No point wrappin’ it.’ From her handbag she brought out a tiny sombrero, the sort of wide-brimmed hat that bad actors wear when they’re playing Mexicans. She popped it on Fernando’s head and pulled it down, squashing his birthday crown. ‘Perfect!’

Abbie wouldn’t quite have said that. With the brim at his chin, Fernando looked like a spinning top.

The wind lifted the hat. It frisbeed through the air and hit the head of the nearly drowned, nearly strangled, nearly choked penguin, who was nearly knocked out.

‘I confuse,’ said Fernando. ‘All thees present, they for sunshine. But now we in Frosty Crunchers.’

A good name for November, thought Abbie.

‘Here,’ said Perdita, ‘maybe this’ll make things clear.’ She took an envelope from her pocket.

Fernando frowned.

‘It’s an air ticket, you ’airbrain,’ said Grandma.

‘An hair teecket?’ said Fernando. ‘Why I need teecket for hair? I have plenty.’ He tossed his black locks.

‘She said air,’ Coriander explained. ‘It’s for an aeroplane. That’s a big metal bird that flies you across the world. I brought you here in one. You couldn’t see it because your eyes were sewn up. But you’ll see it when you go this time.’

Perdita jumped up. ‘And so will we! Abbie and I are coming too.’ She did a cartwheel, landing on the foot of the nearly drowned, nearly strangled, nearly choked, nearly knocked-out penguin, who ran away and set up a home for battered seabirds.

‘Only three weeks to go!’ Abbie couldn’t wait to get away from school. Because she’d discovered this term that there was only one thing less smart than being the smartest girl in class. And that was being her best friend. It had made Abbie as popular as measles.

Fernando still didn’t get it. ‘Where we fly een metal bird?’

Coriander crouched down and rested her chin on the table. ‘To Ecuador,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘To find your wife.’

* * *

The second smartest pupil in the class heard footsteps on the landing. He stuffed his calculator down the back of his trousers as his dad poked his head round the door.

‘How’s the homework going, Marcus?’

‘Nearly finished.’

Marcus’s dad came into the bedroom and peered over his shoulder. ‘Long division, eh? And all in your head. That’s my boy.’ He ruffled Marcus’s fair hair. ‘Make sure you check it, mind. I always checked my Maths–’

‘Three times, Dad, before you gave it in.’

‘And it paid off, boy, it paid off. Aimed for the stars, I did, and look where it’s got me.’

Marcus looked. And saw a silver-haired man with wide shoulders and a square chin. The sort of chin that suggested Dr Terry Strode-Boylie MSD (Massively Successful Dentist) had got what he wanted and found it wasn’t quite enough.

When his father had gone Marcus rescued the calculator. He had to get everything right. That pratty Platt girl and her stupid friend needed to be taught a lesson.

* * *

Dr Hubris Klench, burger-on-legs and villain extraordinaire, rolled out of bed. He bounced a few times and came to rest on the floor. Bouncing was one of his talents. The others were eating, keeping clean and wickedness or, as he fondly called it, ‘eefil-doink’.

He opened his eyes. ‘Mummy?’ He peered round the hotel room. But his only companions were the bed, a wardrobe and a cockroach heading for the skirting board to collect her kids from school.

‘I must have been dreaminks.’ Klench rubbed his eyes. ‘Mummy died four years ago.’ But what a dream …

Mummy had been towering over him, wagging a red-hot finger. ‘Hubris,’ she’d barked, ‘you have been in ziss country fifteen veeks. And still you have not done vun decent crime. Useless boy. I knew ven I died you vould mess up vizzout me. Am I right or am I right?’

Klench remembered how Mummy’s questions often hinted at the answer. ‘Right,’ he whimpered.

‘Quite. So now I’m back to boss your brain and help you turn to bads again.’

Klench had nodded meekly, recalling also her fondness for rhymes.

‘For starters you must lose veight,’ she went on. ‘Top-notch crooks must all be slim, zeir bumsies small and tumsies trim.’

‘Vy, Mums?’ Klench had whined.

‘Viz your flabs and tummy rolls, how you slip through nets and holes? Remember, Hubes, too much fat killed cat.’

Klench hadn’t quite understood. ‘Vich cat?’ he’d mumbled.

But Mummy wasn’t a woman to be mumbled at. ‘Silence! You diet or I riot …’

Klench sat up on the floor. He gasped. Mummy was still glaring at him from the corner of his mind. That had been no dream. She was back to haunt him. He’d have no rest till he obeyed.

He patted his stomach sadly. ‘You must go, my friend.’ But how? Since he’d arrived in this miserable town there’d been nothing to do except eat fajitas and steal toys from penniless children. A button pinged off his pyjama shirt. ‘But first let me have some breakfasts.’

2 -Trouble in a Tracksuit

You’d almost think Fernando was enjoying himself. It was the day after his party. He was sitting – or was it standing? – on a stool in the bird house, giving reasons why the Ecuador trip wouldn’t work. Abbie was sweeping the floor while Chester the chest hair dusted the perches. Perdita was back-combing the feathers of Mackenzie the parrot.

Fernando sighed. ‘Ees too espenseeve.’

‘I’ve told you,’ said Perdita, ‘money’s no problem. The zoo’s doing brilliantly.’ She rubbed hair gel into Mackenzie’s crest. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘Mohican Mack.’

‘Mohican Mack!’ shrieked the parrot, baring his tongue in a well-hard way.

Fernando tried again. ‘Perhaps I get airseeck on plane.’

‘We’ll give you travel pills,’ said Abbie.

‘Perhaps I choke on peells.’

Perdita wheeled round. ‘For goodness sake, do you want to find your wife or not?’

‘Wife or not! Wife or not!’ screeched Mackenzie.

‘Of course I want. But how? My Carmen, she teeny head. My Ecuador, she beeg country. Needle een haystack ees easier peasier.’

‘Easier peasier! Easier peasier!’ Mackenzie agreed.

Chester stopped dusting. He dived to the floor and pulled out a needle from a pile of rubbish. Then he flew up and perched on Abbie’s broom handle.

‘Of course,’ cried Perdita, ‘the world’s greatest finder! We’ll bring Chess.’

Hang on, thought Abbie. If we bring him, that means … ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no-no-no.’

Chester shrugged. He dropped the needle back into the rubbish.

Perdita grinned like a mouth organ. ‘You won’t come without her, will you, Chess?’ Chester shook his curls.

‘All right,’ Abbie snapped. ‘But bagsy not sit by Grandma on the plane.’

‘Bagsy not! Bagsy not!’ screamed Mackenzie.

* * *

Maybe it won’t be so bad, thought Abbie. She was flicking through her travel guide in bed that night. The pages of Exploring Ecuador blazed with adventure: she could almost smell the colours and taste the sounds of the mountains and rainforest. Yep, it would take more than Grandma to stop her going. Imagine the cool points she and Perdita would earn at school when they announced the trip … leaving out the shrunken-head hunt, of course. That would shoot them both off the scale on the class freakometer.

And she could just imagine the look on Marcus’s face. Abbie grabbed her tape recorder from the bedside table. ‘BULLY BOY EXPLODES WITH ENVY,’ she said into the microphone, picturing the headline in the local newspaper. Underneath would be a photo of smoking green rubble with fair hair: all that remained of Marcus and his jealousy.

Oh yes, Grandma’s company was a small price to pay. Besides, in all the excitement of Ecuador, the dear old cabbage would probably just fade to a grumpy lump. Abbie used to think of her as Squashy Grandma. But these days she was definitely more lumpy. Elephant dung wasn’t the lightest and, since Grandma had started to clean out Gina’s yard at the zoo, her wobbly bits had really firmed up.

The rest of the family, too, mucked in whenever they could. Mum cooked a meal every Saturday for all the human staff: three Platts, five Hartleys, zookeeper Charlie Chumb and ex-policewoman Wendy Wibberly, who now ran the café. Ollie spent his weekends playing with the orang-utans. When he wasn’t wrestling strong-mum Winnie, he was tickling lazy-dad Vinnie or playing hide-and-seek with baby Minnie.

And Dad ‘helped’ Matt with his Very Odd Jobs. That meant he read out bits of the book Fernando was dictating – Heads and Tales: Confessions of a Conquistador – while Matt oiled the gibbons’ skateboards or patched up the porcupines’ bouncy castle.

Which left the best work for Abbie: grooming the animals with Perdita and Coriander. Abbie loved holding the manicure case while Coriander trimmed the talons of Angelica the fish eagle. She adored rubbing moisturising cream into the skin cracks of the elephant, Gina. And, perching on a ladder to comb the endless eyelashes of Alphonse the giraffe, she felt on top of the world.

No wonder visitors were flocking in. The animals shone with health. The buildings gleamed with welcome. And thanks to Wendy, the teapots in the café topped the twinkling charts.

When Matt lowered the entrance fee to £1 for adults and free for children under thirty, the money poured in. And when Dad sent off the first draft of Fernando’s book, he was offered a huge advance by a publisher who adored a gory story.

So buying an extra air ticket for Grandma was no problem. In fact, the way Dad rushed to the travel agent, you’d think it was a relief.

‘Can’t accept this,’ snapped Grandma as he pushed the ticket towards her in the zoo café. She pushed it back across the table.

‘Really, Mother, it’s a pleasure.’ Dad pushed it back again. ‘A big one, believe me.’ Grandma leaned forward to look at the ticket, knocking over her cup of tea.

‘Wendy,’ called Abbie. ‘Spill.’

‘Oh, super!’ Wendy glided across from the till. She skated over the puddle in her shoes with spongy soles.

‘Not sayin’ I don’t want to go, mind.’ Grandma tapped the ticket dreamily. ‘Always fancied standin’ on the equator.’ Chester jumped up and down on her head.

‘That’s sorted, then,’ said Dad a bit too quickly. He beamed at Abbie. She sighed and unwrapped her third Kit Kat.

* * *

‘I can’t imagine how she’ll cope.’ Abbie was in the school changing room with Perdita the next day. They were getting ready for PE. ‘Can you see her tramping through the jungle?’

‘Definitely.’ Perdita pulled her T-shirt over her three plaits. ‘Your grandma’s amazing. Remember how she stood up to Dr Klench when we were kidnapped?’

Abbie had to grin. The old sausage had certainly sizzled at the vast villain in the Hair Museum last summer. Even he’d appeared to be impressed. ‘But that was mental energy, not physical.’

‘Climbing up ninety-three stairs and bellowing? She was Olympic. And anyway, she’s fitter now.’

‘Still …’

‘Oh, come on. You’re as bad as Fernando. You’d think he’d be jumping – or at least rolling – for joy at the thought of finding his wife. But he’s been nothing but moany-groany-what-if-thissy.’

The girls went out to the playground. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t dare get excited,’ said Abbie, ‘in case we don’t find her. Which, let’s face it, is pretty likely.’

‘At least we’re trying. And at least he’ll see Ecuador again.’

‘Who will?’ Marcus Strode-Boylie strolled up.

Oh no, thought Abbie. Trouble in a tracksuit.

‘Hi, Marcus,’ said Perdita in her loud, cheery voice. ‘We’re talking about Fernando.’ She unleashed her grin.

‘Don’t,’ Abbie muttered. ‘Can’t you see he’s looking for a fight?’

Apparently not. ‘We’re taking him to find his wife,’ said Perdita. ‘In the Amazon jungle. He’s a shrunken head, you see.’

Disaster. Abbie whacked Perdita’s arm.

‘Oh, I see.’ Marcus turned to Greg Fnigg, a skinny boy with a black belt in snickering. ‘Hear that? Nerdy Perdy’s friends with a shrunken head.’

Greg made a noise that could have come from either end. ‘Takes one to know one.’

‘Actually,’ said Perdita generously, ‘he’s more Abbie’s friend than mine.’

‘Shut up!’ Abbie kicked her ankle.

‘He’s always singing Abbie’s praises,’ Perdita continued enthusiastically.

‘A singing head.’ Marcus tutted. ‘Now I know you’re from the Funny Farm.’

Perdita looked puzzled. ‘No, I’m from the zoo.’

Marcus and Greg hooted.

A whistle blew. ‘Get in line, children,’ chirped Miss Whelp. ‘Running race today.’

* * *

‘So, m’boy.’ Terry Strode-Boylie eyeballed his son across the dinner table. ‘What did you come top in today?’

Marcus chewed his steak and stared at the table. ‘The usual.’

‘Maths?’

‘Yep.’

‘English?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘PE?’

‘Mmm.’

Under the table Marcus’s mum squeezed his hand. ‘Even if you hadn’t, you know it wouldn’t matter. We’d love you just as much.’

‘What did you say, woman? Of course it matters!’ Terry speared a meaty brick with his fork. ‘Remember this, boy.’ He jabbed the fork at Marcus. ‘I never learned the meaning of second. I always came top, always aimed for the stars – and look where it’s got me.’

Marcus looked. And saw a mouth you didn’t mess with and a nose that meant business.

* * *

Hubris Klench dabbed his mouth and forced himself not to eat the napkin. He was starving. Only two omelettes for dinner. But how could he order another? Inner Mummy had told him that dieting would improve his criminal skills – so diet he must.

His stomach growled. The waiter scurried over. ‘Si Señor?’

Klench swatted him away. ‘I said nothink. Go avay before I eat you.’ Klench pushed his hands against the table. The chair legs screeched backwards.

‘Exercice iss my advice,’ sang Mummy. She may not still be alive, but she was very much kicking in his brain.

Klench waddled out of the hotel. On the pavement he gasped for breath. He should never have come to this country, full of heat and height. Whoever designed these mountains deserved a good smack.

The street was deserted except for two boys on the opposite side. One was whirling a hula hoop round his waist. The other dribbled a football in the dirt.

Inner Mummy tapped Klench on the brain. ‘Go on, Hubes. You know vot to do.’

He shuffled reluctantly across the road. Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket. Sighing, he pointed a gun at the boys. The football rolled into the road. The hula hoop bounced on the ground. The boys ran off squealing.

‘In you get,’ ordered Inner Mummy. Klench stepped miserably into the hoop.

‘Now lift.’

He pulled the hoop up as far as his knees. ‘I cannot do ziss!’ he shrieked as the plastic dug into his flesh. ‘Loosing veight iss for loosers.’ He snapped the hoop and stamped it into the dirt.

For a second his mind went blank. Then darkness swelled like a storm. Thunder roared and lightning flashed through his brain.

‘HUBRIS VILDEBEEST KLENCH!’ roared Inner Mummy. ‘Trim your hide or voe betide!’

3 -Hiyaa!

Marcus Strode-Boylie lifted his foot. Perdita skipped over it. Abbie didn’t and crashed into a desk.

Marcus scowled at Perdita. ‘That was meant for you. For tripping me up in the race.’

‘She did not!’ Abbie rubbed her arm to numb the pain Marcus would love to know he’d caused. ‘Perdita won fair and square.’

But apart from his hair, there was nothing fair about Marcus Strode-Boylie. ‘She’s a cheat,’ he muttered to Greg Fnigg. ‘Cheats at PE, cheats at Maths, cheats at everything.’

‘Hang on.’ Perdita frowned. ‘If I cheat at everything, that means I cheat at cheating. And if I cheat at cheating that means I’m not cheating. Isn’t that funny?’

‘No. But this is.’ Marcus stamped on Perdita’s foot. Then Abbie stamped on his. Then Greg stamped on Abbie’s. Then Abbie stamped on Greg’s.

Except it wasn’t Greg’s. It was the teacher’s – he’d slipped in between them. ‘Whoa there,’ gasped Mr Dabbings.

‘He started it,’ Abbie snarled.

‘She hurt my foot.’ Marcus made a show of rubbing it.

Mr Dabbings nodded. ‘I’m sure your foot feels very hurt, Marcus. And sad, too. Because feet aren’t for fighting, are they? Feet are for dancing and treading grapes. Now let’s all join hands and say a big hello to November the twelfth.’

Abbie said a small hello. She stomped to her desk. ‘Why didn’t you stick up for me,’ she hissed, ‘when I stuck up for you?’

Perdita didn’t seem to hear. ‘Poor Marcus,’ she said, sitting down beside Abbie. ‘He finds it so hard to lose.’

‘Poor Marcus? When he’s spent the whole term making our lives a misery? Oh yeah, my heart goes out to him.’

Perdita nodded. ‘Mine too. I wish we could help him.’

Abbie gazed up at the ceiling. Why do I bother, she wondered, with a friend who understands sarcasm like a lentil understands astrophysics?

Because, answered the ceiling, that’s why she’s your friend. She couldn’t be snide if she tried.

‘Hey,’ said Perdita, ‘look what I made you.’ She plonked a furry brown pencil case on Abbie’s desk.

Abbie squeaked. ‘Is that–?’

‘Yep.’ Perdita nodded proudly. ‘Yeti nostril hair. Remember that piece we saved from the museum? I couldn’t think of a better use for it.’

‘Wow.’ Abbie recalled picking up a dusty tangle from the rubble after the Hair Museum had collapsed last summer. ‘Thanks a mil.’ She grinned up at the ceiling.

The ceiling grinned back. That’s the other reason. She’s the craziest friend in the world.

Mr Dabbings clapped his hands. ‘Settle down now, boys and boyellas. Time for Maths. Page fifty-seven, Count Me In.’

Count me out, thought Abbie, opening her book with a groan. Maths was double yuck these days. There was the single yuck of – well, obviously – Maths. Then the extra yuck when Perdita finished first, got everything right and triggered more malice from Marcus.

The only good thing about Maths was that Mr Dabbings hated it too. ‘It doesn’t really matter how many nuts the squirrel gathered,’ he sighed when Claire Bristles got stuck on question five. ‘What’s important is that he made some granola bars and shared them with his friends.’

‘He collected a hundred and sixty-eight,’ said Perdita. ‘Twelve piles with fourteen nuts in each.’

Mr Dabbings cleared his throat. ‘Correct. I was just about to say that myself.’

Abbie looked at Marcus. He was leaning over his desk, his face scrunched with spite, whispering into Greg’s ear. Greg was sniggering for England.

‘Remember, kids,’ said Mr Dabbings, who hadn’t noticed them, ‘numbers are all very nice, but what’s the point of counting nuts when there’s nothing to collect them in? Books away, overalls on. It’s pottery time.’

Yes, thought Abbie. Goo and squelch and no more sums.

She and Perdita were last in the queue for clay. That was because Marcus and Greg kept letting people in ahead of them. Even Claire, a tall girl with a friendly fringe, slipped in front.

‘You’re pushing in,’ said Abbie.

‘It’s OK,’ said Perdita. ‘I don’t mind being last.’

‘Could’ve fooled me,’ said Marcus over his shoulder, ‘Miss Nutty Know-All.’

Abbie wondered if clay was good for making thumbscrews. She collected her lump and returned to her desk. Perdita was soon smoothing off a perfect bowl. ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Abbie. ‘Who’s it for?’

‘Winnie. To keep her hair things in. She’s always losing them.’

Abbie laughed. It was true: they were always finding the orang-utan’s clips and combs round the zoo.

‘I’ll make a giant fruit bowl,’ said Abbie, ‘for Gina.’ The elephant loved apples – and bowls were simpler than thumbscrews.

‘I’ll help you,’ said Perdita. ‘Let’s get more clay.’

The girls went up to the front desk. Abbie heard a whisper behind her. Then a rustle, then a hiss, like wind whipping up a wheat field.

‘Yeuucch!’ said someone.

Abbie and Perdita spun round. People were giggling at their desks.

‘What?’ cried Abbie.

‘Must be from the zoo,’ said Marcus loudly.

‘Ooh, I wonder which animal?’ said Greg.

‘Hmm. Tiger?’

Abbie’s hand flew to her bottom. ‘You smeared our chairs with clay!’

Perdita examined her orangey hands. ‘No, Marcus, tiger dung would be darker. This looks more like elephant.’

‘You complete …’ Abbie tore off her overall and hurled it at Marcus. It missed by miles.

‘Hey!’ Mr Dabbings put down the bison he was knitting for the North American display. ‘Calm, Abigail.’ He patted the air with his hands. ‘Now, count to three and tell us how you’re feeling.’

Abbie swallowed. Her throat was bursting, her face on fire.

Mr Dabbings put a hand to his ear. ‘Not quite hearing you there, Abigail. But my guess is you’re feeling sad. We all feel sad sometimes, don’t we, kids? And it makes us, well … sad.’ A snigger went round. ‘How about you, Perdita?’

‘Oh, I’m fine.’ She grinned. ‘Actually, Marcus just gave me a great idea. No one seems to know much about zoos here. So why don’t you all come and visit? A school trip. My parents would love it. And so would the animals.’

The class froze. Abbie gasped. And Mr Dabbings’s sideburns wriggled with joy.

* * *

‘Why is Marcus so awful?’ Abbie was slumped at the kitchen table after school. ‘I mean, what’s his problem?’

Mum took a spoonful of crumbs from a pot and sprinkled them over a pie. ‘Who knows, darling? But the more you show you’re upset, the more it’ll encourage him.’

‘I wanted to cry. But I didn’t.’

Mum reached over and stroked Abbie’s chaos of curls. ‘Well done. How did Perdita react?’

‘She didn’t seem to care at all. And can you believe it – she’s invited the whole class to the zoo!’ Abbie covered her face with her hands. ‘She’s already the class joke. Imagine when they see parrots with mohicans and hippos in bubble bath.’

Mum finished sprinkling. ‘Don’t worry. I bet most of them have visited already.’

‘No, they haven’t.’ Abbie’s hands plonked wearily onto the table. ‘They’d boil their bums in butter before supporting Perdita.’

‘Well then, they’ve got a treat in store.’ Mum smoothed the crumbs over the pie with the back of the spoon.

Abbie snorted. ‘They’re bound to find some way to hate it.’

Mum waved the spoon like a mamma on a pizza advert. ‘Thassa notta your problem.’

Abbie sighed. You’d think Mum would understand. Four months ago she’d have ironed raisins to impress the neighbours. Still, on the plus side, it showed how much she’d lightened up. Since meeting the Platts she’d learned to care so much less about other people’s opinions and so much more about having fun.

‘Here.’ Mum scooped up more crumbs. ‘Try some.’

Abbie licked the spoon. ‘Yum. What are they?’

‘Toasted toenails. Coriander says they’re full of vitamins.’

* * *

‘ANOTHER DISASTER LOOMS.’ Abbie was sitting on her bed after dinner, confiding in her tape recorder. Over the term her microphone had become more of a sympathetic ear than the practice ground for a budding reporter. She still wanted to be a journalist, of course. It was just that with school, homework and zoo duties she hadn’t actually got round to writing anything lately.

‘Perdita Platt’s plan to show her class round the zoo,’ she said, ‘is the latest in a string of brain-bashingly bad ideas.’ Abbie paused. Maybe ‘brain-bashingly’ was a bit harsh. What were the other ideas again?

1. Taking a shrunken head to find its shrunken love in the world's biggest rainforest.

2. Bringing a grumpy gran and her whizzy wig along for the ride.

3. Leaving Mum, Dad and Ollie to help Matt run the zoo.

‘… A string of brain-bashingly bad, mind-mashingly mad ideas.’

Abbie switched off the tape recorder. The door opened.

‘Great news.’ Dad danced into her room. ‘I’ve just been on the phone to the Hiyaa! show. They want to interview me about my … er, Fernando’s … er, our book.’ He did a jig on the carpet. ‘Wotcha thinka that then? Your dad’s a celeb!’ He bowed out backwards, whistling the Hiyaa! theme tune.

Abbie switched on the tape recorder again. ‘… A string of brain-bashingly bad, mind-mashingly mad, skull-smashingly sad ideas.’

* * *

It was worse than sad. It was Dad. Sitting there in front of the world at 7.30 on Thursday morning. His bald patch gleamed. His bow tie beamed.

Opposite him sat Caz Cazoo and Wippy Winkel. ‘Hiyaaa!’ they yelled as the theme music faded.

‘Plonkers,’ muttered Grandma, watching the telly from the sitting-room sofa. Abbie guessed that she didn’t just mean the presenters. And she was right. Why had Dad insisted on that spotty bow tie? It looked like a disease.

‘This morning,’ Caz gasped from the screen, in her so-excited-I’ve-forgotten-to-breathe voice, ‘we’re thrilled to have a sneak preview of a book that really sticks its neck out.’ She held up the book. Fernando was understandably sensitive about his appearance and had refused to be photographed for the cover. Instead there was a painting of men in armour shooting men in loincloths.

‘Heads and Tales: Confessions of a Conquistador,’ breathed Caz, ‘will be head-ing for the bookshelves soon. Joining us is the co-author, Graham Hartley, a man who’s a-head of his time!’

Fernando, who was perching on Grandma’s lap, snorted at the telly. ‘He not the Ahead. I the Ahead.’

Wippy Winkel winked from the screen. ‘Yes, viewers,’ he said. ‘Graham’s account of a conquering conk will soon be hitting the head-lines!’ He slapped his shiny green trousers.

Fernando wobbled dangerously on Grandma’s lap. ‘Ees my head! My lines!’

‘Quiet,’ said Mum. She gazed adoringly at the telly.