Sticky Beak Read Free Page B

big blower and the sunlight slants through the clouds of spray.
    Today’s was a beauty and I decided it was a good sign.
    It wasn’t.
    It didn’t even have a pot of gold at the end of it.
    Just Darryn Peck.
    Halfway into town I turned a corner and there he was, coming towards me with two of his mates.
    He was carrying something in a cage. At first it looked like a white feather duster with a blob of custard on it, but I knew that couldn’t be right. Even Darryn Peck wouldn’t carry a feather duster around in a cage.
    As he got closer I saw it was a cockatoo with a row of yellow feathers sticking out the top of its head.
    Then Darryn stopped kicking dust at his mates and saw me.
    His red lips stretched into a smirk.
    â€˜Oh no, it’s Batts!’ he shrieked, backing away pretending to be scared. ‘Don’t go too close, she might be carrying a trifle and slip over.’
    His mates thought this was so hilarious I looked away in case they split their daks.
    Then Darryn did a strange thing.
    He came over to me and spoke in a quiet, serious voice, just like a normal person. ‘Was that an accident last night,’ he asked, ‘or did you chuck that trifle on purpose?’
    I was so stunned, partly by the question and partly because I’d never heard Darryn say anything in a serious voice before, that my hands stayed where they were, gripped around my rolled-up notice.
    We looked at each other for a moment, then Darryn nodded slowly. ‘Good one,’ he said, and winked.
    People generally don’t like being winked at by Darryn Peck. I’ve seen teachers fly into a rage and send him out to stand on the oval. But as I turned away and walked on, heart thumping, Darryn and his mates chortling behind me about how funny Mr Fowler had looked with pineapple on his head, I realised I was feeling better than I had all morning.
    I almost went back and told Darryn about Mr Fowler wiping his hands on his blotter, but I resisted the temptation and hurried on into town.
    It was just as well I did, because when I arrived at the newsagents my name was already mud.
    Two elderly women I didn’t even know glared at me across the top of their wedding magazines and muttered things to each other.
    When I’d finished the photocopying, I gave them a notice each and hurried out.
    The main street’s always busy on a Saturday morning, but today there were even more people than usual. I crept along sticking notices on power poles and rubbish bins and hoped they hadn’t come to get their hands on me.
    A lot of them seemed to be staring at me. I kept my eyes on the ground except when I had to reach up with the sticky tape.
    Which is why I didn’t see the queue until I almost walked into it.
    The queue that stretched out of the dry-cleaners and along the front of the cake shop next door.
    I looked down again and hoped desperately that Mr Shapiro the dry-cleaner had started selling concert tickets to make ends meet, and that the people were queueing to buy tickets for next weekend’s Carla Tamworth concert.
    Then I remembered that the concert is part of the Agricultural Show, so it’s free.
    I looked up and saw that every person in the queue was holding a dress or a suit or a skirt and blouse, each one streaked and spotted with jelly and custard stains.
    I hoped Mr Shapiro’s dry-cleaning machines were in good running order.
    People in the queue were starting to look at me and mutter to each other.
    I could feel my face going red and the knot in my guts growing back to the size of Uluru Rock including the car park and the kiosk.
    I’d have given anything at that moment to be able to speak with my mouth.
    Money.
    Jewels.
    My softball bat and the blue satin dress Dad bought me to wear at the wedding.
    Anything.
    Just for two minutes so I could read my apology out in a loud clear voice and everyone could see that I meant it.
    I squeezed the thought out of my head and took a