Read Online My Life and Other Massive Mistakes by Tristan Bancks - Free Book Online
Authors: Tristan Bancks
Ads: Link
heâs changed his diet and started drinking prune and baked-bean smoothiesfor breakfast. Or maybe old age is just not agreeing with his digestive system. But something has gone very wrong inside Mr Schmittz.
Kids are burying their noses in the necks of their jumpers and creating gasmasks with their cupped hands. Theyâre trying to do it politely, you can tell. No one wants to offend Mr Schmittz. He is at his desk listening to Sasha present her science project. I feel sorry for Sasha, standing so close to the source of the stink. She uses a miniature plastic cow to illustrate the effect of methane on global warming, and she looks a little green and woozy. Every 30 seconds or so, she turns her head away from Mr Schmittz and takes a large gulp of air, likea swimmer drawing breath.
Sheâs trying not to make eye contact with anyone because if she does she will laugh, and everybody knows not to laugh when Mr Schmittz is having a bad day. The first time he âbroke windâ (as my nan would say) in class was about four months ago. It was a long, tight, dry ripping noise and the class fell into hysterics. Mr Schmittz went mental. Itâs the only time Iâve ever heard him raise his voice, but he was so embarrassed and so angry that he gave us all recess detention. Since then weâve tried to ignore the smell but itâs getting difficult.
The main problem is that itâs winter and Mr Schmittz likes the windows closed on account of the pneumonia that almost killed him three years ago.
Sasha tells us about the molecular structure of methane and how it can be used as rocket fuel. She launches a hand-painted rocket into the air, adding blast-off sound effects.
Iâm trying not to look at Jack, whoâs sitting next to me, because if I look at Jack I will laugh and if I laugh Mr Schmittz will go wild, and I would rather smell 10,000 of his farts than have him yell at us again. Somehow itâs worse when someone who doesnât usually yell starts yelling. My mum can yell all day, every day, and I hardly even notice. But that one word, âQUIET!â, from Mr Schmittz has taken me months to get over.
But I have to get out of this room, or at least open a window. If I donât, I might need to have a nose transplant.
Sasha finishes her presentation and there are a few half-hearted claps. Only Mr Schmittz is enthusiastic. âWell done, Sally! Lovely work.â
Sasha doesnât even bother correcting him on her name. She just grabs her assignment and scurries back to her desk. The air wobbles in front of her. Waves of hot stink radiate out to the rest of the room. Kids are physically pushed back in their chairs.
I put up my hand. âSir, can I please go to the bathroom?â
âSorry, Todd. Lunch is only 15 minutes away. We have a few more presentations to get through. Iâm sure you can hold it in. Who would like to go next?â
No one offers.
I reach over and, ever so quietly, inch the window open. Thereâs a loud wood-on-wood squeal.
âClose the window, please, Todd,â says Mr Schmittz, squinting at me through his monocle.
âItâs Tom. And I ââ
âItâs not summer.â
âNo, but ââ
âIâm sure you donât want to see me catch my death.â
âNo, Mr Schmittz.â
âThen close the window.â
I squeeze my nose to the crack, suck in one almighty breath and shut the window.
Jack raises his hand. âSir?â
Mr Schmittzâs watery eyes take on a serious look. Jack is the one kid who really gets up his nose.
âYes, Jeremy,â says Mr Schmittz.
âItâs Jack,â he says. âCould I please go next?â
I know why Jack wants to go next. He loves the smell of farts. Not just his own. I mean, he loves the smell of his own. He thinks they smell like fresh, buttery popcorn with a hint of just-cut grass and chocolate frogs.But he likes the smell of mine, too.
Kids are burying their noses in the necks of their jumpers and creating gasmasks with their cupped hands. Theyâre trying to do it politely, you can tell. No one wants to offend Mr Schmittz. He is at his desk listening to Sasha present her science project. I feel sorry for Sasha, standing so close to the source of the stink. She uses a miniature plastic cow to illustrate the effect of methane on global warming, and she looks a little green and woozy. Every 30 seconds or so, she turns her head away from Mr Schmittz and takes a large gulp of air, likea swimmer drawing breath.
Sheâs trying not to make eye contact with anyone because if she does she will laugh, and everybody knows not to laugh when Mr Schmittz is having a bad day. The first time he âbroke windâ (as my nan would say) in class was about four months ago. It was a long, tight, dry ripping noise and the class fell into hysterics. Mr Schmittz went mental. Itâs the only time Iâve ever heard him raise his voice, but he was so embarrassed and so angry that he gave us all recess detention. Since then weâve tried to ignore the smell but itâs getting difficult.
The main problem is that itâs winter and Mr Schmittz likes the windows closed on account of the pneumonia that almost killed him three years ago.
Sasha tells us about the molecular structure of methane and how it can be used as rocket fuel. She launches a hand-painted rocket into the air, adding blast-off sound effects.
Iâm trying not to look at Jack, whoâs sitting next to me, because if I look at Jack I will laugh and if I laugh Mr Schmittz will go wild, and I would rather smell 10,000 of his farts than have him yell at us again. Somehow itâs worse when someone who doesnât usually yell starts yelling. My mum can yell all day, every day, and I hardly even notice. But that one word, âQUIET!â, from Mr Schmittz has taken me months to get over.
But I have to get out of this room, or at least open a window. If I donât, I might need to have a nose transplant.
Sasha finishes her presentation and there are a few half-hearted claps. Only Mr Schmittz is enthusiastic. âWell done, Sally! Lovely work.â
Sasha doesnât even bother correcting him on her name. She just grabs her assignment and scurries back to her desk. The air wobbles in front of her. Waves of hot stink radiate out to the rest of the room. Kids are physically pushed back in their chairs.
I put up my hand. âSir, can I please go to the bathroom?â
âSorry, Todd. Lunch is only 15 minutes away. We have a few more presentations to get through. Iâm sure you can hold it in. Who would like to go next?â
No one offers.
I reach over and, ever so quietly, inch the window open. Thereâs a loud wood-on-wood squeal.
âClose the window, please, Todd,â says Mr Schmittz, squinting at me through his monocle.
âItâs Tom. And I ââ
âItâs not summer.â
âNo, but ââ
âIâm sure you donât want to see me catch my death.â
âNo, Mr Schmittz.â
âThen close the window.â
I squeeze my nose to the crack, suck in one almighty breath and shut the window.
Jack raises his hand. âSir?â
Mr Schmittzâs watery eyes take on a serious look. Jack is the one kid who really gets up his nose.
âYes, Jeremy,â says Mr Schmittz.
âItâs Jack,â he says. âCould I please go next?â
I know why Jack wants to go next. He loves the smell of farts. Not just his own. I mean, he loves the smell of his own. He thinks they smell like fresh, buttery popcorn with a hint of just-cut grass and chocolate frogs.But he likes the smell of mine, too.
Similar Books
