Pencil of Doom! (4 page)

The next morning Mr Brainfright called the class to order.

‘I'm afraid I've got some bad news,' he said.

‘Oh no,' said Gretel. ‘You're not leaving, are you?'

‘No, nothing like that,' Mr Brainfright assured her.

‘The school holidays have been cancelled?' I suggested.

‘No,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘Not quite
that
bad.'

‘The school holidays have been extended?' Fiona gasped.

‘What would be bad about that?' asked Mr Brainfright.

‘I
love
school!' said Fiona. ‘There's so much to learn and so little time. The more school the better, as far as I'm concerned.'

‘Ah, yes,' said Mr Brainfright, ‘I couldn't agree
more. But that's not the bad news. The bad news is that Clive and his brother Fred are in hospital. They are both in a very serious condition and may not return to school for quite some time . . .'

‘What happened?' said Jenny, looking worried.

‘Well,' said Mr Brainfright, ‘apparently they were on their garage roof trying to launch a model aeroplane. Fred fell off the roof and then Clive did too . . . and landed right on top of Fred! And then, to add insult to injury, their plane rolled off the roof and crashed on top of Clive.'

As he was telling us this, some kids started giggling.

‘Come now, children,' said Mr Brainfright, ‘it's not funny . . . not funny at all!'

He was right. It wasn't funny.

Newton, Gretel, Jenny, Jack and I stared at each other in open-mouthed astonishment. It was just like Jack's cartoon! Well, give or take a few small details—but the result was the same.

I looked out the window and noticed a cloud pass in front of the sun. A sudden wind blew autumn leaves off the tree in a wild flurry.

I opened my pencil case and looked at the pencil.

The skull winked at me.

We went straight from morning roll call to the art room.

Mrs Rainbow, the art teacher, gave us all a big smile as we came in. Mrs Rainbow loved art and encouraged us to explore and express ourselves in whatever way we felt like. The only way she didn't like us expressing ourselves was in the form of clay fights, paint fights or running with scissors. Apart from that, it was pretty much anything goes.

Jenny, Gretel, Newton, Jack and I sat at the collage table in the back of the room but we weren't doing any collage. All we could think about was what had happened to Fred and Clive.

‘It's just like your cartoon, Jack!' said Jenny.

‘No, it's not,' Jack replied. ‘It's nothing like it! In my cartoon they were flying in an aeroplane and then had engine trouble and had to bail out and their parachutes failed to open!'

‘And then?' said Jenny.

Jack made a face. ‘Hmmm . . . let me see,' he said. ‘Well, I think Fred hit the ground and then Clive fell on top of him and the aeroplane crashed on top of them both . . .'

‘Notice any similarities?' Jenny asked.

‘None at all,' said Jack, stubborn as always. ‘Well . . . maybe a couple. What are you trying to say? That my cartoon
caused
their accident?'

‘Way to go, Jack!' said Gretel. ‘They sure had it coming!'

‘It's not funny,' said Jenny.

‘I didn't say it
was
funny,' said Jack. ‘But it's not my fault! It's never happened before with any of my cartoons. It's just a coincidence!'

‘No,' I said, ‘it's too close for coincidence. It's the pencil. There's something weird, something dangerous about that pencil!'

‘Don't be stupid, Henry,' said Jack. ‘It's a really, really good pencil.'

‘Not true!' I said. ‘Remember how it made Mr Brainfright fall out the window and almost choke to death?'

‘That wasn't the pencil's fault!' said Jack, shaking his head. ‘It's not the first time Mr Brainfright's fallen out the window. He fell out twice in one day once. Remember? Or are you conveniently forgetting that fact?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But you're conveniently forgetting the fact that what you drew about Fred and Clive came true!'

‘But why would it?' said Jack. ‘Do you think the pencil is cursed? Is that what you're trying to tell me?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Maybe.'

‘That's ridiculous,' said Jack.

‘Maybe,' I said. ‘But maybe not . . . I once read a story about a writer who had this typewriter and whatever stories he wrote on the typewriter came true. He wrote a story about a really powerful monster that couldn't be destroyed by bullets or bombs, and then a real monster just like the one he described started attacking the city. In the end the only way to destroy the monster and save the city was to destroy the typewriter that he'd written the story on.'

By now, Newton's eyes were practically popping out of his face in terror.

‘It's okay, Newton,' Jenny said, patting his arm. ‘It's just a story.'

‘But it
could
happen,' I said.

‘Are you going to destroy the pencil?' said Jack. ‘Because I won't let you. I've never drawn as well as I did with that pencil.
It's the best pencil ever!
'

‘How are you all going?' asked Mrs Rainbow,
coming up to the collage table. ‘Have you started yet?'

‘Not exactly, Mrs Rainbow,' Jenny answered.

‘Having trouble getting ideas?' she said.

‘No,' said Gretel. ‘We're just having a discussion . . . about a pencil.'

‘Anything I can help you with?'

‘Yes,' I said, looking pointedly at Jack. ‘What would you do if you had a pencil and you had good reason to believe that whatever you drew with it came true?'

Mrs Rainbow smiled. ‘A
magic
pencil?'

‘Maybe,' I said.

‘Well,' said Mrs Rainbow, ‘if I was lucky enough to have a pencil like that, I think I would only draw nice things with it.'

‘Nice things,' I said. ‘Of course! That's brilliant! Thanks, Mrs Rainbow.'

‘Pleased to be of service,' she said, her attention turning to a loud noise on the other side of the room. Penny had just fallen off the life-sized papier-mâché pony she and Gina had been working on for the last few months.

‘So we don't have to destroy the pencil?' said Jack, as Mrs Rainbow rushed to assist Penny.

‘We need to do an experiment first,' I said.

‘But I don't want anybody else to get hurt,' said Jenny.

‘Don't worry,' I assured her, ‘we won't draw anything bad. This time, like Mrs Rainbow suggested, we'll draw something nice and see if it comes true. That way we'll know if it's really magic or not!'

Jenny smiled. ‘You know what?' she said. ‘I've always wanted a kitten. Can I draw that?'

‘Of course you can,' I said, giving her the pencil. ‘I don't see how a kitten could hurt anybody.'

Jenny took a piece of paper and began to draw herself holding a really cute kitten. Although Jenny was nowhere near as good at drawing as Jack, her picture had the same special quality that had made Jack's drawing so vivid.

It was a beautiful picture. So cute and so alive! You could practically hear the kitten purring.

‘That's great, Jenny,' said Gretel, reaching for the pencil. ‘You've given me an idea!'

‘What are you going to draw?' I said.

‘Something that I've always wanted as well,' said Gretel, her eyes shining.

‘A kitten?' Newton guessed.

‘No,' said Gretel. ‘To beat my dad at arm wrestling. He's the only person I can't beat . . . apart from myself, of course.'

We nodded.

Gretel was not only the strongest girl in the school, she was the strongest person. Nobody could beat her at arm wrestling—not even Mr Grunt, the sports teacher, and he had arms as thick as most people's legs.

I could only imagine how thick Gretel's dad's arms must be. Well, I didn't have to imagine for long. Gretel's picture told the whole story.

‘I'm done,' said Gretel, passing the pencil to me. ‘Your turn, Henry. What do you want?'

What did I want? That was easy. To win the
Northwest Chronicle
's annual short-story competition. This year I'd entered a story called ‘Treasure Fever'. The presentation was to be held that evening in the town square. The winner got a framed certificate and one hundred dollars in prize money.

I'd received a letter telling me that my story was on the short list, but I wasn't holding out any real hope of winning the big prize. There was some tough competition out there this year. I knew Fiona McBrain and David Worthy had entered, and they were both really good at everything. I figured a little extra help couldn't hurt.

I held the pencil tightly.

The skull winked.

I shuddered and, despite a bad feeling in my stomach, began to draw.