Smash! Page 2

  He’d been begging his parents to buy him one since Christmas. Eugene had one, so did Royston Rich (with his name in gold letters). If he had a stunt scooter, Bertie could learn tricks – back flips, twists and double somersaults. He’d be the Stunt King of the world. But only if he won the scooter. He glanced around. What if someone else got their hands on it before him?

  Nick spoke in his ear.

  “See anything you want?”

  “Not really,” Bertie lied. “The prizes are all pretty boring.”

  “Yes, apart from one,” smiled Nick. “I saw you drooling over the scooter.”

  Bertie frowned. He should have been more careful. “You’d be useless on a scooter,” he said.

  “Actually I’ve always wanted one,” said Nick.

  “Since when?”

  “Since this evening,” said Nick.

  “Well, forget it, because that scooter’s mine,” warned Bertie.

  Nick smirked. “Not if I win it first!”

  “No chance,” said Bertie.

  “Want a bet?” said Nick. “Tonight’s my lucky night.”

  Bertie scowled. Nick could never ride a stunt scooter in a million years. He’d probably run over his own foot. The only reason he wanted one was to spite Bertie. Well, they’d soon see about that. From what Gran had told him bingo was a piece of cake. All he had to do was collect a few numbers and the scooter would be his.

  Miss Boot rose to her feet. The first game was about to start.

  “I’m sure many of you have played bingo before,” said Miss Boot. “As you know, it’s a simple game of chance.”

  “Fat chance in your case,” muttered Nick.

  “In a moment I will call out the numbers,” Miss Boot went on. “The first person to cross off every number on their card is the winner. They can come forward and choose one of our marvellous prizes.”

  Bingo cards were handed out to every table. Bertie studied the rows of numbers.

  “Good luck, Bertie!” whispered Nick. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  Bertie stuck out his tongue.

  Miss Boot turned a handle, making the coloured balls bounce inside their cage.

  CLUNK! PLOP! One of them rolled down the chute.

  “Number four – knock on the door!” Miss Boot shouted.

  Bertie searched the numbers on his bingo card. Rats! No number four. He glanced at Nick, who seemed more interested in sneaking a sweet from his grandma’s handbag.

  “Ooh, lucky for some!” Julia giggled, marking her card with a pencil.

  The cage spun round and another ball shot out. “Forty-four – droopy drawers!” cried Miss Boot.

  Bertie couldn’t see what her pants had to do with it, but forty-four wasn’t on his card.

  The game went on. Bertie’s luck improved. He’d managed to cross off nine numbers on his card. Only six more to go and he would win.

  Miss Boot held up the next ball. “Twenty-six – pick and mix!”

  “BINGO!” someone whooped.

  Bertie looked up. Nick’s grandma was on her feet, waving her card in the air.

  “You’re kidding!” groaned Bertie.

  “I don’t believe it,” moaned Gran.

  “Tough luck, Bertie!” jeered Nick. “You snooze, you lose!”

  Bertie watched Nick’s grandma go forward as people started to clap.

  “That’s SO unfair,” muttered Gran. “She doesn’t even like bingo!”

  Nick’s grandma inspected the prizes.

  Not the scooter, please not the scooter, Bertie thought to himself.

  Julia’s hand hovered for a moment – then she chose the picnic set and carried it back to her seat. Bertie breathed a sigh of relief.

  Miss Boot announced that they would take a short break for drinks and pizza.

  Bertie found himself in the queue behind Know-All Nick.

  “Your grandma’s so lucky,” said Bertie, helping himself to a slice of pizza.

  Nick smirked. “You think it’s luck?”

  “What else do you call it?” asked Bertie.

  “Skill,” said Nick. “I can tell you why she won.”

  “Why?” said Bertie.

  Nick looked round then lowered his voice. “Because I have power over Miss Boot,” he whispered. “It’s called mind control.”

  Bertie rolled his eyes. “You’re such a liar!”

  “That’s what you think,” bragged Nick. “You won’t be laughing when I win the next game.”

  Bertie watched his enemy bite into a big slice of pepperoni pizza. He’s making it up, he thought. Nick could only control Miss Boot’s mind if he had superpowers. And even if he did, the balls were chosen by pure chance. All the same, Nick’s grandma had won the first game. Bertie decided he’d have to keep a close eye on that two-faced sneak.

  Miss Boot took her seat and the next round began.

  RATTLE-RATTLE-PLOP! Another ball whizzed down the chute.

  “Sixty-two! Tickety boo!” cried Miss Boot.

  “YES!” said Bertie, crossing off the number. He glanced over at Nick, who was taking another sweet from his grandma’s bag. He didn’t even seem to be paying attention.

  “Eighty-five – staying alive!” boomed Miss Boot.

  Result! thought Bertie – two out of two. At this rate he’d soon cross off every number. Wouldn’t Nick turn green when he walked off with the scooter? Mind control – as if! For a moment there Nick had almost had him fooled!

  The balls spun round and dropped down the chute. Miss Boot called out one number after another. Bertie was so excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat. Just two more numbers and he would win! Nine or forty-one, he prayed, fixing his eyes on Miss Boot.

  PLOP! The next coloured ball shot down the chute. Miss Boot held it up.

  “Twenty-two – two little ducks!” she shouted.

  “BINGO!” yelled a voice.

  Bertie sunk his head onto the table. No! Please! Anyone but Know-All Nick!

  Nick stood up and patted him on the back. “Like I said, Bertie, mind control!” he grinned.

  Bertie could hardly bear to watch. Miss Boot checked the winning card and led Nick over to the table to choose his prize. Nick made a big deal of taking his time, enjoying Bertie’s torture. He looked at the toaster and picked up the hairdryer. At last he chose his prize – the stunt scooter.

  “It’s so unfair!” groaned Bertie.

  Gran shook her head. “I know!” she said. “What are the chances of them both winning?”

  Bertie sat up. It was a good question. It was almost as if Nick knew which numbers would come up. But that wasn’t possible … was it? Bertie noticed Nick had left something on his chair – his grandma’s handbag. She had seen it too and tried to grab it. But Bertie got there first.

  “Hey, give that back!” she cried.

  Wait a minute, what was this? Bertie found sheets of sticky-backed numbers hidden among the sweets! He leaped to his feet.

  “HE CHEATED!” he yelled.

  “BERTIE!” snapped Miss Boot. “SIT DOWN!”

  “But he did, Miss!” said Bertie. “He’s been sticking numbers on his card.”

  “I haven’t!” whined Nick, turning pink.

  Nick’s grandma stood up.

  “Really! Some people are such bad losers.”

  “If you don’t believe me, look in the bag!” said Bertie, holding it up.

  Miss Boot was losing patience. “Let me see that,” she said.

  Bertie went over to the stage and gave her the bag. Miss Boot looked at the sheets of sticky numbers, then at Nick’s winning card. On a closer look, she found many of the numbers could be peeled off. She screwed up the piece of paper.

  “NICHOLAS!” she thundered.

  Nick let out a wail. “It wasn’t my fault!”

  “Then whose fault was it?” asked Miss Boot.

  “My grandma’s,” bleated Nick. “It was her idea!”

  People gasped and turned their heads.

>   “Don’t tell lies!” said Julia.

  “I’m not!” squawked Nick. “You said that no one would find out.”

  “THAT’S ENOUGH!” barked Miss Boot. “You should both be ashamed of yourselves! Give back your prizes right now.”

  Nick and his grandma did as they were told. As they left the stage they found rows of angry faces staring at them.

  “BOO! CHEATS!” cried someone. Others joined in.

  Nick and his grandma didn’t wait to hear more. They grabbed their things and fled from the hall, banging the door behind them.

  Miss Boot shook her head. “Well,

  Bertie,” she said. “For once I must thank you for interrupting.”

  “That’s okay,” said Bertie. “But what about their prizes?”

  Miss Boot thought for a moment. She could return them to the table, but there was only half an hour left and they’d have prizes left over. It seemed a terrible waste. “I guess someone should have them,” she said. “I don’t suppose you like scooters?”

  “LIKE THEM?” gasped Bertie.

  He could hardly believe his luck – and to think he almost hadn’t come! He couldn’t wait to zoom into school on his new stunt scooter on Monday morning. It turned out Gran had been right all along – bingo was the greatest game ever!

  Bertie watched the golf ball roll across the lawn and into the small black cup.

  WHIRR-CLICK-PLOCK!

  It spat it out.

  “Wow!” cried Bertie. “Can I have a go?”

  Dad shook his head. “Maybe another time,” he said. In Bertie’s hands a golf club was a dangerous weapon.

  “Please,” begged Bertie. “Just one little go!”

  Dad sighed. “All right, but for goodness’ sake take it easy.”

  Bertie gripped the club and took careful aim.

  “Gently,” warned Dad.

  Bertie swung the golf club.

  THWUCK!

  The ball flew like a missile and cannoned off the garden wall.

  “ARGH!” Dad ducked as it zoomed past his head and buried itself in the hedge.

  “HA, HA! Good shot, Bertie!” Bertie looked round to see Royston Rich getting out of his dad’s sports car. Royston got on Bertie’s nerves. His head was so big you’d think his dad would need a larger car.

  “What do you want?” asked Bertie.

  “Oh, we were just passing by,” said Royston. “Actually we’ve been playing at Dad’s golf club!”

  Mr Rich put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m a member at Pudsley Hills,” he said. “On the committee, in fact.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “You don’t say.”

  “Dad’s awesome at golf,” bragged Royston. “He’s won tons of trophies.”

  Mr Rich chuckled. “I am pretty good, though I say so myself.” He turned to Dad. “I didn’t know you played, old man.”

  “Oh yes,” said Dad. “I’m not bad – though I say so myself.”

  “Really?” Mr Rich smiled, smoothing his moustache. “Well, we should have a game sometime.”

  “Anytime you like,” said Dad.

  “Super. Next Sunday then?”

  “You’re on.”

  Bertie couldn’t believe his ears. A golf match against Mr Rich – surely that was asking for trouble? Still, he didn’t want to miss all the fun.

  “Can I come?” he begged.

  “Why not?” said Mr Rich. “The boys can act as our caddies.”

  “Fine by me,” said Dad.

  “Me too,” said Bertie, wondering what a caddy could be.

  Mr Rich strolled back to his car. “By the way, a little tip,” he said to Dad. “Don’t lift your head when you play the ball.”

  “See you Bertie! You are so going to lose,” sneered Royston, sticking out his tongue.

  “Get lost, goofy!” said Bertie.

  Mr Rich drove off with a screech of tyres.

  Bertie frowned at his dad. “I thought you hated him?” he said.

  “Maurice Rich? Can’t stand the man,” said Dad.

  “So why play golf with him?”

  “To beat him, of course,” said Dad. “It’s time I taught that snooty show-off a lesson.”

  Over supper Bertie mentioned who they’d run into that morning.

  “Maurice Rich?” groaned Mum. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing,” said Dad.

  “He wants to play Dad at golf,” said Bertie.

  Suzy stopped eating. Mum narrowed her eyes.

  “You’re not serious?” she said.

  Dad shrugged. “It’s only a game.”

  “Oh yes!” scoffed Suzy. “That’s what you said last time!”

  Bertie hadn’t forgotten last time. On Sports Day both dads had joined in the Parent-Child race. It had ended in an ugly brawl.

  “He challenged me,” said Dad. “You know what a pompous twerp he is!”

  “So ignore him,” said Mum. “Honestly, you’re worse than a pair of kids.”

  “I could hardly say no. He saw me practising,” argued Dad.

  “For the first time in ages,” said Mum. “Your clubs have probably gone rusty.”

  Bertie wiped his nose. “I’m good at golf,” he said.

  “You’ve never played,” said Suzy.

  “I have! On holiday, remember?”

  Suzy rolled her eyes. “That was crazy golf, dumbo.”

  “It’s still golf,” said Bertie. “And actually it’s a lot harder ’cos there’s castles and stuff in the way.”

  Dad shook his head. “This is real golf, Bertie, on a proper golf course. And if you’re my caddy, you’ll have to behave.”

  Suzy giggled. “You’re taking Bertie?”

  “I’d be more use than you,” said Bertie. “Anyway, what is a caddy?”

  “It’s a sort of helper,” explained Dad. “You carry my golf bag and hand me a club when I need one.”

  Bertie frowned. “Can’t I do potting?”

  “It’s called putting,” sighed Dad. “And no, you can’t. Your job is to do what I tell you and not get in the way.”

  Bertie pushed some peas round his plate. What was the point of going if he wasn’t allowed to do anything? He wanted to beat the Riches just as much as Dad – after all, he’d be the one to suffer if they lost. Royston would brag about it for months.

  Bertie stared out of the window as they pulled into the car park. Royston and his dad were waiting by the clubhouse, wearing matching outfits – red jumpers, yellow trousers and white golf caps. Bertie thought they looked like two giant sticks of rock.

  Mr Rich’s golf bag was almost as big as him and stuffed with shiny new clubs. Beside it, Dad’s bag looked like it came from a charity shop.

  “Morning!” said Mr Rich. “How about a little bet to make this interesting? Twenty pounds?”

  “Make it thirty,” said Dad.

  Mr Rich chuckled. “Suits me, if you want to lose your money.”

  Thirty pounds? Bertie’s mouth hung open. That was practically a year’s pocket money! He hoped Dad knew what he was doing.

  Mr Rich put his bag in the back of a golf buggy and climbed in beside Royston. “See you at the first hole!” he called.

  Dad nodded. “Where’d you get the buggy?”

  “Oh, didn’t I say, old man? We took the last one,” grinned Mr Rich. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the walk!” He threw them a wave and drove off.

  “It’s not fair!” grumbled Bertie. “Why do they get a buggy and not us?”

  “It’s healthier to walk,” snapped Dad. “Bring the trolley.”

  Bertie dragged the trolley behind him. It had one squeaky wheel. He kept tipping it too far and spilling golf clubs everywhere.

  Royston and Mr Rich were waiting for them at the first hole. Bertie stared.

  “Where’s the golf course?” he said.

  “This is it,” said Dad.

  “But it’s just grass and trees! I can’t even see the hole!” moaned Bertie.

  Dad
pointed to a tiny red flag in the distance.

  “That’s miles away!” cried Bertie. “It’ll take forever!”

  Mr Rich cleared his throat. “Are we playing or not?” he said.

  “Sorry,” said Dad. “Go ahead.”

  Mr Rich stood over his ball. He swung back his club.

  PLINK!

  The ball flew straight down the middle of the fairway.

  Dad was next. He placed his ball, stood over it and waggled the club. Then he swished the air a few times.

  “Aren’t you meant to hit it?” asked Bertie.

  Dad glared. “I’m going to if you’ll shut up.”

  PLUNK!

  The ball swerved left and vanished into a thick clump of trees.

  “Oh, bad luck, old man!” smirked Mr Rich. Bertie shot his dad a look of disgust. The least he could do was hit the ball straight.

  Royston climbed into the golf buggy beside his dad.

  “See you up at the green – if you ever get there!” he sniggered.

  By the time they reached the green, Bertie’s legs were aching. The Riches were waiting for them.

  Mr Rich putted his ball and watched it go in.

  “We win the hole!” whooped Royston.

  Dad filled in the score-card.

  “Come on,” he said to Bertie. “And stop dropping all the clubs.”