Virtual Liam
by Toby James (11 years)

The day Liam told me that he could be sucked into a computer, he didn't 
bargain for my reply.
"Prove it," I said.
Liam laughed – nervously.  "No way!" he said.  "It just happened by 
accident.  It would be too risky to try it again." 
Liam had lived in our street for about six months, but I'd only just 
got to know him.  He was always saying that his ambition was to work 
for NASA.  I figured he'd probably get there one day, too – he was very 
good at manic rocket impersonations.  
It wasn't until I met Liam at the shops one day that I asked him over 
to our place.  He arrived that afternoon, and we played on my new 
computer for a while.  It was in the middle of a game that he told me the 
stuff about how he could be sucked into a computer.
"Go on," I said again, "prove it."
"We-ll …"  He hesitated.  Then he looked at me to check whether I 
really meant it.
I nodded, and straight away, Liam gave this weird laugh and got into 
the DOS prompt.  He typed something very quickly, and all of a sudden, 
the computer started whirring.  Static came bursting out of the speakers, 
and in a flash, Liam was gone!
Before I had time to think, a window appeared on the screen in front 
of me, and there was a computer-generated Liam, full of life and in 3-D.  
The static cleared, and the startled look on Liam's face was replaced by 
a grin of delight.
"Hey!" said a voice from the speakers, "it worked!"
I was speechless.  Then I said "The thing is, how are we going to get 
you out of there?"
Liam laughed.  "I don't remember the return code, and what does it 
matter, anyway?  It's cool being in here.  I can do anything.  I can fly, 
jump off buildings, die and come back to life again …"
"That's all very well for you," I said, "but what am I going to tell 
your mum and dad when they ask where you are?  They'll never believe 
this in a million years!"
A worried look crossed Liam's face.  "You're right," he said, "they 
won't."  
For a few seconds, we stared at each other.  Then Liam said "What 
about copying me onto disk?  That way, you can carry me around to my 
place and bring me up on our computer at home.  When my parents see 
me, they'll have to believe you – and maybe my dad will know how to get 
me out of here."
Liam's dad was great with computers.  He used to design those little 
green cards that go on computer circuitry.  He was our only hope.
I was just taking out a fresh disk when, suddenly, I thought of a 
problem.  If I copied Liam onto disk, there'd be two of him.  Two Liams 
would be disastrous!  I made a mental note to delete the Liam on my own 
computer as soon as his dad got him safely back from the disk.
Inside the drive, the disk whirred and clicked.  "OK, I'm gonna have 
to lose you for a minute or two while I prepare to copy," I warned Liam.
"No worries," said Liam.
The trouble was, there were worries – big ones!  When I reopened the 
screen that Liam had been on, he wasn't there!  "Hey, Liam!" I panicked, 
shouting into the speaker.  "Where are you?"
A faint voice came back, and a moment later, he reappeared, removing 
a racing helmet from his head.  "I was just doing a lap of rally driving," 
he said.  "Some of the games you have on here are amazing." 
"Just don't play Raptor or Fury," I warned.
Without waiting for his reply, I copied Liam onto disk, put the disk 
in my pocket, and hurried out the door.  
"Just going round to McConnell's," I called back to Mum as I passed 
her in the garden.
I ran all the way, and by the time I got to Liam's place, I had the 
most terrible stitch.  I knocked at the door, and Liam's dad opened it.  
He had paint splattered all over his arms and legs.
"Where's Liam?" he asked.
I took a deep breath.  "Well, it all happened like this …" 
When I'd finished telling the story, Liam's dad looked at me as 
though I was psycho.
"Very funny," he said.  "Now tell me where he is."
"If you let me use your computer," I pleaded, "I'll show you."
He nodded, expecting me to give way and admit the joke.  When I 
didn't, he took me up to the computer room.  I put my disk into A-drive 
and opened it up.  To my relief, there was Liam.
"I didn't know you had a digital camera," said Liam's dad.
"I don't," I told him.
"OK, then.  How did you do it … scanner – right?"
I shook my head.  He sighed.
"Supposing that this really is Liam," he said, "why isn't he saying 
anything?"
"Ask him," I said.
Liam's dad leaned towards the speaker.  "Hey, Liam, what are you 
doing in there?" he called.
"I just typed a silly code and, whammo, I was here," replied Liam.  
"I'm OK, Dad.  It's just, how do I get back out?  Last time, it kind of 
happened by accident."
Mr McConnell stood beside me with his mouth wide open.  Then, as 
calmly as he could, he asked "What did you type to get in there, Liam?" 
Liam made a chair appear and sat down on it.  "I think it was 
'S.7.2.0.'  Then 'host 3' and 'enter'."
"Hmm," said Liam's dad.  "Well, I'll see what I can do."
He sat at the computer, his fingers tapping out the code Liam had told 
him.  When it came to the '3', Liam's dad typed it in, but after that, 
instead of pressing 'enter', he pressed 'return'.  Almost before he'd 
finished, there was a flash, and the computer screen went blue, then red, 
and then black.
Liam was still on the screen, but now he had a jet pack on his back.  
His feet were together, his arms were straight down by his sides, and his 
back was arched.  He scrunched up his eyes until they were tightly 
closed.  Then his whole body began to shake.  He looked just like he did 
when he was doing his rocket impersonations.  Without warning, an 
amazing blasting sound shot out of the speakers and, with a flash of 
light, Liam was standing beside me!  Boy, were his dad and I glad to see 
him!

It was a while after that before Liam and I got back into playing on the 
computer, and even then, we were really careful with what we typed.  We 
also made a solemn vow to each other that we'd never, ever go onto the 
Net.  If we got sucked into the Net, who knows where we might end up!
"Besides," said Liam, "we'd have to learn to surf before we went onto 
the Net – and I'm only into bodyboarding!"

The High Bar
by Lynne Brice-Nicolson and Hayley Nicolson 

The high bar is a dark demon; Hayley hates it – and it hates 
her.  "It wants to kill me!" she cries, looking up at it.  The 
high bar says nothing, just stares down at her with an evil 
gleam.
Hayley has always loved gymnastics.  She started when she 
was only four years old, and now, at ten, she's earned a place 
in the Elite Development Squad.  The squad members train 
hard, getting up at 5.30 a.m. on Monday to be at the gym for 
fitness and endurance training before school, then after school 
on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and back again for another three 
hours on Saturday morning.  Hayley loves it: it's what she 
does; it's who she is.  She loves it all, except for one thing – 
the high bar.
She pulls the gloves on.  Without the gloves, the high bar 
will rip her hands to shreds.  But the gloves are smooth and 
slippery, making it harder to hang on.  
Too small to reach the high bar from the floor, she climbs 
onto a box positioned just to the side.  The coach hands her the 
thin straps, and she twists them about her wrists and around the 
bar.  All the junior squad use these straps, to hold them onto 
the bar.  Without them, if they lost their grip, they'd fall.  But 
wait, the straps are too tight; they'll cut off her blood supply.  
Adjust, OK.  No, wait.  Now they're too loose.  She'll fall off.  
Readjust, OK.  No, too tight again.  Readjust.
"Come on, Hayley!"  The coach is tired of this strategy.  
Take a deep breath, swing off the box, hang in mid-air, flick 
straight legs forward and up, pull the upper body onto the bar – 
a perfect kip.  Well done!  Now, a cast.  Push back from the 
shoulders and extend the legs, almost to handstand.
"Not high enough, Hayley!" calls the coach.  "How can you 
do giants from there?" 
But Hayley has no intention of ever doing giants, of 
swinging over and over the high bar with a fully extended body.  
She doesn't trust the bar.  She senses it waiting, impatient as a 
wild horse, wanting to be free of her, wanting to hurl her into 
the tired arms of gravity.
She tries again, but again she is too low.  Someone else's 
turn.  Good.
"It hates me – it does!"  Hayley tells Mum on the way home.  
"It's like a horrible grey monster with white staring eyes and a 
mouth that could swallow me in one gulp!"
"Good use of personification and a nice simile," observes 
Mum.  "What do you want it to be like?"
"I want it to like me.  I want it to be a bright, warm colour, 
like yellow, and I want it to smile and say 'Well done, 
Hayley'."
"Perhaps you just need to make friends with it," says Mum. 
"It's like a dog," says Hayley accusingly.  Then, suddenly, 
she's quiet.  "I'm scared of dogs," she thinks to herself, "but 
only when I don't know them.  If I just relax and let them lick 
me and sniff me, then, after a while, they like me, and I'm not 
scared of them any more."
Mum looks at her.  "What are you thinking?" she asks.  But 
Hayley's not giving away any secrets. 
"Just an idea," she replies.
The next time she goes to gym, Hayley whispers a soft 
"Hello" to the high bar as she runs under it during warm up.  
On the way to the trampolines, she gives it a little pat.  She 
feels better that day, but she still isn't ready for giants.
Next time, she calls out "Kia ora, bar!  How are you today?"  
And the bar glows softly down at her.  
She hangs around it that day, swinging around its upright 
pole, monkey swinging across the top, sliding down the other 
side.  She does a high kip to cast, but she still isn't ready for 
giants.
The competitions are looming.  The squad must perfect every 
element, learn its routines.  Hayley remembers last year's event 
and her humiliation on the high bar at the Junior National 
Championships in Napier.  It was the last event, and she was 
terrified.  The whole stadium was watching her as she climbed 
onto the box and twisted the straps around her wrists.  They 
were too tight.  Hayley swung off the box, and one strap cut 
into her wrist, making her cry out in pain.  She missed her kip.  
She fought the pain and pulled herself onto the bar, but the 
gloves slipped, and one hand fell away, leaving her clinging 
with loose, slipping fingers.  Tears streamed down her face as 
she tried to push back to cast, but she missed again, and her 
legs swung about like branches bent in a storm.  She scored a 
miserable 2.54.
This year will be different.  This year she will do it.  
Hayley is ready.  Next training session, she decides, she will 
do five giants in a row!

Hayley wears her new leotard, purple, with matching bike 
shorts and hair tie, for good luck.  She feels cool – calm and 
confident.  She slips on the gloves, twists the straps, and 
swings free of the box.  She thrusts out to a perfect kip and on 
to cast.  But then she hangs, suspended upside down on the high 
bar for what feels like for ever.  She's stuck!  If she tips a 
fraction further, she'll fall forward and miss her giants 
completely!  She almost panics.  The coach, seeing her 
dilemma, gives her the lightest touch, just enough to send her 
back the way she has come.  Under and over she goes.  Yes!  
One giant, two giants, three giants … she's flying, flying!  
Four!  Five … 
"You can stop now, Hayley!" calls the coach.  "You did it!  
You did it!"
"Yay!  Hayley!" cheer the rest of the squad, watching from 
below.  "Go, Hales!"
"Wow!  It's awesome!" cries Hayley, whirling under and 
over again.  
"Well done!" says the coach when Hayley, breathless and 
laughing, unties the straps and climbs down. "You've conquered 
the high bar!" 
"No," replies Hayley, trailing her hand along the cool, 
smooth metal.  "I haven't conquered the high bar, I've made 
friends with it!"

The Cross-country
by Pauline Cartwright

"The thing I hate about the cross-country is always being last," I told 
Grandad.  "Well, near enough to last.  I'm always in the back bunch."  
Grandad stirred some sugar into his tea.
"I want to be at the front," I said.  "I hate it when a teacher says I 
had good try.  A good try!  Like they feel sorry for me."
"Seems like you feel sorry for yourself," laughed Grandad.  "If you 
want to be in the front, be there.  Training – that's all it takes.  You're 
not fit enough."
I felt so mad when he said that.  I'm OK at netball – and at hockey.  
I'm not a champion, but I'm OK.  And I won my overarm race at the 
swimming sports.  I told Grandad all that.
"That's very good," said Grandad.  "But if you want to win the cross-
country, you need stamina.  That's what a cross-country takes – 
stamina."
I told him that I had to do my homework and went away so that I 
didn't have to listen.  But I thought a lot about what he'd said.  Maybe 
he was right.  For a long run, you just needed stamina.  By the end of 
the week, I'd started training.
"What are you getting up so early for?" asked my brother, Patrick.
"Just doing some training," I said as if it was nothing.  I hadn't told 
anyone how sore my legs were after three morning runs.
"Training!" said Patrick in this stupid voice, "Training!"  He ran 
around the kitchen table making his knees go high in the air.  Karen, my 
little sister, giggled.
"You can laugh," I told him.  "I don't care."  I'd show him and 
everyone else.  I'd train until I had stamina.  I wasn't going to be in the 
back bunch this year!
That night, I dreamt about coming first in the cross-country.  I 
dreamt that all the parents were watching and cheering.  
I kept on training for weeks.  After a while, my legs didn't hurt any 
more, and I found that I could run and run and run.  Stamina!  I had 
stamina! 
And then it arrived, cross-country day.  
All the kids running for the first time looked nervous.  The older 
kids tried to look as if they didn't care – except for the ones who I knew 
were fast runners.  I started to get worried, but I didn't need to.  I'd 
trained for weeks, and there was no way that I was going to be at the 
back.  I mightn't be able to beat some of the champions, but I was going 
to be in the front bunch.
"Line up now," said the principal's voice over the loudhailer.  "No 
pushing."
I did a jog on the spot to warm up.  It was a new course this year – 
past the school, over Reservoir Hill, through the pines at the back, and 
then right down Baker's Road and back to school.
"Ready, go!" said the principal.
We were off!  All my training had been for this.  I went like the 
wind, running past the little kids and the big kids.  I heard someone call 
"It's a cross-country, not a sprint!", but I didn't care.  I was fit, and I 
was heading for the front.  
Only when I knew that I was leading the bunch did I slow my pace.  
My legs went up and down, up and down, like parts of an engine.  My 
heart thumped but not too hard.  I felt so good, so fit.  Maybe I could 
run for ever if I needed to!  
I was the first to the top of Reservoir Hill.  The teacher stationed up 
there looked surprised to see me.
"That way," she pointed.  
Down to the left I ran.  The other kids weren't far away.
Another teacher was at the edge of the pines.  He was really 
surprised that anyone had arrived so soon, and he wasn't even in his 
place on the course.  I laughed as he ran behind me, calling out 
directions.  
I knew that the others would soon catch up to me – but I also knew 
that I'd be able to stay in the front bunch.  Grandad would be proud of 
me.  I'd be proud of me!
The little kids didn't run as far as us.  They turned back at Reservoir 
Hill while we kept going through the pines.  I liked it there under the 
trees.  The track was firm but springy with needles, and the air was full 
of the smell of resin.  It was quiet in the forest, too, so quiet.  A voice 
in my head kept time with my feet.  Stam-in-a, stam-in-a.  Quiet, so 
quiet …
Suddenly, I realised that it shouldn't be that quiet.  Where were the 
others?  Where were the strong runners coming to catch me?  I looked 
back over my shoulder – and I stopped dead.  Where were they?  There 
wasn't a sign of anyone.  There were just pine trees – and me.  The only 
sound was my breath coming deep and fast.
And then I knew what had happened.  I'd taken the wrong track.  I 
must have got Mr Granger's instructions wrong when he'd called out to 
me at the edge of the pines.  I felt sweaty with panic and not just from 
running.  I'd have to turn back.  There was nothing else I could do.  I 
wanted to cry.  All those weeks of training had been for nothing.  
I started jogging and, before long, I caught the back bunch of runners 
as they were crossing the school field.  I came in with them, just like 
I've always done.  
"Too fast at the beginning," one of the teachers called out.  I wanted 
to scream, but I didn't have enough breath left.  "Good try!" shouted 
someone else. 
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mum and Grandad clapping the last 
bunch in.  That was when I made up my mind that all that training that 
I'd done wasn't going to go to waste.  I wasn't giving up.  And I wasn't 
waiting for a whole year to prove that I had stamina.
You can't get lost going around a running track, I told myself.  When 
we have athletics sports this summer, I'm going to win the long 
distance.  I'm not just going to be in the front bunch.  I'm going to win!

Growing the Dollars
by Sarah Reid

"We could sell them, you know," said Caleb, staring through the 
window at the white dots in the paddock.
Samuel was playing Yahtzee at the kitchen table.  "Sell what?" 
he asked.
"Those little white blobs of pocket money out there," said 
Caleb, tapping on the glass.  
Samuel wandered over to the window.  "Those!  Yuk!  Who'd 
want to pay money for mushrooms?"
"Lots of people, and look, there's heaps of them.  We could 
pick them, put them on paper plates, and sell them at the gate."  
"But how would we get everything down to the end of the 
driveway?" asked Samuel.  "It's a kilometre to the mailbox, and 
I'm not carrying heaps of plates of mushrooms all that way."
"We might get enough money to buy that tent we saw in town," 
coaxed Caleb. 
"But how would people know we were selling mushrooms?" 
asked Samuel.  "Cars go so fast past our drive, no one would even 
see the stall." 
Caleb sighed.  "Do you know what a pessimist is?" he asked.
Samuel shook his head.
"I do," said Caleb.  "I heard Mum and Dad talking about it.  
Look it up in the dictionary while I go out and pick some 
mushrooms!"

That morning, it seemed as though the farm was covered in 
mushrooms.  Caleb had a bucket heaped high before he'd got round 
the first paddock. 
Back inside, he cut the stalks off halfway down and laid the 
mushrooms upside down on the paper plates.  Then he wrapped 
each plate in plastic film.
"So who's paying for the paper plates?" asked Samuel, 
following Caleb outside to the garage.  "And the plastic wrap?  
Are you going to pay Mum back for those after you've bought your 
tent?"
"Mum said I could have them," replied Caleb.  He began 
fossicking through a cupboard in the garage.  "And she's going to 
take the mushrooms to the gate for me in the car.  Where's that 
green paint Dad used on the maimai?"
"It's all dried out," Samuel announced importantly.  "He 
chucked it." 
"Did you look up "pessimist?" asked Caleb impatiently.
"Not yet.  Hey, what are you doing with those?"
Caleb had pulled out two big pieces of cardboard carton from 
behind the freezer.  He turned them over and brushed them down 
with his sleeve.  "These will do for signs," he said.
"They're dirty," said Samuel.  "They'll just blow away, 
anyway."
Caleb gave Samuel a look that sent him wandering off inside.  
But a few minutes later, he was back.  Caleb was pencilling letters 
onto the cardboard.
"They'll never see that.  It's too faint", said Samuel.
"Yes," said Caleb.
"And there's no other paint," added Samuel.  "I know because I 
looked for some when I was making my boat."
"No," said Caleb.
"So you can't make any mushroom signs, can you?"
"Yes," said Caleb.
"How?" 
"Mum said I can use the spray paint Dad keeps for marking the 
lambs."  
He opened a cupboard and took out an orange can.  He shook it 
hard, pulled off the top, and aimed the nozzle at the M.
"That stuff smudges," said Samuel.  "And if it rains, it runs."  
He paused as Caleb filled in the pencilled letters with orange 
paint.  "Can I have a go?"
"No point," said Caleb.  "It'll just smudge and run – 
remember?"

That night, Caleb and Samuel heard the four-wheeler drive into the 
garage.  A moment later, Dad called out to them.
"What are all these plates of mushrooms doing in here?" he 
asked when the boys were standing beside the bike.  "No one can 
get into the freezer."  He took off his Swanndri and hung it up 
beside the door.
"That was me," Caleb replied.  "I tried to sell them at the 
gate."
"Good idea," said Dad.  "Did you sell many?"
"Not really," said Caleb.  "I made a few dollars, but it started 
to rain, and no one wanted to stop.  Then the wind got up and blew 
my signs upside down."
"Too bad," replied Dad.  "What about you, Sam?  What did you 
do today?"
"Nothing much," Samuel replied.  "Just mucked around."
"Caleb?  Caleb?" called a voice from outside.  It was Mum.  
She came into the garage carrying the mobile phone.  She looked 
excited.  "Caleb!" she whispered with her hand over the 
mouthpiece.  "It's Rosie from Rosie's Restaurant.  Someone told 
her about your mushroom stall, and she wants to talk to you – 
something about you supplying them through the season, when you 
can – starting from tonight!"
"What!"  A grin spread over Caleb's face.
"Course he can start from tonight," said Dad.  He put his hand 
on Caleb's shoulder.  "I'll run you into town with them.  It's only 
ten minutes each way."
Caleb held out his hand for the phone.  "Hello," he began 
hesitantly.  Then his voice grew surer.  "Caleb here.  I'm the one 
selling the mushrooms …"
"Can I come too?" asked Samuel when Caleb had finished 
talking on the phone.
"We-ll," said Caleb.  "Have you looked up pessimist yet?"
"Na," said Samuel.  "But I think I've figured out what it 
means."
"OK, then," laughed Caleb .  "I guess you can come.  And on 
the way to town, I can talk to you about being my assistant.  From 
the sound of Rosie's orders, I'm going to need one!"

All in a Day's Work
by Bill O'Brien

"Oh, no!  Not another delivery!" moaned Becky.  She dumped her school 
pack on the path and glared at the pile of circulars on the front steps.  
On top of it, in Mrs Taylor's neat printing, was a note.  "Dear Becky, 
These need to go out this afternoon.  Thanks, Mrs T."
"It's too hot to do my round," Becky complained to her mum when 
she'd got inside.  "I was going to go swimming this afternoon.  Why 
does Mrs T. always have to choose me to do the extras?"
"Because you're good at your job, that's why," said Mum.  She put a 
piece of shortcake and a glass of milk in front of Becky.  "You follow 
instructions, and you take notice of details."
Becky stared at her milk.  It wasn't just the heat that was the 
problem.  It was number 47 Craig Road.  She felt such a wimp to be 
scared of going there, but she couldn't help it.  The mailbox was at the 
end of a dark, weedy path that ran behind a high, overgrown holly 
hedge.  It was only when you got down to the end of the path that you 
could see the house:  old and grey where the paint had worn off years 
ago and with a patchy iron roof, orange with rust.  There were curtains 
at the windows, but they were faded and tatty, and they never seemed to 
be drawn back.  Only the fact that the mailbox was cleared regularly 
made Becky think that anyone actually lived there.  
"You're worried about that place in Craig Road, aren't you?" said 
Mum, reading her mind.  "I've told you before that only an old lady 
lives there.  Her name's Mrs Marsh.  I asked at the dairy."
Becky didn't say anything.
"If it really worries you," said Mum, "I'll deliver to number 47 for 
you."
"No!" said Becky firmly, determined to stop being so pathetic.  "I 
mean no, thanks.  I can do it myself."  She gulped down her milk.  "Bye, 
Mum." 
As she walked out of the gate, the straps of Becky's pack bit into her 
shoulders.  She tried to think about pay day at the end of the week.  
The first mailbox in Bannock Street was an easy one.  It was big and 
expensive, with a wide slot so that the circular slipped through easily 
and dropped down inside with a clean thud.  Numbers 3 and 5 had No 
Junk Mail stickers on them.  Some people didn't notice those stickers.  
They delivered the circulars anyway, and Mrs Taylor would get 
complaints.  No one had ever complained about Becky.  Mum was right.  
She was good at noticing things.
"Cut your flax bushes back," muttered Becky to herself as she passed 
number 75.  "I can hardly see your mailbox."  
At the top of Bannock Street, she turned into Craig Road and checked 
her watch.  Four o'clock.  She was going well.  Maybe, if she didn't 
muck around outside number 47, she could still get that swim at the 
pool.
But how could you go straight down that path?  Becky stood beside 
the holly hedge and felt her heart begin to thump.  What if Mum was 
wrong and it wasn't Mrs Marsh who lived there?  What if someone – or 
something – was waiting for her down there, hiding behind one of the 
trees or around the side of the house?  She started folding a circular, 
flattening it over and over again so that it would be sure to slide 
straight into the box.  If it stuck, she'd have to stand there at the 
bottom of the gloomy path, trying to force it in.
When the circular was as flat as she could make it, she dumped her 
pack on the ground, took a deep breath, and stepped quietly onto the 
path. There was no point in running.  She'd only slip on the piles of 
damp, fallen leaves.  
At the bottom of the path, with her eyes on the house in case 
someone was watching, she reached up to the mailbox.  But instead of 
feeling the usual cold metal of the slot, her hand touched some letters.  
They were sticking out of the box, and when Becky tried to push them 
in, they wouldn't budge.  She didn't know what to do.  You had to 
deliver to every house except the No Junk Mail ones, Mrs Taylor had 
said.  
Then she had an idea.  She reached round to the back of the box to 
put the circular in that way, but as she did, the morning paper slid out 
and dropped to the ground.  Becky picked it up and quickly stuffed it 
back into the box, along with the circular.  Then she headed straight 
back up the path.  
It was only when she was on the road again that she looked back.  
That was when she noticed the missing milk bottle.  Every day that she 
came to deliver circulars, there was an empty milk bottle at the gate.  
But not today.  
Becky was puzzled.  As she delivered the last of her circulars, she 
thought about the full mail box and the missing milk bottle.  She even 
thought about it in the swimming pool and afterwards, when she and 
Mum were having tea, it was still in the back of her mind.
"What's the matter, Becky?" asked Mum.  "You're very quiet."
"Nothing," she replied.  She thought for a bit longer.  Then she put 
down her fork and began to explain.
"She's probably on holiday," said Mum.
"But if she was, she'd cancel the paper, wouldn't she?" asked Becky.  
"Mum, I think we should go round to 47 and check things out."
Going down the dark path wasn't nearly as creepy with Mum beside 
her.  Becky was almost looking forward to having a closer peek at the 
house.  But when Mum knocked on the door, there was no reply.  They 
went to a neighbour's to see if anyone knew what was going on.  No-one 
seemed very interested.
Back at number 47 again, Becky looked through the keyhole of the 
front door.  At first, she couldn't see anything in the gloom.  Then Mum 
called out "Hello?", and suddenly Becky was sure that she saw 
something move inside.
"Mum!  I think there's someone in there – on the floor!"
They tried the door, but it was locked.
"Ring for help!" cried Becky.
After that, everything happened very quickly.  Mum ran to the 
neighbour's again to phone while Becky crouched at the door of number 
47 calling, "Hold on – we're coming."  A few minutes later, a police car 
pulled up, and a constable came running down the path.  He looked 
through the keyhole.
"Stand back," he said.  He pulled a baton out of his pocket and broke 
the dark-blue glass panel at the side of the door.  Then he reached his 
hand through and unsnibbed a lock.
Mrs Marsh had fallen and broken her hip.  She'd been on the floor all 
that day and the night before as well.  Mum and Becky watched the 
ambulance officers lift Mrs Marsh onto a stretcher.
"We've done our job," Mum said.  "Now let's get out of everyone's 
way."

It was a few weeks later, after Becky's photo had been in the local paper 
under the headline "Delivery Girl Notices Details", that Mrs Marsh 
returned home.  Becky knew that she was back because the milk bottle 
was out again.  
This time when Becky went down the path, she wasn't frightened.  
She waited until she got right to the mailbox before she folded the 
circular.  Then, just as she was about to push the paper into the box, she 
noticed an envelope poking well out of the slot.  It had "To the circulars 
girl" written on it. 
Becky opened the envelope.  Inside was a delicate gold bracelet.  It 
looked very old.  There was a little card, too, with "thank you" written 
inside it in shaky writing.   
Becky turned to look at the house, and for the first time ever, she 
saw the curtain at the front window move and a hand wave.
"Thanks!" called Becky to the smiling face peeping out.  "Thank you 
very much, Mrs Marsh!"

Chirpy
by John Parker

It was dark outside when Smoky padded into the kitchen, meowing in a 
muffled way that meant her jaws were clamped around something she'd 
caught.  Cam looked up at the sound and saw spiky, black legs dangling 
from the cat's mouth.  It was a cricket that she was carrying.  When she 
dropped it on the cork tiles, it lay still.
Usually, they hopped and jumped when she released them – but only 
on the same spot.   Smoky always seemed to know how to cripple a 
cricket so that she could prod and play with it before she ended the one-
sided game with a scrunch.
"You've overdone it this time, Smoky," said Cam.  "This one's dead 
meat."  He pushed the cat away, but as he bent down to pick up the 
cricket, it suddenly came to life, wriggling in his cupped hands.  Cam 
got a shock.  He let the insect slip through his fingers.  It fell onto the 
floor – and Smoky pounced.  The cricket hopped, dodged the cat's paws 
by a millimetre, and scuttled underneath the dishwasher.  After a few 
minutes of waiting for it to come out, Smoky lost interest and wandered 
into the lounge to be with Cam's dad, who was watching TV.  
Cam shone a torch underneath the dishwasher.  The beam picked out 
cobwebs, dust, and a couple of old salted peanuts – but no cricket.  "It 
must be there somewhere," Cam thought.  "Still, it's probably injured.  
It'll most likely end up dying under there." 
Then, just as Cam stood up, the cricket gave a faint, hesitant chirp – 
as if it were trying out its voice, surprised to find itself still alive.  
Cam knelt down on the floor again.  There was a second chirp, clearer 
and stronger than the first.  Soon the cricket was chirping non-stop, 
loudly and urgently, filling the kitchen with sound.
Cam's dad heard the chirping from the lounge.  He turned off the 
Super 12 on Sky and came into the kitchen.  Cam explained what had 
happened. 
"Noisy devil," said Dad.  He swept under the dishwasher with a fly 
swat.  Silence.  He couldn't bring it out.  After a few seconds, the 
cricket started chirping again.
"Where's that fly spray?" Cam's dad muttered. 
Cam remembered the feel of the cricket's legs scrabbling against his 
hands.  "Why kill it, Dad?"
Dad looked at him in astonishment.  "Because it'll chirp all day and 
all night, son, that's why.  It'll drive us mad.  And it's not going to get 
a mate from there, even if it chirps its guts out.  It'll probably die soon, 
anyway.  They usually do at the end of autumn."
Cam thought of a solution.  "We could take the dishwasher out."
"No!" said Dad sharply.  "There's pipes and all sorts back there.  It's 
just a cricket, Cam.  If it's still chirping in the morning, too bad – it's 
the fly spray."  
Cam opened his mouth. 
"No!" said Dad again.  "I'm too tired to argue."
Cam went to bed, but he couldn't sleep.  He heard the cricket calling 
for a mate that would never hear it and never come.  "No future for you 
in there, Chirpy," he thought.  
Lying in the dark, Cam thought of a plan.  He waited until he knew 
that his dad had gone to bed and would be well asleep.  Then he took his 
small camping torch and crept quietly down the stairs.
Once he was in the kitchen, he laid the torch on the floor, and 
gripped the dishwasher on each side.  Bit by bit, firmly but quietly, he 
began to wriggle the machine out of its cubbyhole.  It was hard work. 
Once or twice he nearly slid the whole thing onto his toes.  It would be 
worth the effort, though.  When he had the dishwasher right out, he'd 
grab Chirpy and put him outside.  Simple – as long as his dad didn't 
wake up.  The trouble was, Cam didn't get that far.  
"What the …!" demanded a voice from behind him.  
Cam turned round, and a torch beam shone into his face, blinding 
him.  The kitchen light flashed on. 
"Cam!" said Dad.  "I came down here and saw the torch, and I …"  
His voice faltered.  "Well, I guess I thought you were a burglar."  There 
was a small silence.  "I thought I told you not to shift that dishwasher."
Cam looked at his dad – and at the can of fly spray he was holding in 
his hand.  "You said you were going to wait till morning to do that," he 
said accusingly. 
His dad sighed.  "Yeah, I did."  He shrugged his shoulders.  "Okay," 
he said.  "Let's pull out the dishwasher."
It was out in a couple of minutes.  The cricket, frightened and 
covered with dust, was trying to be invisible in a corner.
This time when Cam scooped it up, his cupped hands held the insect 
tight.  His dad opened the back door, and Cam went out into the cool 
night.  He opened his hands.  For a moment, the cricket stayed still as if 
it couldn't believe its luck.  Then it jumped.  There was a tiny rustle in 
the darkness, and it was gone.
Cam went back into the kitchen.  His dad had already shoved the 
dishwasher back in its place.  
"A hard day's work tomorrow for me," he said, "and you've got 
school.  Time for bed."
Suddenly, Dad came over to Cam and gave him an awkward hug.  
"Proud of you, son," he said.  Then he went upstairs.
Before Cam went to bed, he leaned out of his window.  The stars were 
shining, and there was dew on the sill.  Then he heard a shrill noise 
start up, right where he'd let the cricket go.  Cam couldn't stop 
grinning.  "Good on you, Chirpy."


