Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy by John Michael (classic books for 13 year olds txt) 📕

There was no time to waste − I quickly strolled over to my computer. I was willing to forgive and forget. We were friends once more but this time, however, I promised myself that I would be strong and undertake some actual work, not the pretend stuff I was doing when Mum was around.

I sat down at my desk and was about to type in ‘photosynthesis’ when, out of nowhere, a blinding flash of light lit up the room. The Googol screen pulsated wildly. All of a sudden, finishing my speech was the least of my worries... an intense pain throbbed through my brain and I shut my eyes tight to block out the burning brilliance.

When I opened my eyes moments later, I was sure that I was dreaming... or perhaps that wasn’t the right term... maybe I was nightmaring. The bedroom had somehow entered the computer screen. Or was it that the computer screen had entered my bedroom? Either way, I was on the verge of freaking out. I figured that a lightning bolt had made direct contact with the telephone line going into the computer. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the monitor and noticed that I had frizzled hair like the bride of Frankenstein.

Suddenly the screen flickered with even greater intensity. The Googol letters started to float around me in a rhythmic dance of bobbing, dipping, twisting and weaving. The coloured letters merged and started to speak to me in a babble of tongues − the Blues singing of brilliant oceans and wholesome skies, the Reds erupted into a melody of forgotten deserts and redcoat armies. My brain became inflamed − my neurons throbbed, my synapses sizzled. The colourful music filled me, washing over me − I could feel it on my skin, entering my pores, consuming me. The sweet tones exploded in my mouth in an ecstasy of flavours tasting like shimmering words, infinite knowledge and piercing wisdom. My senses were overwhelmed by a tsunami of stimuli. I was drinking from the golden cup but it was filling me up all too quickly − my tastebuds savoured stories and tragedies, my ears absorbed ballads and histories. I noticed my reflection in the screen but this time I looked more like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream.’ The painting was the last thing that I remembered before my mind went completely blank.

Chapter three

brabbensack

“Wake up, wake up!” echoed a stifled voice.

I opened my eyes and what did I see before me? Well, I wasn’t exactly sure but it seemed to be a puppet on a string performing some uncoordinated dance.

I rubbed my blurry eyes and realised that it was Mum!

She was prancing about with her head halfhidden in an unironed blouse while she was trying to put on her left shoe.

A muffled voice reverberated from beneath the blouse, “Ouf bof fred! Ouf bof fred! Bum on!” but then became intensely audible as her head popped out of the collar like a bright red tomato.

“Out of bed! Out of bed! Come on!”

“Huh? What time is it?” I mumbled as I yawned loudly.

“The storm caused a blackout last night and the alarm clocks didn’t go off!”

I stared blankly at Mum... noticing that she had pillow head and trying to decide whether or not to tell her.

“Come on slow poke... off to school!”

She grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out from under the sheets. Mum was surprisingly strong for her petite frame. She started to fire random questions at me.

“Did you brush your homework? Did you finish your hat? Is your pack bagged? Did you rehearse your lunch?”

I had no idea what she was talking about so I did what I usually did in these situations, I smiled and nodded.

Even if I wanted to, there was no time to answer... not even time to mention her pillow head. Mum dashed around the house grabbing an assortment of items and stuffed them into my school bag and before I knew it, I was being manhandled out the door. She gave me my bag, a peck on the forehead and a swift push down the driveway. I was about to voice my indignation when the bus appeared − like a bright yellow brick rattling down the street. For some reason the bus was a little more noisy than usual and I could sense a slight knocking in the engine every few seconds and a steady cloud of grey smoke was spewing out of the exhaust pipe. I got on the bus and eyeballed the driver.

“Hey, Miss Bus Driver?”

She immediately looked me up and down with a certain amount of disdain. The bus driver was around fifty years old with a halfsmoked cigarette in the corner of her mouth, small beady eyes and unkempt hair, she was wearing her regulation blue uniform, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing a skull and crossbones tattoo on her well-formed bicep. You could see that years of driving buses full of whiny and unruly teenagers had crushed her spirit.

“What do ya want pipsqueak?” she muttered in a gravelly voice.

Everyone knew that bus driver Doris didn’t accept nonsense from any of the students... she ran a tight ship, even if it was a bus. She had once thrown a student’s bag out the window because his nose whistled while he breathed. I had to tread lightly.

“Um... excuse me but your engine is making knocking sounds.”

“Yeah? What’s it to ya?” she snapped in a defensive tone.

Suddenly, I felt cogs whirring in my brain and before I knew it, my mouth was spewing out information I didn’t realise that I knew.

“Actually, your combustion is occurring too early as one of your spark plugs is firing too soon. While it’s still safe to drive the bus, you better get it checked out soon as faulty detonation can crack pistons and rings, blow out head gaskets, damage valves, and flatten rod bearings. Also, your flywheel might be loose and could need replacing.”

She looked