Читать книгу You Won’t Believe This - Adam Baron - Страница 17

If the hovercraft had been the last thing we saw, the day would have been excellent. But once all the Year 6es had had a go we went out to the playground. In front of us was a table. It was covered now with a sheet, though at lunchtime we’d seen what was underneath – a thick plastic chimney with a rocket peeking out. On top was a toy frog called Phil, who was, as Jen now explained, going to fly up to the stars.

‘And he’s really nervous, so can we all give a cheer to encourage him?’

After the yelling had died down, the teachers told us to sit on the AstroTurf. Jen told us all about the chemicals in the bucket that were going to cause the explosion that would launch the rocket, though if you want to know what they were you’d better ask Veronique – the rest of us were arguing about how high Phil the frog would go. Up to the side wall? The back wall? As high as the heath? Maybe we’d lose sight of him and Major Tim Peake would be blinking in amazement to see a stuffed frog go flying past his window. We were still arguing when Jen asked us all for a countdown.

The scientists put plastic glasses on and stood next to the table, facing us.

The teachers stepped to the side and the Reception kids at the front squeezed back.

Jen moved to the side of the playground, where she picked up a little blowtorch and turned it on.

She knelt down and pointed the flame at some powder piled up on a metal tray.

The powder lit up, fizzing and crackling until, like a red mouse, it began to scurry along an open metal pipe towards the table.

When the red mouse was nearly at the table, Jen leapt up, ran towards the table and grabbed hold of the sheet.

The mouse flame climbed up the pipe, spluttering for a second then stopping and making us all think it would go out.

It managed to stay lit, though, going up again as Jen pulled off the sheet to reveal Phil the frog, on his rocket, just about to head up to the …

No—

Not Phil.

Not Phil at all.

WHERE WAS PHIL?

We all stared. The scientists, including Jen, were all looking at us – they weren’t looking behind them at the table. And it was weird, really weird, because Phil the frog certainly wasn’t there. Someone must have taken him off. The rocket was there, and something ELSE was on it.

That was the scientists. They’d shouted it, not us, or not many of us, just a few of the smaller kids. Because we were staring, hardly able to believe what we were seeing, the scientists looking confused too – by our reaction – until one by one they turned their heads, to see what we were looking at. And what we were looking at was their experiment – the bucket, the rocket, and the thing tied to it – though instead of what they thought was tied to it there was something else.

Not a frog.

A bag.

A blue, rectangular sports bag, pretty old, with a black stripe across the middle, a bag that was familiar to every single person in our school because of what was on the side of it. Five rings. In different colours. Three on top and two below.

Olympic rings, all linked together with a date above and a word underneath in bold.

BOTSWANA.

Everyone stared. And then everyone’s head swivelled left to where Mrs Martin was standing, her hands still held up in little fists with what had been excitement but which had now been replaced by shock. And surprise. And disbelief. She shook herself together and looked around, at her feet, as if to find her bag there, as if it couldn’t possibly be where it actually was – ON TOP OF THAT ROCKET.

There wasn’t a ‘ONE!’ We just watched, no one able to move as the snapping red flame reached the bottom of the bucket. And it shook, with a really loud BANG. And the rocket took off, though it didn’t go as far as we’d expected. Not to the side wall. Not up to the heath. Just half a metre, before it nosedived on to the table where it rested, as Mrs Martin’s bag slid down on to the ground.

Silence. It struck the teachers and the scientists and all of us sitting on the AstroTurf. No one said a word. Not even Marcus Breen. We all just watched as the bag Mrs Martin had got at the Olympics fizzled and gurgled and spluttered.

And

then

it