Batjack

By Ann Neville

Thirteen year old Tom wants to audition for the school musical Batjack but he has a problem,

A Big One –

Dylan, the school bully, and Tom's arch enemy wants the same part.

When Tom is cast as the main character and Dylan is his understudy the battle begins – fights, verbal abuse, vandalism, theft … You name it, it happens.

How will Tom and his friends deal with the bullying? What is Dylan's secret?

Can they reach a compromise and manage to co-habit on the same planet let alone the same stage?

Comprehensive Teachers' Resource Kit available which covers Levels 3 and 4 of The New Zealand Curriculum in the areas of Oral Language, Reading, Written Language, Visual language, Health, social Studies, Art and Technology. This is available from CreateBooks New Zealand is also available to parents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Neville
• Release date: Aug 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780473221072

Ann Neville

Ann Neville has a M Ed, Dip Ed Management, Dip Ed Leadership, Grad Dip in Creative Writing, and Post Grad Dip Publishing. She is an accomplished facilitator and research writer in the education field and has studied all forms of violence including physical, verbal, exclusion, sexual harassment, racial abuse, deprivation of human rights and cyber bullying. She writes both fiction and non-fiction, and runs creative writing workshops for both children and adults. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

No-one ever rides into Trenwith Junior High School wearing their bike helmet. Except girls, of course. No boy would risk his macho image by leaving a wimpy helmet on. Nah, we puff out our chests and ride in with both hands deep in our pockets, the helmet draped over the handle bars like a 3-D flag. Yeah, no-one except girls... and, you guessed it, me, so busy dreaming about Emma I forget about it till I reach the bike compound. The shame.

A whiff of smoke... Dylan and Scott are having a quick fag behind the bike compound. My stomach drops, my mouth goes dry.

Hey, Windy Willis, what are ya? Dylan puckers his lips and minces around with dainty steps. A sheila?

Scott snorts, his face erupting in a grin toothy as Goofy’s. Eyes to the ground, I ignore them and get out my bike lock. WHAM – Dylan gives me a massive shove. My ankle rolls over and I land flat on my back, arms and legs clawing at the air like a nearly dead chicken.

Dylan has been in my class since the beginning of the year. The first day I met him, my skin prickled a warning as if I’d touched an electric fence. It wasn’t what he said so much as how he said it.

Strewth, mate, what is this place?  Looks like it’s up the donga. Which apparently means obsolete, the back of beyond and anything else rude you can think of. According to Dylan everything where he comes from is better than here. Wish he’d stayed there. But, no, now he sits behind me in class and constantly annoys me. I hear the ominous sound of Dylan sharpening his pencil.

Ouch, stop poking me.

Whassa matter Windy Willis? Can’t take the heat?

Another poke. I swing around and snatch Dylan’s pencil away from him.

Ms Nash, Ms Nash, Tom has stolen my pencil.

Thomas Willis, you stop that immediately. What is the motto of our room? A ramrod arm points to the huge in-capital-letters-green-word over the board. 

Respect, Ms Nash.

Respect for what?

Respect for self, others and property, Ms Nash.

You will stay behind after school and scrape gum from under the desks. 

But... Ms Nash turns back to the board. Dylan sniggers as he gives me another poke. Typical. I get the blame again for something Dylan did.

After school I hobble over to the bike compound picking gloopy gum from under my fingernails. I flex my ankle. Is it a sprain? Is it broken?  Probably have to be amputated. Could the day get worse? You bet.

I throw back my head and bellow, Crap, crap, crap! The front wheel of my bike is flat. And the pump has gone. No prizes for guessing who would let a tyre down and steal the means of repairing it! The good news is if my leg has to be amputated I won’t need to worry about bike tyres any more. The bad news is that wheelchairs have tyres too.

It’s closer to my Uncle Jason’s house than to mine. I lug my bike up his driveway dragging my soon to be amputated leg. 

Aw scary, a munched up neighbour’s face looks daggers over the fence into Jason’s garage. Jason is an ace guitar player and is in a couple of bands. There are constant complaints about decibel levels from intolerant neighbours who have no concept of the artistic process.

Should be a law against it, the neighbour yells shaking a fist in the air. I shrug. The noise doesn’t worry me. I love watching them practice. Today it’s the ‘The Deadly Deaths’. They have a gig next Saturday and some of the songs are still a bit rough.

Perfect timing. Jason strides over and slaps me on the back. Harry is late so can you fill in and do the vocals for us?

I... I... um... I have to get home and do my homework. I grab my bike and beat a hasty retreat towards the gate (well, as hasty as a one-legged man with a munted bike can). But Jason is too quick for me. He pulls me into the garage and thrusts a microphone at me.

Come on, you must know all the words by now. You’ve listened to us enough times.

The keyboard builds in an almighty crescendo (maybe the neighbour has a point about the decibel levels), the drums get wilder with each sequence and Jason’s guitar riff pounds in my brain. My foot develops a life of its own and I start to mumble my way through the first verse and chorus. At the end of the song, Jason gapes at me.

A drawing of a face Description generated with high confidence

Bloody hell. You’re brilliant. Seems I forgot myself for the rest of the song and ripped into it. Where did you learn to sing like that?

In the shower?

You should join a band. 

Don’t know anyone wanting a singer.

Take lessons then.

Money’s short at home.

Why don’t you join a theatre group.

Too far away from my house.

The excuses are pretty lame but, eventually, Jason gives up.

How come you’re walking to school today? Mum asks the next morning.

Puncture.

Another one? You should be more careful.

Yeah right, I mutter and sling my bag over my shoulder. How come it’s always my fault?

The morning assembly groans on forever. At this rate it’ll be time to go home again before we even get into class. Kids whisper to each other through stiff lips hoping teachers won’t notice.

Mr Beatson, the English teacher, shuffles up to the podium.

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His voice thunders out:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts.

Everyone sits bolt upright. For someone as ramshackle as Batty Beatson, he sure has a powerful voice.

This term Trenwith Junior High School is going to produce a musical called ‘Batjack’. For those of you of slow inclination, it’s a spoof on Batman.

My best friend Sonny’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. Hey, Einstein, what’s a spoof? he whispers.

You know, a story that pokes fun at something or someone.

Mr Beatson’s voice continues to boom out. If you are thinking of a career in the theatre, film or television industry, now is your chance to show your undoubtedly exceptional talent. A list of characters is on the notice board. We also need volunteers for lighting, sound, costumes...

The list goes on and on. Not many kids are listening by now – too busy imagining the feel of gritty wet cement as they place their hand and foot prints next to those of Harry Potter stars on the Hollywood Boulevard Walk of Fame.

Auditions will be held on Friday. Be prepared to sing a song and do a reading. You can get a recording of the songs from the musical director, Ms Nash. For off stage roles, give your name to Mrs Singh who will be the stage manager.

It’s hard to get anywhere near the notice board at lunchtime.

Are you going to audition? Sonny asks me.

Nah, I’d be too nervous. What about you?

Sonny shrugs his thin, spindly as a wire coat-hanger shoulders. No, but I might see if I can get in the band.

Sonny plays a mean bass guitar. He’s been playing forever. Don’t know how he does it – he’s so short his guitar is almost as big as he is.

How ’bout you, Charlie, gonna get involved?

Charlie is the goalie in the same soccer team as Sonny and me. He’s much better at painting than he is at being a goalie. Oh alright, the ball has to get past the other ten of us before it gets to him. S’pose we can’t blame him for our crappy record.

Might see if I can do some painting on the set.

I see Emma scanning the board and sidle over.

Which part would you like, Emma?

I think I’ll try out for the female lead, Robyn. Though I won’t mind being someone else. It’ll be fun whatever.

That gets me thinking about what might happen if I was Batjack.

Hey, Tom, want to come to my party on Saturday?

Come and play soccer with us after school.