Sticky Beak by Morris Gleitzman Page A

Ms Dunning’s having a top time.
    That’s the great thing about a best friend, half the time you don’t even need words.
    I’d just given fresh party pies to the principal and the mayor and was heading over to the food table with the bowl of Jelly Custard Surprise when the formalities started. The music stopped and we were all deafened by the screech of a microphone being switched on and the rumble of Amanda’s dad clearing his throat.
    Amanda’s grin vanished.
    I gave her a look. Don’t panic, it said, once you get up to the microphone you’ll be fine.
    I didn’t know if it was true, but I could see it made her feel better.
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Cosgrove, ‘on behalf of the Parents and Teachers Association Social Committee, it’s time for the presentation to our guest of honour.’
    There was a silence while everyone looked around for Ms Dunning.
    She was at the food table, looking startled, gripping Darryn Peck’s wrist.
    I felt really proud of her at that moment.
    There she was, eight and a half months pregnant, hot and weary after spending the whole afternoon making the Jelly Custard Surprise, and she was still taking the trouble to stop Darryn Peck using my apple fritters as frisbees.
    No wonder we all think she’s the best teacher we’ve ever had.
    Ms Dunning let go of Darryn Peck and went over and stood next to Mr Cosgrove while he made a long speech about how dedicated she is and how sad we all are that she’s leaving the school but how we all understand that babies are the future of Australia.
    Then Mr Cosgrove called Amanda to the microphone.
    She was so nervous she almost slipped over in a drink puddle, but once she was there she did a great job. She read the speech we’d written in her loudest voice without a single mistake, not even during the difficult bit about Ms Dunning being an angel who shone with such radiance in the classroom we hardly ever needed the fluoros on.
    After Amanda finished reading she presented Ms Dunning with a carved wooden salad bowl and matching carved wooden fork and spoon which the Social Committee had bought after ignoring my suggestion of a tractor.
    Everyone clapped except me because I had my hands full, but I wobbled the Jelly Custard Surprise to show that I would have if I could.
    Ms Dunning grinned and blushed and made a speech about how much fun she’d had teaching us and how nobody should feel sad because she’d see everyone most days when she dropped me off at school.
    Even though it was a short speech, she was looking pretty exhausted by the time she’d finished.
    â€˜I’m pooped,’ she grinned. ‘Where’s that husband of mine?’
    Dad stepped forward and kissed her and she leant on his shoulder and there was more applause.
    Dad gave such a big grin I thought his ears were going to flip his cowboy hat off.
    I was grinning myself.
    Dad’s had a hard life, what with Mum dying and stuff, and a top person like him deserves a top person like Ms Dunning.
    I reckon marrying Ms Dunning is the best thing he ever did, and that includes buying the apple-polishing machine.
    Seeing them standing there, smiling at each other, Ms Dunning smoothing down the fringe on Dad’s shirt, I felt happier than I have all year, and I’ve felt pretty happy for most of it.
    Which is why what happened next was so weird.
    Dad cleared his throat and went down on one knee so his eyes were level with Ms Dunning’s bulging tummy.
    I wasn’t surprised at that because he does it all the time at home. The mayor, though, was staring at Dad with his mouth open. Mayors get around a fair bit, but they probably don’t often come across apple farmers who wear goanna-skin cowboy boots and sing to their wives’ tummies.
    As usual Dad sang a song by Carla Tamworth, his favourite country and western singer.
    It was the one about the long-distance truck driver who listens to