Jamie Brown Is NOT Rich (9 page)

CHAPTER 10

FITTING IN

I didn’t get in trouble from Principal Jefferson (at first!). He did tell me I had to learn how to fit in, to be like the other students, to not stand out. That was how things worked at Snootyville Grammar. That was why it ran like a well-oiled machine. To be unique, you must first be like everyone else. He asked me if that made sense.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make dollars. It
did
make me go cross-eyed trying to work it out, and then I got in trouble for pulling a face.

He sent me back to class.

I got lost again.

I sat under a tree.

Even with so many people at this school, I already felt lonely. I knew I should try and fit in, but I didn’t want to be like those snooty snobs who thought they were better than everyone else.

The bell rang and kids poured into the playground. I watched to see what they would play. It was weird. They split into small groups, and then sat playing by themselves. What the …?

I wandered over and saw some kids with something in their hands.

‘Haw haw,’ one kid laughed. ‘That’s what
you
think!’

He started pressing buttons. I had no idea who he was talking to or who had thought what.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked a kid who was watching.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he said in a snobby voice. ‘Are you conversing with me?’

‘Sure am, Jefferson. What are they doing?’

He sniffed. Rich people seem to do that.

It’s like they’re saying I stink because they’re so rich or something. Well, bad timing, Richie Rich, because sometimes I do stink.

He recovered though, which was impressive. That had been a silent but deadly.

‘They are battling via their smartphones. Where have you been? Under a rock?’

‘Haw haw haw,’ some other kids laughed. I swear, they sounded like donkeys when they laughed.

‘He most likely has been,’ one kid said. ‘It’s that poor boy. Have you ever played a game, poor boy?’

‘Sure have, rich girl,’ I said, with what I thought was a good comeback. Besides, if only he knew how rich I was! ‘I’ve played British Bulldogs. Wanna try it?’

‘British Bulldogs? What console?’

As far as I knew, console was another word for toilet, so
THAT
was weird.

‘Why would you play a game on the toilet? You rich kids are crazy. Anyway, do you want to try it?’

A few kids shrugged. I took that as a yes! It was time for Hovel Street to meet Snootyville Grammar and tackle it down.

I gave them a quick rundown of the rules.

‘You run to the tree. If I tackle you, you’re in the middle with me. Last one not tackled wins. Got it?’

They all looked at each other. One kid got his phone out and typed something. Must have been calling his mum. Then he looked at us.

‘His rules seem adequate, though it is a violent game known to cause ripped shirts and dirty trousers.’

He showed us his phone.

The other Jeffersons gasped. So did I. How awesome was that phone?

‘You mean,’ the sniffy Jefferson said, ‘that our uniforms may become dirty or torn? What would Nanny say?’

I laughed.

‘You have a nanny? Does she change your widdle nappy?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘Mother does that … I mean, did that. Grrrr. Let’s play this game. My clothes shall remain clean anyway. No one shall tackle me.’

I laughed again. That sounded like a challenge! I was from the streets, and I was ready to get down and dirty, which meant Nanny would be busy. They all lined up. I stood 20 metres away.

The Jeffersons ran. They seriously had spent too long playing games on their phones and toilets and had no idea how to dodge. I lined up Nanny’s boy Jefferson and took him down with a flying tackle.

He squealed and took a while to get up. I was actually worried I’d hurt him. He stared at me. He stared at the grass stain on his trousers. He stared at me again. Suddenly, his face lit up in a grin.

‘
THAT
…
WAS
…
SUPERB!!!
Righto, chaps, let’s have at it.
RUN!
’

He had the eye of the tiger. He was pumped. The others ran and we tackled a Jefferson each. I gave them some dodging lessons and we played some brilliant games.