The Contest by Frank Westcott

Copyright Frank Westcott, 1978.  All Rights Reserved.

"Sandy.... Sandy.... will you stop banging on that typewriter! We can't hear to think down here."

That was Sandy's mother, plump, brown haired, with fleshy arms and painted toenails, her wire rimmed glasses sliding down her perspiring nose. She hated it when Sandy typed. "The noise! Clack-clack-clack!" But she didn't mind when Sandy's sister Michelle practiced the piano at seven in the morning.

Michelle seemed to always hit the wrong note right in the middle of a good dream, Sandy thought. Just that morning he'd rolled over trying to get back to sleep to continue his slumber-time imaginings. He was having the best dream he'd had in days when Michelle started doing her scales. Up- and-down up-and-down. Sounded like a staccato stair climber with bells on her fingers. No luck. Sandy couldn't get back to dreamland. And to beat all, he couldn't even remember what the dream was, except for the fact he knew it was a good one.

So, like every other morning he brushed his teeth to Michelle's C Major with both hands and hustled off to the mailbox at the end of the lane. Snow was piled high on either side where his dad cleared the way for the car. Dressed only in his T-shirt and track pants, Sandy ran into the kitchen shivering and tossed the mail on the counter. Mrs. Jacobs, humming happily and covered with flour, was busily making pancakes. "Read the back addresses, Sandy. Tell me who they're from."

Wanting to get away from the piano and his mother's cheerfulness, Sandy read the return names on the mail as fast as he could. "Mr. Aikens, 24 Dunning Crescent, Toronto, Ontario M8W 4S8. Ella Dowit, 16 Church Street, Parry Sound, Ontario P2A IY6....." Sandy stuttered on the next one, "... The Children's.... Bo...... Uh...! Oh...! This one's for me...! Ah that's all, mom. I gotta go."

Letter in hand, Sandy's right foot was dropping on the first stair leading to his room when his mother's shrill, off key voice called out right in time to Michelle's up-and-down up-and-down, "SANDY, GET YOURSELF IN HERE. What was that last letter?"

There was no way Sandy could tell her where the letter clutched in his hand was from, so he had to fake it. "Just for me, ma. Just for me. Nothin' special."

Sandy could hear Mrs. Jacobs slapping her hands on her apron. This meant she was coming to him. Her heavy footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor. The boards creaked. Sandy wished the boards would give way and his mother would slip, quietly and unhurt, through to the cellar to rest among the pickled beets, strawberry jam, and apple jelly. "Let me see it, Sandy. What are you hiding from me?"

Sandy backed up against the banister. "Nothin' ma. Nothin'."

Mrs. Jacobs looked at her son. He was getting bigger. Almost as tall as she was. Maybe..... just maybe...... "Sandy, you've got a girl. I'll be blamed blistered silly. Away with you!"

Sandy grinned. The only girl he liked was Sarah Wallace and that was because she was more like a boy than a girl. And, she was the only goalie he could score on when they played hockey on the rink Mr. Jacobs made in the backyard every winter. Even Michelle got more goals than Sandy and she wore figure skates. And that was another thing, Sarah Wallace wore rough, cracked leather boy's skates. She was okay. Sandy had no girlfriend and hoped he never did. The important thing was, he tricked his ma.

Once up the stairs, he sailed into the privacy of his room. He scurried over to his corner desk, switched on the overhead lamp, and tore open the letter. Sandy's eyes brightened as he read. His foot tapped quickly on the floor and his hands began to sweat. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. His big chance. No more Michelle and her UP-AND-DOWN UP-AND-DOWN. No more trying to be an athlete. No more listening to ma thudding across the floor to see what he was up to. Boy, life would never be the same again.

Hurriedly, Sandy checked the calendar. He had two days to do it. That would leave three days for the mail to carry his escape plan to fame and fortune. "Saturday, Saturday," he thought. "Oh, I'm so glad you came today. There wouldn't be time any other day with chores, and school, and television, and drying dishes, and homework, and....."

Sandy hopped up and ran to the bathroom to rinse his face and brush his teeth. Then, he'd get going. He rushed back into his bedroom, sat down at his desk, and inserted a piece of paper into his typewriter.

Then he re-read the letter.

*

CHILDREN'S WRITING CENTER - CONTEST !!!

* FOR ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILDREN ONLY * WINNING STORY TO BE PUBLISHED IN CHILDREN'S ANNUAL `99

* FIVE HUNDRED WORDS MAXIMUM LENGTH.
* DEADLINE, FEBRUARY 28th.
* JUDGING BY: AWARD WINNING CHILDREN'S AUTHOR, GLORIA TURNER
* ANY SUBJECT MATTER

SEND SUBMISSIONS TO:

*

Yes, Sandy's big chance. He'd be famous. He'd get rich. He'd live in the city and have interviews on T.V. and in the papers. He'd show them. So what if he couldn't play hockey. He could write. His teacher said so. "Sandy..... breakfast." No answer. Sandy typed on.

Sandy's mind had become lost in his world of pirates and thieves. "Ahoy mates," he said cheerfully. In his story, he was somewhere in Lake Ontario heading his ship's crew towards Hamilton where they would intercept a thieving oil tanker from Buffalo. So what if there was no oil in Buffalo and no pirates anymore. It was his story. He'd write the way he wanted. And win!

In his mind and in the words jumping onto the monitor, Sandy saw the tanker off in the distance. It was pitch black, long, wide, and flat with oil rigs pumping away on top. Esso, Gulf, and Shell flags flew over gas pumps where the smoke stacks go. Two steady lanes of traffic flowed down the tanker middle. The cars were stolen from Japan and going to dealers in Toronto, London, and Kingston. What a killing these thieving pirates would make.

On board, Sandy saw cars, monster oil tanks, and gas stations. These were pirates! Big time!

The tanker drew closer. Sandy read the name painted on the side in metre high gold letters: LADY SLIPPER.

In the story, Sandy saw himself rushing to his ship's main mast and raising the flag. But when the flag unfurled, a skull and crossbones sneered down at him from the black cloth. Bewildered but determined, Sandy picked up a bullhorn he had brought along for that very moment.

Sandy shouted in as mean a voice as he could, "LADY SLIPPER SKIPPER, DRAW ASIDE! HEAR ME! AHOY! LADY SLIPPER SKIPPER, DRAW ASIDE! YOU ARE UNDER ATTACK! SURRENDER YOUR CARGO AND CREW!

N-O-W! THIS VERY SECOND! OR WE'LL BLOW YOUR SHOES OFF!"

Sandy couldn't believe his eyes. The tanker sunk. Just like that. It disappeared. No bubbles bubbled to the surface. No oil pumps stuck up through the water. No constantly moving, two lanes of traffic could be seen in the clear depths. No Lady Slipper! Period! Zero!

MUST BE A SUB!" Sandy shouted to his crew. "DROP THE DEPTH CHARGES! SINK HER!"

Sandy's first mate, Sarah Wallace looked at him and said, "I'm sorry sir. We can't see her. She's already sunk. All by herself. Submarines do that, you know."

"Uh! Oh! Uh..., Yes-yes-yes. Shoot anyway. They're pirates aren't they?" Sarah pointed to the flag flapping the skull and cross bones overhead. Sandy scratched his bullhorn. "Or... maybe... W-E'R-E the pirates." Then gathering himself together Sandy said firmly like a ship's captain, "We're pirates aren't we?"

"No, I'm not a pirate," Sarah said. "I'm Sarah Wallace. I play goal for the Barnyard Bruins. Who are you?"

"I'm a rescuer of pirated cargo. No..." Sandy said, looking at the flag, and skull and cross bones flying on his own ship... I'm uh... a... pir... Oh... I don't know!" he paused, then said, "Well really... I'm a... writer... writing... about... being... a... rescuer... or maybe... HUH! Maybe... a... a... pir...ate..."

Suddenly Sandy started dancing on the ship's deck. "I'm winning the contest!" he shouted. "Right now I'm winning the contest." In the middle of his dancing and shouting, Michelle marched up the boarding plank hanging off the side of Sandy's ship. A piano followed her, the keys playing UP-AND-DOWN UP-AND-DOWN. And pushing the piano was Sandy's mother covered in baking flour, her feet thud, thud, thudding on the floorboards. Michelle raised her hand in salute. "Captain Sandy Jacobs of the rescue...," she looked at the flapping flag over Sandy's head. "Uh... pirate ship upon which we now stand, we are here to congratulate you for victory."

What was this, Sandy wondered?

Then Mrs. Jacobs came forward. She stuck out one flour covered hand and held her glasses in place with her other. "My son, my son have a bun," she sang. Sandy was bewildered. His story got away from him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be in it.

Neither was Michelle or Sarah, or his mother, or gas pumps, or traffic lanes, or oil rigs, or Hamilton, or Buffalo, or Lake Ontario, or the piano playing itself. He'd have to start over. Everything was out of whack. His mother came closer putting her thick, flabby arms around him. She gently rocked him from side-to-side. The flour tasted funny on her. Sarah began making saves on the deck behind.

"Oh what a story. I can't win with this. No way!" Sandy cried in the midst of Michelle's UP-AND-DOWN UP-AND-DOWN piano playing. He stepped onto the cold bedroom floor and hurried to the bathroom to rinse his face and brush his teeth. The cool water felt good. Michelle's UP-AND-DOWN UP-AND-DOWN played on, ringing through the floorboards. He heard his mother's slippery feet thud-thud-thudding across the kitchen below.

"Breakfast, Sandy!" she called. "There's snow outside and the lane's clear now. Maybe there's mail. Hurry up. Dad's waiting to take you into town for your haircut. You must look nice when you meet Gloria Turner from the Children's Writing Center. After all, it was you who invited her to read for the Library Club today."

Sandy shook his head. The Library Club! He had to hurry. The whole class was coming to hear Gloria Turner. He'd gotten so lost in the dream, he forgot all about it! "Whew!" he said.

Then he thought, "Good thing Michelle practices early in the morning. I might have slept right through the whole thing!"

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