Maggot Moon

Narrated against the backdrop of a ruthless regime determined to beat its enemies in the race to the moon, MAGGOT MOON is the stunning new novel from award-winning author Sally Gardner.

When his best friend Hector is suddenly taken away, dyslexic hero Standish Treadwell realises that it is up to him, his grandfather and a small band of rebels to confront and defeat the ever-present oppressive forces of the Motherland.

Utterly original and stunning, it is impossible not to be moved by MAGGOT MOON’s powerful story and the unforgettable heroism of Standish.

Check out the Maggot Moon hub on Movellas for competitions and awesome activities: http://www.movellas.com/blog/show/201209051721008644/the-movellas-maggot-moon-hub

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3. Three

 

I wasn’t listening to the lesson when the note arrived from the headmaster’s office. Because me and Hector were in the city across the water, in another country where the buildings don’t stop rising until they pin the clouds to the sky. Where the sun shines in Technicolor. Life at the end of a rainbow. I don’t care what they tell us, I’ve seen it on the TV. They sing in the streets – they even sing in the rain, sing while dancing round a lamp post.

This is the dark ages. We don’t sing.

But this was the best daydream I’d had since Hector and his family vanished. Mostly I tried not to think about Hector. Instead I liked to concentrate on imagining myself on our planet, the one Hector and I had invented. Juniper. 

It was better than being worried sick about what had happened to him. Except this was one of the best daydreams I’d had for a long time. It felt as if Hector was near me again. We were driving round in one of those huge, ice-cream-coloured Cadillacs. I could almost smell the leather. Bright blue, sky blue, leather seats blue. Hector in the back. Me with my arm resting on the chrome of the wound-down window, my hand on the wheel, driving us home for Croca-Colas in a shiny kitchen with a checked tablecloth and a garden that looks as if the grass was Hoovered.

That’s when I became vaguely aware of Mr Gunnell saying my name.

‘Standish Treadwell. You are wanted in the head- master’s office.’

Frick-fracking hell! I should have seen that coming. Mr Gunnell’s cane made my eyes smart, hit me so hard on the back of my hand that it left a calling card. Two thin, red weals. Mr Gunnell wasn’t tall but his muscles were made out of old army tanks with well-oiled army- tank arms. He wore a toupee that had a life of its own, battling to stay stuck on the top of his sweaty, shiny head. His other features didn’t do him any favours. He had a small, dark, snot-mark moustache that went down to his mouth. He smiled only when using his cane – that smile curdled the corner of his mouth so that his dried- up leech of a tongue stuck out. Thinking about it, I am not sure the word smile is right. Maybe it just twisted that way when he applied his mind to his favourite sport, hurting you. He wasn’t that worried where the cane landed as long as it hit flesh, made you jump.

You see, they only sing across the water. Here the sky fell in long ago. 

 

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