Billionaire Boy (4 page)

“Yes, but the local comp...” said Mr Spud, incredulously. “Are you
sure
?”

“Yes,” replied Joe, defiantly.

“I could build you a school in the back garden if you like?” offered Mr Spud.

“No. I want to go to a normal school. With normal kids. I want to make a
friend
, Dad. I don’t have a single friend at St Cuthbert’s.”

“But you can’t go to a normal school. You are a billionaire, boy. All the kids will either bully you or want to be friends with you just because you are rich. It’ll be a nightmare for you.”

“Well, then I won’t tell anyone who I am. I’ll just be Joe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a friend, or even two…”

Mr Spud thought for a moment, and then relented. “If that’s what you really want, Joe, then OK, you can go to a normal school.”

Joe was so excited he bumjumped* along the sofa nearer to his dad to give him a cuddle.

“Don’t crease the suit, boy,” said Mr Spud.

*[Bumjumping (verb)
bum-jump-ing
. To move places while sitting using only your bottom to power you, thus meaning you do not have to get up. Much favoured by the overweight.]

“Sorry Dad,” said Joe, bumjumping back a little. He cleared his throat. “Um… I love you, Dad.”

“Yes, son, ditto, ditto,” said Mr Spud, as he rose to his feet. “Well, have a good birthday, mate.”

“Aren’t we going to do something together tonight?” said Joe, trying to hide his disappointment. When he was younger, Joe’s dad would always take him to the local burger restaurant as a birthday treat. They couldn’t afford the burgers, so they would just order the chips, and eat them with some ham and pickle sandwiches that Mr Spud would smuggle in under his hat.

“I can’t son, sorry. I’ve got a date with this beautiful girl tonight,” said Mr Spud, indicating Page 3 of the
Sun
.

Joe looked at the page. There was a photograph of a woman whose clothes seemed to have fallen off. Her hair was dyed white blonde and she had so much make-up on it was difficult to tell if she was pretty or not. Underneath the image it read, ‘Sapphire, 19, from Bradford. Likes shopping, hates thinking. ’

“Don’t you think Sapphire’s a little young for you, Dad?” asked Joe.

“It’s only a twenty-seven-year age gap,” replied Mr Spud in an instant.

Joe wasn’t convinced. “Well, where are you taking this Sapphire?”

“A nightclub.”

“A
nightclub
?” asked Joe.

“Yes,” said Mr Spud, in an offended tone. “I am not too old to go to a nightclub!” As he spoke he opened a box and pulled out what looked like a hamster that had been flattened by a mallet and put it on his head.

“What on earth is that, Dad?”

“What’s what, Joe?” replied Mr Spud with mock innocence, as he adjusted the contraption to cover his bald dome.

“That thing on your head.”

“Ooh, this. It’s a toupee, boy! Only ten grand each. I bought a blonde one, a brown one, a ginger one, and an afro for special occasions. It makes me look twenty years younger, don’t you think?”

Joe didn’t like to lie. The toupee didn’t make his dad look younger – instead, it made him look like a man who was trying to balance a dead rodent on his head. Therefore, Joe chose a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

“Right. Well, have a good night,” Joe added, picking up the remote. It looked like it would be just him and the 100-inch TV again.

“There’s some caviar in the fridge for your tea, son,” said Mr Spud as he headed for the door.

“What’s caviar?”

“It’s fish eggs, son.”

“Eurgh…” Joe didn’t even like normal eggs much. Eggs laid by a fish sounded really revolting.

“Yeah, I had some on toast for me breakfast. It’s absolutely disgusting, but it is very expensive so we should start eating it.”

“Can’t we just have bangers and mash or fish and chips or shepherd’s pie or something, Dad?”

“Mmm, I used to love shepherd’s pie, son…” Mr Spud drooled a little, as if imagining the taste of shepherd’s pie.

“Well then…?”

Mr Spud shook his head impatiently. “No no no, we are rich, son! We have to eat all this posh stuff now like proper rich people do. See you later!” The door slammed behind him and moments later Joe heard the deafening roar of his father’s lime-green Lamborghini speeding off into the night.

Joe was disappointed to be on his own again, but he still couldn’t suppress a small smile as he turned on the TV. He was going to go to an ordinary school again and be an ordinary boy. And maybe,
just maybe
, make a friend.

The question was, how long could Joe keep the fact that he was a billionaire a secret…?

Chapter 3
Who’s the Fattiest?

Finally, the big day came. Joe took off his diamond-encrusted watch and put his gold pen in the drawer. He looked at the designer black snakeskin bag his dad had bought him for his first day at his new school and put it back in his cupboard. Even the bag that bag had
come in
was too posh, but he found an old plastic one in the kitchen and put his school books in that. Joe was determined not to stand out.

From the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce he had passed the local comprehensive many times on his way to St Cuthbert’s, and seen the kids pouring out of the school. A rushing river of swinging bags and swear words and hair gel. Today, he was going to enter the gates for the first time. But he didn’t want to arrive by Rolls Royce – that would be a pretty good hint to the other kids that he was rich. He instructed the chauffeur to drop him off at a nearby bus stop. It had been quite a few years since he had travelled by public transport, and as he waited at the bus stop Joe tingled with excitement.

“I can’t change that!” said the bus driver.

Joe hadn’t realised that a £50 note was not going to be welcome to pay for a two-pound fare, and had to get off the bus. Sighing, he began to walk the two miles to school, his flabby thighs rubbing together as he took each step.

Finally, Joe reached the school gates. For a moment he loitered nervously outside. He had spent so long living a life of wealth and privilege – how on earth was he going to fit in with these kids? Joe took a deep breath and marched across the playground.

At registration, there was only one other kid sitting on his own. Joe looked over at him. He was fat, just like Joe, with a mop of curly hair. When he saw Joe looking over, he smiled. And when registration was over, he came over.

“I’m Bob,” said the fat boy.

“Hi Bob,” replied Joe. The bell had just rung and they waddled along the corridor to the first lesson of the day. “I’m Joe,” he added. It was weird to be in a school where no one knew who he was. Where he wasn’t Bum Boy, or Billionaire Bum, or the Bumfresh Kid.

“I am so glad you’re here, Joe. In the class, I mean.”

“Why’s that?” asked Joe. He was excited. It looked like he might have found his first friend already!

“Because I’m not the fattest boy in the school any more,” Bob said confidently, as if stating an independently verified fact.

Joe scowled, then stopped for a second and studied Bob. It looked to him like he and the other boy were about the same level of fattiness.

“How much do you weigh then?” demanded Joe grumpily.

“Well, how much do you weigh?” said Bob.

“Well, I asked you first.”

Bob paused for a second. “About eight stone.”

“I’m seven stone,” said Joe, lying.

“No way are you seven stone!” said Bob angrily. “I’m twelve stone and you are much fatter than me!”

“You just said you were eight stone!” said Joe accusingly.

“I
was
eight stone…” replied Bob, “when I was a baby.”

That afternoon it was cross-country running. What a dreadful ordeal for any day at school, not least your first day. It was a yearly torture that seemed designed solely to humiliate those kids who weren’t sporty. A category Bob and Joe could definitely be squeezed into.

“Where is your running kit, Bob?” shouted Mr Bruise, the sadistic PE teacher, as Bob made his way onto the playing field. Bob was wearing his Y-fronts and vest, and his appearance was greeted by a huge wave of laughter from the other kids.

“S-s-s-someone m-m-must have hidden it S-s-s-sir,” answered a shivering Bob.

“Likely story!” scoffed Mr Bruise. Like most PE teachers, it was difficult to imagine him wearing anything other than a tracksuit.

“D-d-do I still have to do the r-r-r-r-run S-s-s-s-s-s-s-sir….?” asked a hopeful Bob.

“Oh yes, boy! You don’t get off that easily. Right everyone, on your marks, get set… wait for it! GO!”

At first, Joe and Bob sprinted away like all the other kids, but after about three seconds they were both out of breath and were forced to walk. Soon everyone else had disappeared into the distance and the two fat boys were left alone.

“I come last every year,” said Bob, unwrapping a Snickers and taking a large bite. “All the other kids always laugh at me. They get showered and dressed and wait at the finish line. They could all go home, but instead they wait just to jeer at me.”

Joe frowned. That didn’t sound like fun. He decided he didn’t want to be last, and quickened his pace a little, making sure he was at least half a step ahead of Bob.

Bob glared at him, and piled on the speed, going up to at least half a mile an hour. From the determined expression on his face, Joe knew that Bob was hoping that this year was his golden chance not to finish last.

Joe sped up a little more. They were now almost jogging. The race was on. For the ultimate prize: who was going to finish… second to last! Joe really didn’t want to be beaten at cross-country running by a fat boy in his vest and pants on his first day at school.

After what seemed like an eternity the finish line hazed into sight. Both boys were out of breath with all this power-waddling.

Suddenly, disaster struck Joe. A painful stitch burst in his side.

“Ooww!” cried Joe.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bob, now quite a few centimetres in the lead.

“I’ve got a stitch… I’ve got to stop. Owww…”

“You’re bluffing. A fifteen-stone girl pulled that on me last year and ended up beating me by a fraction of a second.”

“Oww. It’s true,” said Joe, holding his side tightly.

“I ain’t falling for it, Joe. You are going to be last, and this year all the kids in the year are gonna be laughing at you!” said Bob triumphantly, as he edged ahead still further.

Being laughed at on his first day at school was the last thing Joe wanted. He’d had enough of being laughed at when he was at St Cuthbert’s. However, the stitch was becoming more and more painful with every step. It was as if it was burning a hole in his side. “How about I give you a fiver to come last?” he said.

“No way,” replied Bob, through heaving breaths.

“A tenner?”

“No.”

“Twenty quid?”

“Try harder.”

“Fifty quid.”

Bob stopped, and looked around at Joe.

“Fifty quid…” he said. “That’s a lot of chocolate.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “Tons.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. But I want the wonga now.”

Joe searched through his shorts and pulled out a fifty-pound note.

“What’s that?” asked Bob.

“It’s a fifty-pound note.”

“I’ve never seen one before. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, erm, it was my birthday last week you see…” said Joe, stumbling over his words a little. “And my dad gave me that as a present.”

The marginally fatter boy studied it for a moment, holding it up to the light as if it was a priceless artefact. “Wow. Your dad must be
loaded
,” he said.

The truth would have blown Bob’s fat mind. That Mr Spud had given his son two million pounds as a birthday present. So Joe kept schtum.

“Nah, not really,” he said.

“Go on then,” said Bob. “I’ll come last again. For fifty quid I would finish tomorrow if you like.”

“Just a few paces behind me will be fine,” said Joe. “Then it will look real.”

Joe edged ahead, still gripping his side in pain. Hundreds of little cruelly smiling faces were coming into focus now. The new boy crossed the finish line with only a hum of mocking laughter. Trailing behind was Bob, clutching his fifty-pound note, since there were no pockets in his Y-fronts. As he neared the finish line the kids started chanting.