So Gross! (4 page)

Meanwhile, back at the tent …

‘You’re sick,’ said Macca, finishing off his second slice. ‘At this rate you’ll all end up losing the lot. And wouldn’t that be a waste. Of course,’ he said reaching for his third slice, ‘nothing could make me chunder.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Old iron guts. That’s what Dad calls me.’

‘Betcha we could,’ said Sam, suddenly serious. ‘Get you to throw up, that is.’

Macca looked from the remaining slices of pizza to Sam then back again. ‘Uh uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A MacTavish never throws up.’ He smiled at Sam. ‘Not even my little sister Annie when she mistook that cockroach for a chocolate.’

‘Reckon we could,’ persisted Sam, ‘and you wouldn’t even have to eat much.’

‘Could not,’ snapped Macca, whose reputation was on the line.

Macca MacTavish, the only boy to eat six Big Macs in one sitting at McDonald’s. Plus fries.
And
keep them down.

‘It’s worth a try,’ said Ben. ‘Just for a bit of fun.’

‘Yeah, Macca,’ said Harry. ‘It’ll be a laugh. Take us on. We dare you.’

‘Go for it,’ said Toby, giving Macca a playful pinch on the arm. ‘An eating competition,’ he announced. ‘We’ll have rules,’ he went on, ‘and if you win we owe you one Big Mac — each,’ he added.

Macca hesitated. ‘With a milkshake?’

They all nodded.

‘And if I lose I’ll have to buy you one each?’

It was the boys’ turn to nod.

‘Done,’ he said, shaking their hands in turn.

Long into the night they discussed the rules of the dare, each boy puzzling over what food they could bring that would be guaranteed to make Macca MacTavish throw up.

‘Muuum?’
called Harry to his mother in the kitchen. ‘What food would make you want to vomit?’

Mrs Michaels was busy chopping carrots for dinner but she put down her knife and carefully considered the question.

‘I never vomit, Harry dear,’ she said. ‘I only … recycle.’

‘All right, Mum,’ said Harry. ‘What foods do you tend to
recycle
from your stomach then?’

‘Well, dear,’ said Mrs Michaels lowering her voice to a whisper and glancing over her shoulder. ‘I have to work very hard to keep down your father’s pigs’ hearts and lambs’ brains pie.’ She winked.

‘Pigs’ hearts and lambs’ brains pie?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, dear.’ She giggled. ‘We eat it every Friday night.’ Harry looked puzzled then suddenly lost his suntan. ‘We’ve always told
you
it was chicken.’

Harry’s breakfast recycled itself into the kitchen sink.

‘Next time aim for the bucket, Harry dear,’ smiled Mrs Michaels. ‘Then I can put it in the compost.’ He nodded weakly, relieved that his search was over.

Sam was sitting at his desk, trying to do his homework — without much success. He kept thinking about his challenge for Macca and staring into space.

Only the space wasn’t really a space.

It was a tank of water with bubbles in it.

His goldfish kept staring back.

Sam looked glumly at the essay in front of him. He had written across the top, ‘A Day in the Life of a…’ then stopped, stuck for something to write about. His dog’s scratching caught his attention. ‘Flea,’ he finished triumphantly.

The goldfish wasn’t impressed. It gave him the eye and swam round and round the tank.

Like it’s doing three-sixties, thought Sam deciding to cross out ‘Flea’ and writing ‘Skateboarder’ instead.

The goldfish opened and closed its mouth in disgust.

‘What’s your problem?’ Sam asked angrily.

There’s something seriously wrong with an animal that doesn’t blink, he thought to himself as he tried to stare down the goldfish.

It reminded him of a trout his dad had caught once and proudly served up for dinner. Whole. Its head and everything still attached. Sam had felt
decidedly queasy — especially when he looked at its eyes. The silver pools had turned an opaque white, looking like gobs of spit on the plate.

That gave Sam an idea.

‘You little beauty,’ he said to the goldfish.

The fish blew a raspberry in reply.

Toby Pitt lived with his dad in a run-down rusty caravan. Just the two of them. Toby was home by himself because his dad was working late at the mine. He didn’t mind. They were saving so that one day they could build a house of their own. He began to wash the dishes from last night’s dinner.

Now, what would make my stomach churn? Toby thought to himself as he scraped the fat off the plate. ‘Tinned peas? Or liverwurst?’ he said out loud, pulling the sort of face you do when you find last week’s lunch in the bottom of your schoolbag. ‘Garlic cloves? Or oysters?’ He sighed. ‘Bet Macca wouldn’t blink twice at that lot.’

Toby peered in the fridge, looking for some afternoon tea. Dad hadn’t done the shopping for a while and nothing was saying, ‘Eat me. Eat me.’ The jar of mustard never said much at the best of times and the two shrivelled carrots just sat there. He was about to slam the door in disgust when he suddenly remembered the cheese compartment.

The pong hit him like a cricket ball between the eyes. Toby covered his mouth with his hand and stepped backwards. It was all he could do to stop his lunch from trying to escape. Holding his breath, he stared in horror. Something was hiding
behind the butter. It looked to be breeding blue and green furry caterpillars.

‘What’s up, mate?’ asked Mr Pitt when he got home a little while later.

‘There’s this dead thing in the fridge, Dad,’ said Toby. ‘It’s disgusting.’ He dragged his father to the fridge, pointing at the mouldy mass. Mr Pitt started to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ demanded Toby.

‘It’s cheese, matey,’ said Mr Pitt, chuckling. ‘Blue vein cheese. A real delicacy.’ Toby looked like he didn’t believe him. ‘I got it for our visitor on Sunday. Remember? Heard he was fond of a bit of cheese.’

‘You mean you eat that stuff?’ asked Toby. ‘It’ll make you sick.’

‘Uh-uh,’ said Mr Pitt, still smiling. ‘In fact that’s the stuff we use to make people better. It’s where penicillin comes from.’

Toby looked dubious.

‘You sure you can eat it, Dad?’ he said as he got another whiff and his eyes began to water. ‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Pitt. ‘Perfect,’ said Toby.

Ben Wu and his baby sister Mimi had a lot in common. Ben dribbled basketballs and Mimi dribbled, well — er — dribble. Rivers of it, overflowing down her chin on its way to the floor. The whole family got good at sidestepping puddles.

‘She’s just teething,’ explained Ben. Macca was watching in disgust as Mimi left a snail trail along the tiles.

‘Come, Mimi,’ called Mrs Wu. ‘Help me make an omelette.’

She sat Mimi down on the kitchen floor and gave her a spoon and a bowl. Mrs Wu then broke the eggs into the bowl and handed Mimi a spoon. Mimi bashed the eggs with the spoon and then massaged them with her grubby fingers. A pool of saliva slopped over her bottom lip and mingled with the eggwhites.

Mrs Wu was too busy to notice.

‘That sister of yours is a health risk,’ said Macca, getting up to leave. ‘I’d only eat here again if it came out of a packet. Like soup. Or cake.’

Ben shrugged, embarrassed.

‘Guess I’ll be having the rice tonight,’ he called as Macca disappeared out the door.

Ben looked at Mimi licking the spoon and putting it back in the bowl. And then the most wonderful idea began to form.

‘Let him eat cake then,’ he said out loud. The grin started at his mouth but soon overtook his whole face.

News of the competition spread like a swarm of headlice. Boys even swapped their paper-runs to be there. Most of the girls pretended to ignore the whole thing. They thought it would be gross if Macca won and gross if he lost.

Macca took it very seriously and went into training. Smoked tongue went down without a squirm. So did capers and spinach. Horseradish and pickled herring quickly disappeared from sight.

Piece of cake, thought Macca. Little did he know.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny as Macca gargled in preparation.

‘Won’t be home for lunch, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m eating out.’

By the time he arrived at Nelson Park there was standing room only behind the toilet block. Boys were perched on the side fence and others hung off the roof.

‘What’s she doing here?’ demanded Macca, pointing to Mimi drooling into the dust.

‘Couldn’t help it,’ said Ben. ‘Mum had to work and Dad’s got to watch the footy on the telly. She’ll be all right,’ he added at Macca’s look of disgust.

Mimi was starting to make mud pies.

Harry blasted the crowd with a whistle. ‘Clear the way. Clear the way.’ Placing a T-shirt on the ground like a tablecloth, he turned to the others. ‘You got the grub?’ They held up an assortment of containers. ‘Let’s get going then.’

He motioned for Macca to sit down.

Harry called for quiet and twenty boys stopped still. Their teachers wouldn’t have believed it was possible.

Harry called out the rules of the dare.

‘I’ll go first,’ he said, placing a package on the T-shirt. The boys strained to see inside. Slowly Harry peeled away the foil.

Macca didn’t even bother to watch. He casually retied his shoelace, giving a little yawn at the same time. Snorts and groans from the crowd forced him to look up.

It looked like something from one of those old black-and-white movies. Like the bits left behind when a body was eaten by aliens. There were brown bits and grey bits with the occasional streak of red. There were lumpy bits and stringy bits and smashed up looking bits. Macca raised an eyebrow in question.

‘Pigs’ hearts and lambs’ brains,’ smiled Harry.

‘But it’s meant to be real food,’ protested Macca.

‘It is,’ said Harry. ‘We have it for dinner every Friday night. Dad cooks it. In a pie,’ he explained. ‘If it makes you feel better,’ he winked, ‘think of it as chicken.’

Macca gulped once, then twice. He scooped some up, sniffed, then shoved the whole lot into his mouth. One bit fell out and landed on the ground. It wobbled for a moment then settled, looking like a fur-ball spat out by a cat.

Macca swallowed.

‘Aaahh,’
he said, pretending to lick his lips. ‘Delicious. One down, three to go.’

Harry pointed to Toby. ‘You’re next.’

Toby sat in front of Macca and placed a sealed container on the T-shirt. You couldn’t see inside. Twenty pairs of eyes watched as he placed his hands on the rim.

‘Sure you’re game?’ he teased. Macca nodded, his eyes fixed on the container. Toby flicked off the lid.

It smelt like something had died in there. Nostrils flared, eyes started to water and tummies leapt for cover, but Macca didn’t flinch.

‘Blue vein cheese,’ explained Toby. ‘Dad bought it.’ Nobody moved. ‘You have it on biscuits. Here, I brought some.’ He pulled some crackers from his pocket.

‘Over to you, Macca,’ said Harry.

Macca stared at the cheese, half expecting it to come alive. ‘Water,’ he croaked. Harry passed over a bottle. Macca broke off a chunk of cheese and smeared it on the cracker.

It looked like caterpillar guts.

Holding it up to the crowd, he opened his mouth and shoved the whole thing in. For a fraction of a second he froze, then with the determination of a man with Olympic gold in sight, he quickly chewed
and swallowed. Several gulps later, the crowd held its breath.

Nothing happened.

Round 2 to Macca.

‘I’ll go next,’ said Sam, rattling his jar at the crowd. He changed places with Toby and carefully unscrewed the lid. From a distance the contents looked like six marbles.

‘Hey,’ said Harry. ‘Real food, remember?’

‘It is,’ said Sam, staring directly at Macca. ‘They’re fish eyes. Marinated and lightly cooked.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘A real delicacy in China,’ he added, looking to Ben for support. Ben just shrugged. ‘We had barbecued fish last night and this is the leftovers.’

Anyone watching closely would have seen Macca’s pupils dilate, but most were laughing and shouting and missed it.

Macca plucked one up in his fingertips and held it to the light. He fought the urge to squish it like a grape, then threw it back in the jar with the others.

Again, Harry called for silence.

Suddenly Macca moved. He picked up the jar and up-ended the lot into his mouth. His eyes crossed. His jaw froze.

‘Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat,’ chanted the boys.

The whole lot disappeared like a handful of M&Ms. For a second Macca felt like there was a game of ping-pong going on in his stomach, but
the bouncy feeling soon passed. He bowed to the crowd.

‘Last one,’ he said, turning to Ben. ‘It’d better be good.’

Ben whispered to Mimi. She gurgled back, watering the ground.

‘You don’t need rain when that kid’s around,’ said Macca.

Ben sat in front of the T-shirt, waving a large brown paper bag under Macca’s nose. The crowd hushed. Slowly he reached into the bag.

It was so quiet that the crinkle of the paper sounded like throw-downs going off. Ben smiled. It wasn’t pretty. With a flourish he pulled out … a cupcake.

Macca looked puzzled.

Cries of ‘What’s going on?,’ ‘Huh?,’ ‘He’s won for sure’, could be heard from the crowd.

‘What game are you playing?’ he asked Ben. ‘Looks like a cupcake to me.’

‘Yummy. Cake yummy,’ cooed Mimi, reaching for it.

‘Not Mimi’s cake,’ warned Ben. He pointed to Macca. ‘Macca’s cake. Macca eat cake. Mimi’s cake at home.’ He handed Mimi a rusk to keep her quiet. She wrapped her gums around it happily. ‘It
is
a cupcake,’ said Ben to Macca, before adding with a sly grin, ‘Mimi made it.’

Macca stared at Mimi, an island surrounded by her own moat. His throat clamped down and his gut recoiled in horror.

Mimi oozed with smiles.

Macca stared at the cake as if it was a pile of poo.

He began to take deep breaths. Minutes ticked by.

‘Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat,’ urged the crowd.