So Gross! (5 page)

Macca reached for the cake. He closed his eyes, paused for a moment, then stuffed it in his mouth. It seemed like he swallowed without chewing. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Every freckle on his face looked like it had been highlighted with texta.

Macca lurched to his feet. ‘Air,’ he croaked. ‘I need air.’ He held his tummy and clamped his lips into a thin line. A red flush exploded across his face as he bent over a garbage bin and heaved. Everyone took a step backwards but nothing came out. He leant against the wall, pale and panting.

The minutes ticked by.

Macca slumped to the ground and sat with his head between his knees.

Harry watched the clock. It was the longest fifteen minutes ever. ‘Ten, nine, eight,’ he counted down the final seconds. ‘Three, two, one.’ He looked at the crowd. ‘Macca’s the winner,’ he announced.

Boys cheered. Boys booed. But they all agreed it was a fair result.

Sam shook Macca’s hand. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re a legend.’

Macca smiled. ‘Piece of cake,’ he mumbled.

‘Okay. Now it’s pay up time,’ said Toby to his friends. ‘Let’s go get those Big Macs.’

‘With a milkshake,’ reminded Macca.

The boys linked arms and marched across the park, Ben with Mimi on his hip.

McDonald’s hummed with the lunchtime crowd. Four Big Macs were placed in front of Macca. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Three Big Macs later and he was slowing down. By the fourth he could only manage a nibble.

The others had two each.

Macca undid his belt, burping so loudly that Mimi jumped with fright.

‘Forgot something.’ Sam grinned, placing a large milkshake on the table.

Macca groaned. His tummy grumbled and rumbled in protest. ‘Don’t want it,’ he gasped, shaking his head. ‘I’m full.’

‘Uh-uh,’ said Sam. ‘It’s part of the deal. Four Big Macs —
with a milkshake.’
The others cheered. ‘It’s all yours, mate.’

Macca reluctantly picked up the cup. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,’ he said and drained it all in one go. Milk sloshed down his chin, turning his T-shirt bright pink.

‘Onya, Macca,’ said Toby, delivering a mighty blow to his back.

Macca burped then hiccuped. His eyes glazed over. A wet sheen appeared on his upper lip. He stood up, turning his head from side to side as if he was frantically looking for something, then tried to push past Toby.

He was hemmed in!

What happened next needs to be written in technicolour.

Macca should never have shoved his fist in his mouth. It tickled his tonsils, causing him to gag. It was like a volcano erupting.

Chewed spew flew across the room, covering everything in its path. You couldn’t tell who was who. Undigested eyeballs stared up at them. Piles of puke landed on the floor and great gobs of goo splotched onto the table. It looked like there’d been an almighty food fight.

And in the middle of it all sat Macca, shaking his head. ‘Would’ve been all right,’ he said, ‘cept for the milkshake.’

‘Marley Morgan. Where are your balls?’ Marley took a step backwards, his hands going into his pockets. He’d been thinking about pygmies in Africa. Not balls. He blushed. Teachers weren’t supposed to talk to kids like that. ‘Miss?’

‘Your balls, Marley. I want them.’

Marley felt his temperature rise by at least two degrees. His whole body began to steam. He could hear Celeste Whittaker giggling off to his right but the sound was muffled, as if he was in a dream.

‘Sorry, Miss?’ Perhaps he hadn’t heard right.

‘I said each child was to collect ten balls and put them in the bucket,’ said Miss Riley with a rising note of irritation in her voice.

‘Oh,’ said Marley. ‘You mean tennis balls.’

‘Of course I mean tennis balls. What other balls would I be referring to, Mr Morgan?’

This last bit was said so loudly that the entire tennis squad of Fullerton District North stopped in their tracks. This was no mean feat. They were the area champions and it took an awful lot to stop them.

Marley didn’t dare look at their faces. ‘Sorry, Miss,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Now get your wretched hands out of your pockets and bring me ten balls.’

‘Yes, Miss.’ Marley ran off. He didn’t try to explain why he had his hands in his shorts. It wasn’t to play pocket ping-pong. It was to check that the box was still there.

‘Bad luck,’ whispered Alex Zatt, his best mate. ‘You haven’t got an infection, have you?’ he asked kindly.

‘Sure.’ Marley grinned. ‘Athlete’s foot of the crotch.’

‘Can I catch it?’ asked Alex, moving away. He was a bit of a hypochondriac, always worrying that behind every corner there lurked a germ with his name on it.

‘Only if you can scratch your crotch with your big toe.’

Alex decided to see if he could. He balanced on one leg, trying to get his foot higher than his knee.

Marley gave him a playful punch, sending him flying. ‘Only joking. Of course you can’t catch it. There’s nothing to catch.’

‘Oh,’ said Alex, not sure whether to believe him or not.

‘I was just checking to see if my box was still there,’ explained Marley.

‘Why do you carry that stupid box around?’ asked Alex.

‘Marley Morgan! Would you stop wasting my time and come here immediately.’

The shrill tones of Miss Riley’s voice made Marley’s hair stand on end.

She made him act as catcher for the rest of the lesson as a punishment for being disruptive. The catcher had to stand down one end of the court while the rest of the kids lined up at the other. The catcher was meant to catch the balls and throw them back over the net while they practised their lobs.

Fifty missiles flew at Marley. All at once. It was impossible. There wasn’t even time to check that his precious box was still tucked safely away. Finally the bell went for the last lesson before lunch.

It was one of those blistering hot summer days when the only thing you can raise enthusiastically is your eyebrow. The kind of day when the playground sizzles, when tempers are short and sighs are long.

The kind of day any person in their right mind would be at the local swimming pool, thought Marley. Not at school.

‘Now, class,’ said Miss Riley, who was unfortunately the class teacher when she wasn’t being a tennis coach. ‘Pull out your creative writing journals. You’re going to write a poem.’ The class gave a collective sigh, adding to the heaviness in the air. Miss Riley didn’t seem to notice. ‘I want you to write a poem about little lambs,’ she continued.

Lambs? thought Marley. Trust Miss Riley to choose to write about a woolly blanket on a day like this.

‘Twenty minutes,’ she barked. ‘Then I’ll be picking people at random to stand up in front of the class and read their poem.’

Lots of groans could be heard. And one rude word. Luckily, Miss Riley was too deaf to hear that.

Marley stared at the blank page in front of him, all poems about little lambs leaving his head. He played with the box in his pocket.

‘Ten minutes to go.’ Miss Riley loved putting the screws on.

Marley picked up his pen and wrote ‘Lamb’. How he wished it was lunchtime. His tummy was already rumbling. Beside ‘Lamb’ he quickly scribbled the word ‘Chop’. It was the only thing that came to mind.

Marley looked around the room, hoping to get an idea. Alex was staring out the window. Good old Al. He was a bit of a space cadet but that’s what Marley liked about him. Celeste Whittaker was writing furiously. Typical. The rest of the class looked pretty busy, too.

Miss Riley began to walk between the desks but gave up when her bottom kept knocking the children’s pages onto the floor. Instead, she hovered at the front of the room, flicking her fingernails in a way that sounded like flies hitting a mozzie zapper.

‘One minute,’ she announced. She was enjoying herself.

In the final frantic moments Marley’s stomach let out a rumble that was so loud it even got Alex’s attention. Alex turned and winked at his friend.

Miss Riley gave Marley one of her Poison Dart looks. Miss Riley pulled so many bad faces that Marley and Alex had given them their own special names. There was the Boulder, which could stop you in your tracks, the Sizzler, which could burn you so you’d feel stupid in front of everyone, and
the Poison Dart, which she saved for when she wanted you dead. Occasionally — rarely — she’d let rip with a Two-By-Four, which was a great big beam of a smile. From here to forever. But only if your name was Celeste Whittaker.

Marley got to work, his pen flying across the page.

‘Pens down. Would anyone like to volunteer?’

The children wriggled in their seats, about as enthusiastic as a line up for a headlice check.

One hand shot up, quicker than a possum up a tree. Celeste Whittaker’s. Surprise, surprise.

Miss Riley nodded for her to begin.

Celeste stood at her desk, front row of course, and swivelled round to face the class. She stood with her feet together and her hands clasped at her chest.

She looks like she’s praying, thought Marley, whose eyebrows had shot up towards heaven.

‘Meadows blowing in the wind,’
began Celeste.

Wind? The girl’s a moron, thought Marley. You can smash the air with your fist.

‘A little lamb is born.

Softly bleats its mother

In the early hours of morn.’

Celeste had to try hard not to bow. All around the room eyes rolled and eyebrows pointed to the ceiling in disgust.

But not Miss Riley’s. That wasn’t part of a Two-By-Four. ‘Why, thank you, Celeste. That was just delightful.’

Celeste sat down. Reluctantly. ‘Any other takers?’

Marley glanced at his watch. Only another two minutes to be invisible.

‘I’ll have to choose someone, then.’

The Two-By-Four hadn’t faded. This was Miss Riley’s definition of a good time.

Sam ‘My Man’ Halliday was the unfortunate victim. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t even look up as he read his poem. Sam had a good go at alliteration, with little lambs leaping wearing warm woolly coats. It was enough to satisfy Miss Riley.

Marley checked the time again. Only thirty seconds to go. He held his breath for the countdown to the lunch bell. This put more pressure on his stomach. It growled, sounding like a pack of wolves after those little lambs.

Miss Riley’s eyes sprang to the back row. ‘I’m sure there’s time for one more.’ She gave Marley the Sizzler. ‘Mr Morgan, we’ll hear from you, shall we?’

Marley stood up. He could feel shivers down his back despite the heat. Even his toenails tingled. He cleared his throat.

Alex was giving encouraging smiles from the row in front. Good old Alex.

‘Lambs,’ squeaked Marley.

‘Louder,’ directed Miss Riley. ‘I’m sure Celeste in the front row would like to hear from you.’

Celeste smiled, like a pit bull terrier in the ring. Marley’s tummy growled back.

‘Lamb chops and chutney

Sausages, eggs and ham.

Fill the plate

I won’t be late
.

And add some bread and jam.’

Another Poison Dart shot in his direction. ‘Is this your idea of a joke, Marley?’ ‘No, Miss.’

‘Because I fail to see the humour.’ She must have been the only one. Except for Celeste.

The rest of the class were wearing Two-By-Fours. Even Four-By-Eights if there was such a thing.

The sound of the bell split the air.

‘Mr Morgan to stay behind. The rest of the class …dismissed.’

Twenty-seven children took their eyebrows and vanished.

‘It’s not fair,’ said Marley to Alex after school that afternoon. ‘She wanted a poem. I gave her one. If she wanted a namby pamby one she should have said.’

Alex flung his arm round his mate’s shoulders in sympathy. ‘Come and kick the footy with me up the park. Imagine it’s old Riley’s head.’

Marley pulled away. ‘I can’t,’ he moaned. ‘The old turd-face has given me a class presentation for Friday. On something of culture. What am I going to do?’

Alex gave the question two seconds of thought. He saw Sam ‘My Man’ Halliday heading in the direction of the park and did what any best friend would do in the circumstances. ‘Sorry, mate. I can’t help you.’ With a gentle pat to Marley’s shoulder he ran to catch up with Sam. As they crossed the road, Alex turned and shouted, ‘See you at tennis in the morning.’

Tennis! Marley nodded. Another session with Miss Riley. He groaned. That was all he needed.

Maybe I should miss training, he thought, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. He was in the semi-finals next Saturday and needed all the practice he could get.

Marley’s fingers went nervously to his pocket, checking for his box. The box was made of intricately carved wood. It was no bigger than a matchbox, but for Marley it was more valuable than a bank vault filled with gold. Great Grandpa Wal had given it to him just before he died.

‘What’s inside it, Great Grandpa?’ Marley had asked as the frail man lay in the hospital bed.