The Donut Diaries (13 page)

But then today I was vaguely looking at the captains as they were picking, sort of half thinking that it might be quite nice to play,
and
the FHK shouted out, ‘I’ll have Donut.’

I was totally gobsmacked. So was everyone else. The other kids on the FHK’s team all grumbled and groaned.

I walked towards them in a trance. I heard Renfrew say something behind me. It might have been, ‘Watch out.’

‘You go in goal, fatty,’ said someone. I don’t really like going in goal, but I was chuffed just to be playing, so I didn’t mind.

The truth is, I did quite a good job – I filled most of the goal and just let the balls bounce off me. I didn’t let a single one in, and at the end we were winning 7–0. The FHK clapped me on the back and said, ‘Well done, Donut.’

Pretty amazing, really.

I celebrated on the way home by getting the holy trinity from Mr Alexis: a plain chocolate donut, a milk chocolate donut and a white chocolate donut.

It’s funny. I was looking back over the donuts I’ve eaten, trying to work out if I eat more when I’ve had a rotten day. I think I usually do. But then I also eat more if I’ve had a really good day (like today). And then there’s the whole mysterious factor of availability, which is all to do with whether I’ve got enough money, if the donuts have sold out, if I’ve been grounded, etc. etc.

So I reckon it’s quite a tricky equation. And like all tricky equations, I’ve found it’s best just not to think about it.

So,
DONUT COUNT
:

Wednesday 4 October

PLAYED FOOTIE AGAIN
at break. Only let in one goal. The score so far this week is 12–1. Suddenly everyone likes me!

Renfrew and Spam and Corky are a bit weird about it, but they’ll have to learn to live with my new-found celebrity.

I haven’t even thought about Doc Morlock’s poo for a couple of days. Oh, but now I have …

My mum talked to me tonight. Not the usual haveyoudoneyourhomeworkeatupyourspinachwillyoubrushyourteeth kind of talk, but a different sort. A new sort. I was actually trying to watch the telly, so it was slightly annoying. It went like this:

Mum: Those pictures you saw the other day.

Me: Yeah?

Mum: I want to explain about them.

Me: OK.

Mum: This is important, and it’s difficult for me to talk about, so I’d appreciate it if you listened.

Me: Yeah. What?

Mum: I want to explain about them.

Me: OK. About what?

Mum: The pictures. About the girl in
them
. About me. The thing is, when I was about eleven, I began to have a … difficult relationship with food.

Me: Oh.

Mum: I began to eat too much. And then I’d … well, I’d go for a while without eating anything.

Me: Oh.

Mum: And it just wasn’t healthy.

Me: Oh.

Mum: And I became quite ill.

Me: Sorry, what were you saying?

[At this point Mum got up and turned the telly off. Doh!]

Mum: Look, what I’m saying is that I went through a very bad time, and I don’t want you to go through it. It’s why I want to get you eating healthily from an early age. It’s why I
don’t
want you to be …

Me: Fat.

Mum: Yes, fat.

Me: [After a few seconds of thinking time] Mum?

Mum: Yes?

Me: How come you stopped being, you know, fat?

Mum: Well, I suppose it was your dad.

Me: Dad? How?

Mum: He, er, loved me.

Me:
Muuuum
…

Mum: Well, you asked me. He loved me and didn’t care what I looked like, so I stopped being quite so mixed up. And the strange thing is that when I stopped being, well, a bit mad, then I slimmed down. And of course there’s the yoga.

Me: Mum?

Mum: Yes?

Me: Can we put the telly on again?

Then there was a double flush from the loo and my dad appeared. When he sat on the sofa my mum went and sat next to him and held his hand. I got out of there pretty quick in case they started snogging.

After that, I needed a donut!

DONUT COUNT:

Thursday 5 October

THE GUYS ARE
definitely getting jealous about my participation in the Big Match.

‘They’re just making fun of you, you know,’ Renfrew said, not really looking at me. It was at the beginning of break, before the game had got going again.

‘How do you know?’ I replied, a bit grumpily.

‘Because why else would they let you play?’

‘Anyone can play who wants to. That’s the rule. You could play if you wanted.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘No need to be sarcastic.’

‘But why do you think they asked you to play?’

‘I’m good in goal,’ I said, a bit offended if truth be told.

‘B-b-b-b-b b-b-h-h-h-h-h-h,’ said Corky.

Spam didn’t say anything.

Because of all that I was a bit distracted in the game, and I let three goals in. No one clapped me on the back, but Steerforth gave me a little smile.

A couple of plain donuts today.

I was thinking that maybe I could have a
donut
fast for the two days before the poo test. That would be long enough for the donuts to get out of my system, wouldn’t it?

DONUT COUNT:

Friday 6 October

IT COULDN’T LAST
.

Nothing good ever does.

Today I finally got to play out of goal in the Big Match. It was the FHK’s idea. I was trudging towards the goal when he said, ‘You can play up front today, Donut.’ Everyone groaned, but he was the boss and they were all used to doing what he said.

The game got going and no one passed the ball to me, but I ran around as best I could
and
even made a couple of tackles.

And then, it seemed I had my chance for glory. A couple of kids crashed into each other and the ball rolled free to me, not far from their goal. There was just the keeper to beat. I ran closer. I pulled back my foot. I was going to hit a rocket. It was going to win us the match. I was going to be famous. I saw how it would all happen. My new friends would all cluster around me. I’d make sure that Renfrew, Spam and Corky were included. I’d tell my dad all about it. It was going to be awesome. It was going to be epic.

I pulled the trigger. I swung my foot. It was a good swing. You could hear my foot whistle through the air like a peregrine falcon in its killing dive.

But just as I let fly I sensed movement to my
side
, and the microsecond that I made contact with the ball I felt a gentle nudge. In most situations – walking down the school corridor or whatever – I would barely have noticed it. But at this precise moment it had a series of catastrophic effects. It would have been better if I’d just plain missed the ball, but I didn’t. The outside of my foot clipped the edge of the ball and sent it in a spinning, slicing arc, metres wide of the goal. I sensed that it was aiming straight for a group of girls chattering together, the way girls do. But I didn’t have time to concentrate on the path of the ball, because I was off-balance and steaming at full speed towards another group of kids.

A group of big kids.

Everything slowed down. I saw with amazing clarity the faces of the kids I was heading
towards
. They were prefects. Some of them were the prefects I’d met on my very first morning. The mean prefects. One of them was the really mean prefect – the one called, I remembered, Ivan. I saw him first look up, blankly, at the human missile heading his way. Then his face changed. Puzzlement. Anger. Finally fear. The other prefects were diving out of the way, but he seemed frozen. I tried to stop, but I was moving too fast. The brakes were on but I was sliding. I ducked my head. At the same time I saw, over to the side, the ball smash into the face of one of the girls.

Tamara Bello.

And then my head crunched right into the nuts of the nastiest prefect in the whole school.

I heard a sound like a dying moose and felt the hot breath of the prefect on the back of my neck. At the same moment I heard an outraged shriek from Tamara. It was the nearest thing to an uncool sound she’d ever uttered.

Then I was lying on top of the prefect.

I’ll relate what happened next as swiftly as I can. I was a bit dazed from the collision and so some of this I had to piece together from the testimonies of Renfrew and Spam who were watching with horrified fascination.

First, Ivan shoved me off him, and then did some rolling around in agony. The other prefects were caught between wanting to laugh and trying to look sympathetic. Then Ivan got up, still bent over, cupping his injured parts in his hands. He issued some instructions. The other prefects picked me up and carried me over to one of the big metal wheelie bins outside the school kitchens. They then proceeded to remove my trousers and throw me into the bin, where I landed on yesterday’s rotten, stinking, festering scraps and scrapings. It
smelled
pretty bad in there, like a tramp had vomited into his own underpants and left them there for me.

I looked up over the rim of the bin in time to see Ivan the Terrible throw my trousers out into the middle of the playground, where a reasonable crowd had gathered. I then saw Tamara walk over to them (my trousers, I mean). She bent and picked them up with two fingers, like they were radioactive or something. Then she walked over to a big puddle and dropped my trousers into it. Finally she stepped on the trousers and did an amusing little dance, rubbing them into the dirty water.