The Donut Diaries (18 page)

‘Serves you right, you F-f-f-f-floppy-Haired K-k-k-k-k-k-k-kid!’

OK, OK, I know you’ve guessed it. The plan wasn’t actually that complicated, but it wasn’t bad for a bunch of twelve-year-olds.

This is how it worked: Renfrew and me only pretended to have fallen out. Renfrew’s part was to act like he wanted to get me back for all the mean things I’d done to him, so he went and told the FHK to push me into the moat, and then help drag me out, acting like he’d saved me. Spam and Corky had gone and distracted Mr Fricker by asking him about his various hand-attachments.

Of course, the whole beautiful mechanism depended on Samson doing his thing with the poop. But, like I said, he was famous for it, and I guessed that by giving him the eye good and
proper
, he’d deliver the goods.

The rest was down to good ducking – and you don’t live for twelve years with my sisters without getting good at ducking!

Anyway, loads of kids saw Steerforth get the chimp-poo in the gob. Even his usual cronies and bum-kissers were laughing at him. Samson and the other chimps were all going, well, ape down in the enclosure, running around and whooping and generally making merry.

Steerforth tried to wipe the muck off, but he just smeared it across his face, which was glowing bright red. He stared at me, a look of incandescent rage distorting his usually super-cool face. He raised his hand, pointing a finger at me. His mouth began to form words, but nothing came out. Then he clenched his fist. I thought I might have to do some more
ducking
, but then a voice rang out.

‘You lot! What’s going on here?’

It was Mr Fricker, waving his mechanical hands.

Steerforth gave me one more evil glance, and then ran away to try to find a toilet to wash himself. We didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

Tamara Bello witnessed it all, and even she showed off her lovely white teeth in a smile as big as Samson’s banana.

And was that a wink? A WINK? From Tamara Bello? Maybe.

Anyway, me and Corky and Spam and Renfrew – good old Renfrew, whose task had been the hardest – had what can only be described as a group hug. It was the best feeling I’d had since … well, it was the best feeling I’d ever had.

But the defeat and humiliation of Steerforth was only half of the plan. The second half involved another of my dad’s spectacle cases.

Enough for one day.

A donut? Tonight, of all nights, I really don’t need ’em!

DONUT COUNT:

1
I don’t actually 100% know if this is true. There might be a shrimp or mole or something that can wink, but I sort of doubt it. And if I’m right, then I’ve just invented a really good scientific theory, which will probably make me famous.

Friday 20 October

I WAS EXPECTING
something from Steerforth today. I didn’t know what. Perhaps some ingenious humiliation, or just a brilliant put-down. Or maybe an old-fashioned beating, his henchmen holding my arms while he slapped my face with a leather glove like a Gestapo officer in a war film.

I didn’t care. This morning at school I was a hero. News of my triumph had obviously leaked out. Well, it had leaked out because I’d told
anyone
who would listen all about it, and so had Renfrew, Spam and Corky. Kids I didn’t even know came up to me and said, ‘Nice one.’

It happened at morning break. I was waiting for it, with the guys. I saw Steerforth get his posse together at the other end of the yard. Eight or nine of them. I checked out my gang:

Renfrew, his gerbil face set hard.

Spam, looking as ever like a decent breeze would snap him in half, but his eyes were steady.

Corky who, among all of us, was the one who would probably enjoy a bit of argy-bargy, the ancient schoolyard conversation between fists and faces.

I sensed that the whole school was watching. There weren’t many fights at St Michael’s – it wasn’t that sort of school. But, if anything, that added to the excitement.

Five metres away, Steerforth stopped.

He stared.

I stared back.

Was there a slight tremor in my eyelid? There might have been.

And then came that huge, open, honest smile. A smile so dazzling it suddenly made the whole world seen less bright in comparison.

‘Donut,’ said Steerforth, his voice as rich and warm and friendly as a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating in it. ‘Donut, you’re a genius. That was brilliant.’

And then he walked the rest of the way towards me, grabbed my hand and pumped it, never letting that smile dim for a second.

There was a sort of a cheer from the crowd of kids that had gathered – a release of tension, I suppose, along with a surge of admiration for
a
kid who could get a load of chimp-poo in the face and be able to laugh about it. Such panache! Such generosity of spirit!

Then Steerforth pulled me closer, and in a voice that came from some terrifying place, a place of utter blackness and evil – think Mordor, think the voice of Sauron himself – he said:

‘I’m going to crush you, fatso. I’m going to make you wish you’d never come to this school. I’m going to make you wish, in fact, that you’d never been born. I’m going to destroy you and everyone you care about. Got that? Good.’

As he said it he pinched the hairs at the nape of my neck, twisted and yanked. It felt like a hornet sting. But I’d been expecting it, and I didn’t flinch.

And then, with a final friendly pat on my shoulder, he was gone.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Renfrew.

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

‘Not for the first time, Corky,’ I said, ‘you’ve hit the nail on the head.’

Anyway, that’s still all to do with Part One of my plan which, although pretty cool, was not actually as important as Part Two. And whether or not that works, I’ll find out tomorrow. If it doesn’t, then my triumph over sly old Steerforth will count for nothing, as I will be on my way to the dreaded Camp Fatso for a week of ice-cold showers, cross-country runs, porridge and gruel.

DONUT COUNT:

Saturday 21 October

I’LL PAINT YOU
the scene. I’d delivered the latest sample to Doc Morlock. There was the usual grimacing, screwed-up, sucking-on-a-lemon face.

‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that we can do better than last time. ‘But frankly, I doubt it. I’ve already called ahead to the commandant of Camp Fatso. Your bunk is ready. The gruel is warming.’

Once again she took my sample out of the room. I waited. I went over to the poo chart.
I
took a pen out of my pocket and drew a pair of mean little eyes and a sharp nose and a cat’s-bum mouth on one of the stools – Type 3, described as:
like a sausage, but with cracks on its surface
.

It now looked exactly like Doc Morlock.

I’d just sat down again when Doc Morlock came back into the consulting room. She looked puzzled. Perhaps a bit disappointed.

‘Well, Dermot, I have to say I’m surprised.’

‘Really?’ I smiled. ‘Why?’

‘My analysis showed a complete absence of refined carbohydrates—’

‘Sugar, I remember.’

‘Quite, Dermot, sugar. Which indicates that you have not eaten any donuts. I also note that there is a very high fibre content. You’ve gone all the way from Type Two to Type Four. I’m really
very
impressed. In all honesty, it’s one of the finest human stools I’ve ever examined.’

‘Great.’

‘And on the basis of this, I shall tell your mother that there is no need for you to attend Camp Fatso.’

I let out a sigh. Angels sang in my head. The world seemed suddenly bright and beautiful.

‘Just one thing, though, Dermot …’

Oh no. She’d seen through me. She’d been toying with me, the way a killer whale toys with a baby seal before biting its head off.

‘You’re eating an awful lot of bananas, Dermot.’

‘Er, yeah, I like bananas. They’ve sort of taken the place of donuts in my life.’

‘Fine, they’re very good for potassium. But Dermot …’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s generally thought to be a good idea to peel them first.’

DONUT COUNT:

(But that was shared around between me, Renfrew, Corky, Spam and Jim who, even though he’s not a donut fan, ate one to be sociable with my new friends.)

Acknowledgements