Louis Beside Himself
OTHER BOOKS BY ANNA FIENBERG
Number 8
Horrendo's Curse
The Witch in the Lake
Power to Burn
Ariel, Zed and the Secret of Life
Dead Sailors Don't Bite
Wiggy and Boa
FOR YOUNGER READERS
The Magnificent Nose and other marvels
Madeline the Mermaid
The Hottest Boy Who Ever Lived
The
Tashi
series
Minton Goes!
series
First published in 2012
Copyright © Anna Fienberg 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web:
www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the
National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 994 4
Cover illlustrations by Adam Carruthers
Cover and text design by Ruth Grüner
Set in 11.3 pt Minion Pro by Ruth Grüner
This book was printed in June 2012 at McPherson's Printing Group,
76 Nelson St, Maryborough, Victoria 3465, Australia.
www.mcphersonsprinting.com.au
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
CONTENTS
âCome on, Louis, didn't you hear me?' yelled Dad from the living room.
I sighed. Dad was singing The Undertaker's entrance theme.
âRemember to tighten your abs, and spring up with your knees!'
âBut I'm nearly up to the last page. The best
part
.'
Dad was standing on the wrestling mat, cushions carefully strewn around to break our falls. âGet ready for The Tombstone!' he called. He was working on his shoulder deltoids. His eyes were wide and enthusiastic, instead of dead, which was how you're supposed to look for The Tombstone.
When doing this signature move, performed by the world famous wrestler, The Undertaker, you should look totally deceased and vampirishly evil. The Undertaker does this by rolling back his eyeballs to show the whites, sticking out his blue, incredibly long tongue, and scowling like a serial killer.
âI'm not in the mood,' I said, picking up my book again. I was reading
Gus Attack
for the twenty-sixth time. Gus has lived under my pillow since Grade 4, and used to come with me like a teddy when I stayed at friends' houses. When I'm an old man, completely dead and
kaput
like The Undertaker, I might even be buried with him.
Dad dropped his arms. âWhat do you mean, not in the mood? That's exactly when you
should
practise. Shake yourself up. Sharpen your reflexes. You never know when you'll need them.'
That'd be right, I thought. A person in these quiet leafy suburbs could be set upon just walking out of the 7 Eleven, or buying the
Herald
for his father.
But how can you argue with a dad so eagerly flexing his biceps while he waits for you to leap?
I tightened my abdominals, flexed my calves, and ran at him like a hurled grenade.
He caught me around the waist and lifted me up to his shoulders. This was where I was supposed to spring away, but the sudden pressure on my stomach and the sight of his bald head from this height made me forget. My arms went slack and my abdominals loosened and I dangled there, thinking about male baldness and whether I too would end up this way.
âWake
up
!' roared Dad, like The Deadman himself.
His voice gave me such a fright, tearing me out of my
R
EVERIE
, that I'm sorry to say I let go of an enormous flatulence. That is to say, I passed wind. Well, it was more of a stink bomb, really.
âOh phew!' spluttered Dad.
A powerful smell wafted up between us. It was so thick, you could taste it.
âLast night's curry!' I said, wonderingly. âCan you smell those mushrooms?'
âYou win,' said Dad in disgust. He tried to hang on for a minute more, but the smell just seemed to bloom.
He let me down slowly, as if any sudden movement might trigger more lethal gas. When he pulled his T-shirt up over his nose, he looked like a bank robber hiding from the media. You could only see his eyes. They were no longer wide open and eager. They were disappointed.
âYou're not supposed to carry a concealed weapon,' he muttered, turning away.
I stood there alone, watching his back retreat up the hall. That is, I wasn't really alone. I was still accompanied by the odour. Its presence was so powerful it had a personality, like a clingy best friend with mushroom-breath. But I
felt
alone. Have you ever noticed how sometimes when you get what you want â in my case, to be left in peace, to go back and finish my book â you actually don't feel as sensational as you
thought
you would?
âHey, the smell's gone now!' I called, lying in sudden desperation. âWhy don't we try The Walls of Jericho instead or . . . ?' My voice faded a little. The Walls of Jericho was very tiring.
There was no answer.
âHey, Dad,' I went on calling, âdid you know The Undertaker is also called The Phenom? I guess that's short for
P
HENOMENON
, meaning incredible event, but why anyone would want to shorten such an amazing word I just can't understand. Say it, it has four whole syllables!'
I held my breath to hear if Dad was saying it under
his
breath, but there was just the whirr of the fridge.
âCome on, Dad, as if The Phenom would be frightened of a little fart! He's been set on fire, locked in caskets, buried more times than a dog bone!'
I waited, listening to the pant of my pathetic breath. But the silence was like a grave.
I slouched back into my room. The smell accompanied me. It wasn't consoling. I got under the covers, even though I had my school uniform on. I picked up my book. Gus would know how I felt. He'd had more lonely times than curries cause flatulence.
I read the last page, all the way to The End. But when I got there, I realised I hadn't taken any of it in.
Now I wonder if anything â being perfect at The Tombstone or The Walls of Jericho, or just keeping my reflexes sharpened â could have prepared me for the most shocking events that were about to engulf me.
ONE
thing you'd better know before I tell you what happened this summer, when I came face to face with
P
ERIL
, is that I like words. I respect them enormously, the way other people respect money in the bank, or mountain climbing. If you're like me, which you're probably not because Dad says my kind of hobby is extremely rare, then you can open a word bank account. You don't need a salary or personal references to start one, you just need to get yourself a notebook and a new pen that won't run out in the middle of an excellent word.
