So Gross! (7 page)

‘Nonsense, child,’ said Miss Riley. ‘It’s only a box.’ She went to take it from his hand.

‘No,’ yelled Marley, louder than he meant to.

Miss Riley puffed up with air, her huge bosom nearly touching her chin. ‘What did you say?’

Marley looked miserable but he was determined not to hand over the box. It was
his
great grandpa’s and he wasn’t budging for anyone.

‘I said,
give it to me.’
Miss Riley snatched at the box.

There was a struggle.

The box flicked onto Miss Riley’s desk, hitting a paperweight and splitting apart. The lid landed upside down, the box on its side, but it was the other thing that twenty-eight pairs of eyes were glued to. Twenty-nine if you included Marley’s.

‘Looks like something that’s shrivelled up and died. Something that’s been residing at the bottom of a schoolbag,’ said Miss Riley.

Marley quietly agreed.

Miss Riley’s chubby fingers plucked it off the desk. She turned it over and over in the palm of her hand.

It was black, wrinkly and hairy.

Miss Riley slung Marley a Poison Dart. ‘What is it?’

Marley bit his bottom lip and thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘I can’t tell,’ he whispered. ‘I promised Great Grandpa Wal.’

‘I said,
what is it?’
Spit came flying out of Miss Riley’s mouth.

Marley squirmed. A flush of red travelled up his neck. Again, he shook his head.

‘Looks like some sort of dried fruit to me. If it is just an old prune and this is yet another case of Mr Morgan fooling around you’ll be sorry, my boy,’ threatened Miss Riley. ‘Mark my words.’

Marley didn’t know what to do. He stood with his head down, waiting to see what Miss Riley would do.

Miss Riley lifted the thing to her nose and sniffed. Twenty-seven pairs of eyebrows shot to the ceiling.

‘Smells like … meat,’ she announced, pulling a face at the same time. ‘Is that what it is?’

Marley looked at the thing clutched in Miss Riley’s hand. He remembered his promise to Great Grandpa Wal.

‘Old meat? Is it?’

Marley looked at Miss Riley’s angry face firing questions at him. He remembered his dad saying that Great Grandpa Wal wouldn’t mind.

It was time to take a stand. Time to get even. To do something that would make sure that Miss Riley would never pick on him again.

‘Maybe…’ he answered.

There was no going back.

‘Crocodile meat?’ She looked at him like a cat toying with its prey.

‘Nuh-uh.’ Marley never dropped his gaze.

‘Snake?’

‘Ummm. You’re completely on the wrong track,’ he said.

Miss Riley sniffed the thing again. ‘Are you going to tell me or will you be on detention every afternoon for the rest of the term?’

‘I don’t want to tell you,’ said Marley, ‘but I’ve got no choice.’ He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. ‘Promise you won’t get mad? Promise not to punish me when you find out?’

The children in the room held their breaths.

Miss Riley hesitated, but only for a minute. She was busting to find out what was in the box.

‘Oh, all right.’

‘You can double-check my story with Dad if you don’t believe me.’

‘Yes, yes, child. Get on with it.’

‘It’s…’

Marley glanced at Alex who winked at him for courage.

‘It’s…’

Miss Riley was leaning forward, nostrils flaring; the thing still clutched in her hand.

‘It’s a…’

‘Spit it out, boy.’

‘It’s a … petrified pygmy penis,’ said Marley.

For the longest of seconds nothing happened, then suddenly everyone shrieked with laughter.

Miss Riley screamed and threw the penis into the air. It landed on Celeste Whittaker’s head.

Celeste leapt out of her chair, horror written all over her face.

Miss Riley began to swipe furiously at her hands, making loud
aaah, aaah
noises before running out of the room in search of a tap.

Celeste followed close behind.

Marley said a quiet sorry to his great grandfather.

It took a long time for the class to settle down. Two-By-Fours were everywhere.

Alex Zatt looked at the friend he knew so well. ‘Is it really a petrified pygmy penis?’ he asked.

Marley smiled a secret smile.

‘Trust me. You don’t want to know.’

Hhhucch. Cccchh. Hhhoick!

Dillon Quinn cleared his nasal passages and lobbed one at the sandwich on the ground. The blob of mucus mixed with spit spread across the surface like green butter.

‘Yes,’ he shouted, one fist in the air as he turned to his mates. ‘Beat that.’

Simon Dewer stepped up to the crease, clearing his throat to warm up.
‘Uh, hmmm. Hmmm!
He sized up the distance, taking particular notice of the position of the sun and the strength of the wind.

In this game you couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

He rearranged his lips and …
‘Pphhtt.’
It was high. It was long. The perfect gollie.
Splat!

Green butter with a clear bubble topping.

‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,’ said Simon, bowing to his friends. ‘Autographs later.’

The two remaining boys, Gumby Mason and Yonnie Toft, fell to the ground, wishing their turn was over, praying for an instant storm to put them out of their misery.

Blue skies looked down.

‘How’s your appetite, fellas?’ asked Dillon.

If you missed the sandwich you were the loser, and the loser got to eat the sandwich.

‘I’m next,’ said Gumby, gently shoving Yonnie out of the way. Things weren’t looking too good, even for a boy whose favourite hobby in life was adding to his boogie collection.

Gumby stood at the crease eyeing up his shot before pacing it out. Just like he did in footy. Except this time there were no nice wide goal posts to aim between. There was a tiny white square on the grass.

Gumby hawked a couple of times, rolling the phlegm around his tongue before letting rip. It arced left, caught a freak updraught and landed a good ten centimetres north of the sandwich.

‘Oh, no.’

His stomach recoiled, before settling like a lead weight of protest in his gut. Gumby looked at Yonnie. The best he could hope for was that Yonnie would miss, too, and they’d have to share it.

‘Hope you miss,’ he said, jumping around in front of Yonnie. ‘Miss. Miss. Miss.’

Dillon walked over and punched Yonnie on the arm. ‘Aim high,’ he yelled, pointing to the sky.

‘No, low,’ shouted Simon, pointing to the ground.

‘Don’t aim,’ whispered Gumby, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Yonnie took a deep breath. He crouched down on the ground to measure the distance, like a golfer on a putting green. He walked round and around the circle until Dillon exploded, ‘Get on with it.’

Yonnie cleared his throat.
‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm?’
said Simon. ‘You won’t even hit your own shoe with that.’

Yonnie tried again.
Cccht. Ccchht!
He sounded like a motor bike revving up.
‘Aaaghccchhtphhtl’

Four faces turned into the wind.

The spag sailed up. The spag sailed down.

And missed.

‘Yes,’ said the other three, fists to the air.

Gumby went up to a defeated Yonnie. ‘Another centimetre and you would’ve done it.’ Yonnie couldn’t speak. He didn’t even like sandwiches, let alone ones with topping. ‘Come on, mate,’ said Gumby. ‘I’ll give you a piece of chewy for afters. To take the taste away.’

Dillon had already scooped up the bread and was trying to break it in half, which wasn’t easy. It didn’t get the name ‘The Soggy Sandwich’ for nothing. He handed over a slimy glob to each of them.

‘Spew on you,’ said Gumby to his mates, throwing his piece down the hatch and swallowing with one go before quickly shoving some gum into his mouth.

Yonnie took his time. That was his trouble. He always took too much time.

‘The quicker the better,’ said Simon, trying to be helpful.

‘Ever eaten your own boogie?’ asked Gumby. Yonnie managed to nod, even though he was in shock. ‘It’s kinda the same.’

Yonnie opened his mouth and tossed the bread down, followed quickly with the chewy chaser. ‘You were right about the boogies,’ he mumbled to Gumby. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘You’re looking at the owner of the best boogie collection in all the world.’

‘Except for your brother’s,’ interrupted Simon.

Gumby chose to ignore him. It was a sore point. Max, his big brother, always did everything bigger and better than he did and Max’s collection was impressive.

Gumby turned to Yonnie. ‘I’ll show it to you sometime.’

‘The best boogie collection?’ asked Yonnie, who had only recently moved into the area and was still making friends.

‘Sure,’ said Gumby. ‘It’s a beauty. But not complete.’ He pulled a hangdog face. ‘I’ve got one boogie to go. Then I’ve got the entire set. Even Max doesn’t have a complete set,’ added Gumby.

‘Set? What do you mean?’

Dillon laughed as he turned to Yonnie. ‘Gumby’s collecting boogies from the footy team. He’s got one from all of us. Except Coach. When he gets one of his, he’ll have a complete set.’

‘So? What’s the problem?’ asked Yonnie.

‘Coach won’t deliver. He never gets sick. Never gets a cold. No cold, no boogies. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Does he know about the collection?’ asked Yonnie. Three heads nodded.

‘I asked him to donate but he laughed at me. Said only wusses get sick and he’s too tough to be a wuss.’ Gumby pulled another face.

‘Too tough, eh? Bet we can make the tough guy sick.’ Yonnie, who loved a challenge, and knew all too well the irritations of having an older brother, grinned. He looked at the others. ‘What do ya reckon? How ‘bout we help Gumby score one over his brother?’

There was a moment’s hesitation.

‘I’ll pay you,’ bribed Gumby, who was taken by the idea of scoring one over Max. ‘Five bucks each.’

How do you make a healthy man sick?

It’s a difficult question. One which Gumby put a lot of thought into. So did Yonnie and Dillon and Simon. You could almost say it became an obsession. That and the five bucks.

A few days later they were sitting in the change rooms getting ready for footy training — even Yonnie who was the reserve — when in ran Simon.

‘Matt Secker’s got a cold,’ he told them triumphantly.

‘So?’ said Gumby.

‘A cold means boogies.’ Simon spoke slowly, like he was talking to someone who was a meat patty short of a hamburger.

‘I’ve already got a Secker,’ said Gumby. ‘It’s a rare one. Sort of shaped like a monkey’s head.’

‘I’m not talking about another Secker,’ said Simon, getting excited. ‘I’m talking about Secker giving his cold to Coach.’

‘And how is he going to do that?’ asked Yonnie.

‘I dunno. Breathe on him. Sneeze on him. Something like that.’

‘Germs do fly through the air,’ said Dillon. ‘That’s not a bad idea. All we need to do is make Secker
and Coach get so close to each other that the germs jump over.’

‘How do we do that?’ asked Yonnie. ‘Get them both in a headlock?’ ‘Maybe,’ said Gumby.

‘Ask Coach to work on scrums and get Secker an’ him to engage,’ suggested Dillon.

‘Secker’s not in the front row,’ said Simon. ‘That won’t work.’ The boys shook their heads in despair.

‘I’ve got it,’ said Gumby, just as Coach called them out for practice. ‘Leave it with me. Oi. Secker,’ he yelled. ‘Got a minute?’

For the next half-hour the boys ran and passed, passed and ran till they were knackered.

‘Five minutes break and then we’ll work on tackling,’ yelled Coach.

Gumby winked at Secker then threw himself on the ground, pretending to rest. He showed no reaction when Secker came and sat on him. Nor did he react when the five-buck note was lifted out of his pocket.

‘Be back in a minute, Coach,’ said Secker. ‘Shouldn’t’ve had baked beans for breakfast,’ he added with a smirk, letting one rip that could curl your nose hair.

‘Righto, boys. Back to work,’ said Coach. ‘Find yourself a partner.’

The boys got into pairs. Gumby with Yonnie. Simon with Dillon.

‘You’ll have to pair up with me,’ said Coach, when Secker finally came back. Secker nodded and went over to him.

Coach used to be an A-grade footballer in the Olden Days. You know how muscles turn to flab if you don’t use them? Well, Coach must’ve had a mighty lot of muscle, once. He stood beside Secker, blotting out the sun.

‘Get down low and go, go, go,’ said Coach. ‘That’s the secret of a good tackle. None of this sheila stuff about grabbing by the arms or hanging off the guernsey.’ He threw the ball to Secker. ‘Start running up that way and I’ll show you.’

Secker caught the ball and tucked it close to his chest. He took off, with Coach in hot pursuit.

Coach tackled.

There was a loud
ooohf
and a thud, and a tangle of legs and arms on the ground.

Later, it was described as ‘Secker versus the Tank’.

Everyone thought that the Tank won.