My Life and Other Massive Mistakes (12 page)

‘We'd better get this over with,' Brent says, looking at his watch. ‘It's nearly five and my dad'll be back soon. He'll blow up if he knows I'm giving chips away.'

He reaches for a couple of chips from the
top of the cone. He dips one right into that yellow pit of a sore, as if it were the runny yolk of a fried egg. He sucks in a sharp breath. I bet he can feel the salt and vinegar deep inside the sore. My face twists, imagining the pain.

He holds the chip out to me. It's about five centimetres long with yellow ooze dripping from it.

‘Jack'll go first,' I say.

‘
What?
' Jack explodes. ‘I don't even
like
chips.'

‘Yes you d–'

‘Are you babies going to keep your end of the deal or what?'

We look up at him. He is sweaty and serious.

I look at the chip. Some of the yellow stuff drips onto the counter and Brent wipes it up with one of his sausage fingers. He offers the chip to Jack.

‘I'm not eating it,' Jack says.

Brent utters a low, animal growl.

‘It's disgusting!' I tell him. ‘You boys made a deal. Are you backing out of a deal?'

I lick my lips. Two minutes ago, my mouth was swimming in saliva. Now it's the Simpson Desert. I know I can't eat the chip, but I know I can't say ‘no' to Brent Bunder.

‘How about we make another deal?' I say, forcing a smile. ‘We'll drag nine bags of potatoes up from downstairs
and
clean all the junk out of the deep-fryer … but we don't have to eat the chip.'

Brent thrusts his enormous hand out over the counter and grabs me by the neck of my jumper. He's pretty fast, Brent, for a big guy. I'm kind of choking now. Jack backs off and I'm hoping he's not going to run, which is what he would usually do in a situation like this.

‘Eat the chip!' Brent says, revealing his missing tooth and breathing fish-breath on me. He moves the chip towards my mouth as if he's feeding a baby. The chip is about five centimetres from my mouth and I'm going to be sick. I have quite a weak stomach when it comes to things like this, I really do.

Three centimetres.

I don't
want
to vomit but he keeps moving the chip towards me.

Two centimetres.

I can smell the sharp tang of the yellow stuff from the sore.

One centimetre.

I can't really see the chip clearly anymore. It's pretty much in my mouth when I see something move out of the corner of my eye. It's Jack. He's launched himself across the counter and swipes at the chips.

‘Oi!' Brent lets go of me and flies at Jack, but Jack's too quick. Brent rips the cone away
from Jack. The newspaper tears and chips explode from the package. Jack scoops up two piping hot handfuls, stuffs them into the pockets of his school shorts, and bolts for the door, shouting, ‘Ruuun!'

I snatch a handful of chips and turn but Brent grabs the back of my jumper. He pulls it. He's reeling me in as if I were a fish.

I panic and twist and turn until I hear the jumper rip. It tears right up the back and then I'm out of the jumper and running for the door, leaving Brent lying sprawled over the chopping board.

‘You two are dead!' he screams.

As I hit the doorway, I run smack into Brent's dad, almost knocking myself out. Mr Bunder is built like a fridge.

‘What are you doin'?' he demands, but I squeeze past him and head into the main street where there is bright sunlight and regular humans and safety. We run for our lives.

We do not go back to Bunder's Fish Shop the following Tuesday afternoon. We do not go within 20 metres of Brent Bunder for the next month, even though he's in our class. We spend every lunchtime in the library reading books about kung-fu and taekwondo and a little-known martial art called we-so-scared. Brent prowls past the library window 20 times each lunch hour like an agitated grizzly, just waiting for his chance.

We got away with a few chips that day but I had my fist squeezed so tight they were like mashed potato by the time I ate them. Now Jack and I have made a vow never to eat hot chips again.

But I don't know how long it'll last. Bunder's just smells so good, and some days when I'm feeling very poor and very hungry, I regret not eating that one chip – I really
do. And I wonder if Brent would let us make it up to him next time he gets a really bad sore from footy. I don't like to admit it but every Monday morning I keep a lookout for Brent, hoping that he'll come to school with a bandage on his arm. Then I'll know it's only about 31 hours before it's Tuesday afternoon at 4.37 and maybe, just maybe, Brent might dip a chip in exchange for ten dollars' worth. I'd eat it for sure next time. Wouldn't you?