So Gross! (12 page)

Ian sighed. Another long, hard week loomed ahead.

‘Mr Screwball’s so mean,’ said Ian as the boys sat in the classroom writing an essay for their detention.

‘And the rest,’ said Sean. ‘He’s always so sar — sar — how d’you say it?’

‘Sarcastic,’ said Colin. ‘Mum says people who are sarcastic all the time have a big chip on their shoulder and you should feel sorry for them.’

‘Sorry for
them?’
said Pieter. ‘You mean we should feel sorry for us.’ He kicked at the desk leg. ‘We’ve had a whole year of him.’

‘That stupid project,’ said Ian. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do it?’

‘If we don’t we’ll be on detention for the rest of term,’ said Colin.

‘Shish-kebab,’ said Ian.

‘Shivers,’ said Sean.

‘Shoot me,’ said Pieter, pointing two fingers at his head. ‘Might as well be dead.’

‘According to Mr Scruby you’re already brain-dead,’ said Colin.

They laughed then grew serious again. Suddenly Ian began to smile. ‘Come to think of it, this project won’t be too bad,’ he said. He noticed the puzzled faces around him. The smile deepened. ‘The trick,’ he added, putting an arm around Pieter and Sean’s shoulders and lowering his voice, ‘is choosing
exactly
the right project to do.’

When Ian got home from school he did what he always did. Went straight to the loo. When you ate as much as Ian did, three visits a day was considered average. He sat, deep in thought, trying to think of a project that would rattle Mr Scruby. A few seconds later he made a startling discovery.

‘Muuum!’
Ian let out a shriek.

‘Ian?’ There was a knock on the bathroom door. ‘Ian? Are you all right?’

‘Muuum,’
he called, again. ‘I’m turding black!’ And his poo
was
black. Thick and black like a sausage made of tar. He’d seen brown poo, of course, and red poo once, when his mum had made him swallow some red worming liquid. But black poo? This was new.

‘Ian!’ said Mrs Ferris. ‘Enough of that.’

He opened the door. ‘It’s true,’ he cried, waving a smeared piece of toilet paper in her face. ‘Look at that.’

Mrs Ferris stepped back then frowned. ‘Have you been in my sweet jar again?’ she asked.

Ian nodded sheepishly.

‘Had a bit of licorice lately?’

Another nod.

‘I thought so.’ Mrs Ferris let out a chuckle. ‘Black licorice. Black poo.’

‘You mean, depending what I eat, I can get different coloured poo?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Ferris.

‘Cool,’ said Ian.

Sean’s big brother David was busy studying when Sean found him. ‘We’ve got a science project on the body,’ Sean told him. ‘I need your help.’

David was smart. He’d help with the project. David put down his pen and pushed up his glasses. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What about the body?’

‘Anything we like. Mr Screwball, er, I mean Scruby, he’s real mean, says maybe I should do my project on the brain ‘cause mine’s missing.’ The lumps returned to Sean’s cheeks.

‘Why don’t you?’ said David. ‘There’s heaps you can do on the brain. You could show one to the class. You can buy them at the shops.’

Sean sniffed. ‘Are you making fun of me, too?’

‘No.’ David laughed. ‘We’ll go to the butcher’s. Brains. Hearts. Tongues. Livers. You can buy them all. People eat them.’

‘Uughh!’
said Sean, pulling a face.

‘We dissected a sheep’s brain once in class,’ said David. ‘It was fun. Looked like grey scrambled eggs.’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Some people were,’ said David. ‘Others just turned green.’

Sean looked at his brother. His eyes lit up. ‘Green is good. Thanks.’

The following Monday at recess, Ian asked Pieter how his project was going. ‘Come up with any disgustingly brilliant ideas?’

Pieter’s face scrunched with worry lines. ‘Nuh,’ he said. ‘I haven’t a clue what to do.’

‘I’m not sure about Colin,’ said Ian, ‘but Sean’s doing the brain. Why don’t you do something similar?’

‘The brain?’ asked Pieter. ‘What could I do to make it different to Sean’s presentation?’

‘What about seeing the effect of a lack of oxygen on the brain? See how long we can hold our breath before one of us blacks out?’ Ian grinned. ‘Remember when Jeremy Stimms smashed his head on the bench? What a gusher. The blood hit the wall.’

Pieter considered the idea. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Mr Scruby will say it’s dumb. Besides, it’s not festy enough.’

They stood in silence, trying to think of something for Pieter to do. A girl from the infants’ school walked past. She wore a paint-streaked smock over her uniform. She carried a jar of dirty water and a filthy-looking sponge in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

‘What have you been doing?’ asked Ian.

‘Sponge paintings,’ said the girl. She held up the paper. ‘It’s a butterfly,’ she added proudly.

To Ian it looked familiar, like two dark blobs he’d seen on a film slide when the Healthy Horace people came to school. ‘Lungs,’ he cried out to Pieter and pointed at the girl.

‘Huh?’ said Pieter.

‘Lungs,’ Ian repeated. He snatched the sponge and twisted it tightly, spraying Pieter with filthy water.

‘Hey,’ said Pieter. ‘What…’

‘Lungs,’ said Ian for the third time. ‘Smoker’s lungs.’ He held up his grubby hands. ‘Doesn’t Mr Scruby smoke?’

For the first time since he’d been told about the project, Pieter started to smile.

‘I’ve already finished my science project for Friday,’ said Annabel that lunchtime.

‘What’s it on?’ asked Ian.

‘Not telling,’ said Annabel, ‘in case you copy me. Besides, Mr Scruby said not to talk about it and I want mine to be an original.’ She couldn’t have pushed her nose higher up in the air if she’d tried.

‘Mine’s gonna be an original, too,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve been working on it since Friday. Mr Scruby’s sure going to get a surprise.’

Annabel looked at him suspiciously. ‘What sort of a surprise?’ she asked.

‘If I told you,’ said Ian, ‘it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?’ He could almost see the steam rise from Annabel’s ears.

Michelle Georgiakis came over to see why her
best friend was looking upset. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she asked.

‘The science project,’ said Annabel. ‘I’ve finished it.’

‘Where are you going to get the rat?’ asked Michelle. ‘You’re not going to use Petie, are you?’

Petie was the class pet. Mr Scruby had lovingly set up his cage in a corner of the classroom, explaining how he had personally bred Petie at home. He would feed him, pat him, talk to him. Mr Scruby was like a father to that rat.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Annabel. ‘I wouldn’t kill Petie. Now, sssshh.’ She held her finger to her lips and pulled Michelle aside. ‘No one’s supposed to know.’

‘A rat, eh?’ said Ian.

‘She didn’t say rat,’ said Annabel. ‘She said, um …fat.’ Annabel patted Ian’s stomach. ‘Some bodies have more of it than others.’

‘Especially yours,’ added Michelle.

How Ian hated it when people called him fat. Large boned or stocky? Maybe. He didn’t even mind solid or chunky. But fat!

The girls snickered.

Bile rose in Ian’s throat. One day he’d teach them a lesson.

‘Gotta problem?’ asked Annabel, baiting him further. The blank look took up residence on Ian’s face. Annabel sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Fat people can be so dumb,’ she said. She turned her
attention to Michelle. ‘What’s your project on? Is it finished yet?’

‘Almost,’ said Michelle. ‘I’ve borrowed this big poster from the library and Dr Parson’s going to lend me the skeleton he keeps in his office.’

‘That sounds really great,’ said Annabel.

‘Yeah,’ said Ian. ‘Dead boring great.’

Annabel swung around. ‘Hummph,’ she said, taking Michelle’s arm and leading her away. ‘Ignore him.’

‘Yeah,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s just a lazy slob. Not worth the bother.’

Ian’s middle finger flashed at the retreating girls.

They’d keep!

‘Ian. Have you started your science project, yet?’ asked Mr Scruby, tickling Petie behind the ears on Wednesday morning. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ian.

‘What’s it on?’ asked Mr Scruby, smiling like a doting dad as Petie stretched his head back, almost purring with contentment.

‘Isn’t it supposed to be a secret?’

‘Come, come, boy.’ Mr Scruby removed his hand from Petie’s cage. ‘Stop playing games.’

Ian knew when he was trapped. ‘It’s about the alimentary canal, seeing as I had to write an essay on it,’ he added.

Mr Scruby frowned. He gave Ian the eye. ‘Hmmmm,’ was all he said. ‘What about you, Harding?’

‘Matter, sir,’ said Sean, who’d had help from his brother.

‘What?’ said Mr Scruby, getting to his feet. ‘Did you say it doesn’t matter?’

‘No, sir,’ said Sean. ‘I said matter — as in grey matter. It’s your brain,’ he added helpfully.

Mr Scruby snorted. ‘I know that,’ he said. The snort turned into a cough. His body rattled and
shook as he fought to expel the phlegm. When he’d recovered he turned to Pieter. ‘What about you, Schuyler? Oh, wise one.’

‘Lungs,’ said Pieter, noticing with satisfaction the flare of Mr Scruby’s nostrils.

‘I’m doing mine on the upper and lower intestinal tracts of the digestive system,’ proclaimed Annabel, who hadn’t even been asked.

Mr Scruby turned to her and beamed. ‘Ah, Annabel,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to that. You always put so much into your projects.’

‘Thank you,’ said Annabel.

Ian stuck two fingers down his throat, pretending he was going to be sick.

‘Ian Ferris, you can stay in at lunchtime.’

Annabel poked her tongue out at Ian, but only after Mr Scruby had turned to write on the board.

‘You dirty rat,’ whispered Ian. He emphasised the word rat, and was happy when the smug look quickly left her face.

‘This is going to be good,’ said Colin, arriving at school on Friday and carrying a bucket with him. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘This is going to be better than good,’ said Sean. He carried a bowl that looked like a pudding basin with a lid.

‘What’s in it?’ asked Pieter.

‘Patience,’ said Sean, tucking it securely under his arm.

‘How’d you go, Ian?’ asked Colin.

‘I did an experiment,’ said Ian. ‘Doubt it’s ever been done before.’ He grinned. ‘Probably never be done again.’

‘What’s it on?’ asked Colin.

‘You’ll see,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s just say, I’m gonna enjoy watching Mr Scruby’s face.’

‘Are you now, Ian?’

Ian’s feet almost left the ground. Where had
he
come from?

‘I’m
enjoying watching
your
face,’ said Mr Scruby, delighted with his surprise attack.

Ian felt cornered. He shrank into his shirt collar, conscious of the sweat sprouting on his top lip. He blinked. ‘I only meant, sir, that a face is part of the body. One of the only parts of the body we can actually see to study in class.’

‘Careful, boy,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I can feel an essay coming on.’

So could Ian. ‘I just meant,’ he tried again, ‘it would be interesting to study the face…’

Mr Scruby glared for a moment longer, then swung around to stalk back inside.

‘Whew,’ said Ian. ‘That was close.’

‘Too close,’ said Colin. ‘I thought you were done for, for sure.’

Ian spat on the ground, his heart still racing. ‘The guy’s a sadist.’

‘What’s a sadist?’ asked Sean.

‘Someone who gets their rocks off by inflicting pain,’ said Colin.

‘Oh,’ said Sean. ‘That’s him, then.’ He turned to Pieter. ‘What about you? How’s your project?’

‘Mine’s good,’ said Pieter modestly. ‘Two-lungs-smoking good.’

‘Don’t you mean two-guns-smoking sort of good?’ asked Sean.

‘No,’ said Pieter with a wink at Ian. And he wouldn’t say any more.

The boys raced off for a last minute game of touch football, but Ian decided not to join them. He hadn’t quite recovered from his recent narrow escape. He was on his way to throw some water on his face in the boys’ toilets when he saw Annabel and Michelle duck into Miss Trelawney’s office. Miss Trelawney was the special resources teacher, but she only worked part-time and her office was often empty.

Both girls were carrying their projects gingerly, as though they were made of glass. Annabel carried a large sack. It seemed to have a wooden board inside. She held it firmly in two hands, flat, not letting it hang down. Ian ducked behind a corner, his curiosity aroused.

What were those two girls up to?

Standing on the playground bench he peeped through the window, careful not to show his full face. He could see Annabel untying the neck of her sack and Michelle at the door, glancing furtively down the hallway. From the corner of his eye Ian spotted Mr Robinson, the music teacher, striding his way. Quickly he leapt off the bench.

‘Mr Robinson,’ he said, running up to him. ‘They need the percussion instruments from Miss Trelawney’s office.’ Mr Robinson frowned. ‘For the junior school assembly,’ called Ian, before dashing round the corner.

They really do need those instruments, Ian thought to himself. The singing at the junior school assembly is dreadful.

After making sure that Mr Robinson headed inside, Ian returned to his vantage-point, just in time to see Michelle shriek and Annabel drop her sack. He could hear everything through the partly opened window.

‘Come quickly, girls,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘I need your help.’

‘But,’ began Annabel.

‘Straight away,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘No arguments. I need you to help me take this equipment to the assembly.’

‘But what about our bags?’ said Annabel.

‘They’ll be quite safe here,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘It’ll only take five minutes.’

As Annabel and Michelle lugged the equipment down the corridor, Ian got to work.

‘Presentation time,’ said Mr Scruby when the students filed in. ‘Who’d like to go first?’

Sean, Colin and Pieter all put up their hands, a sight never before witnessed by the class.

‘Such enthusiasm,’ said Mr Scruby.

‘I’d like to go first,’ said Annabel, half-getting to her feet.

‘Sit down, Annabel,’ said Mr Scruby, ignoring the look of thunder that crossed her face. ‘We’ll save the best till last.’ The thunder rolled away to a quiet grumble.