So Sick! (4 page)

‘Enough!’ That’s Mr Bryson. He’s on his feet but he sure ain’t tap-dancing.

‘Disgusting!’ agrees Stella.

Disgusting? This?

I can hear some kids start to giggle. ‘This is a deep and meaningful song about bacteria,’ I say.

‘Not!’ Mr Bryson says this with such emphasis that the spit on his ‘t’ launches into the air.

‘It
is
a deep and meaningful song about the bacteria used in sewerage treatment works,’ I try to explain.

Mr Bryson interrupts. ‘The only deep and meaningful thing in this room … ’

I look into Stella’s eyes. Deep and meaningful have turned into blank and disinterested.

Mr Bryson is still breaking wind from the mouth. ‘The only deep and meaningful is the discussion I’ll be having with a certain pair of mutant-looking bacteria during lunchtime!’

Mr Bryson slams his hand on the table.

The plastic bag catapults into the air with such force that the knot at the top springs open. I’m hit
by a wall of water. I look down in horror. I am wearing a wetsuit. Only it’s not black.

The brown stocking is transparent. So transparent you can see the skin through. Skin?

Kids are rolling on the floor.

I cover myself with my hands.

Ollie’s pissing himself — so’s his snorkel. Mr Bryson is in shock. He’s opening and closing his mouth like a stranded goldfish.

And Stella? She’s grinning like a barracuda in a shoal of herrings.

Doesn’t life suck?!

Cal sat watching the foot as it snuck from behind the school bag. Millimetre by millimetre it slid along the floor. He noticed that the foot was flat, not arched like his own, making it look pudgy. Cal could see the tiny muscles expanding and contracting, contracting and expanding, as the foot crept along the boards.

Stuck in its sock of wool Cal could feel his own foot. What started with a sting, then a prickle, was now a full-scale explosion of itches. It took all Cal’s strength to stop himself from ripping his shoes and socks off and giving his feet a good scratch.

In front of the class Mr Langtry tapped on the board, unaware of the foot traveller before him. ‘Quiet, please!’ he called.

Cal glanced at the foot. It glistened in the fluorescent light. To Cal it looked as though it had been basted with olive oil. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Baked foot! Yuck! His own foot twitched in protest.

The foot glided forward, up and over a pencil sharpener, down and under a sports sock.

Those ripples remind me of a belly dancer, thought Cal, smiling at the memory of an exotic dancer he’d once seen in a Lebanese restaurant.

‘I’d like to finalise the details of the fundraiser,’ announced Mr Langtry. ‘The fair is not far away.’

Year Six at St Mary’s School sat up straighter. Cal slumped in his chair.

‘I’m going to go around the class,’ said Mr Langtry. ‘One by one you can tell me what you will be doing for our most important money-making event.’

Cal frowned. He had no idea what he was going to do. Deep in his shoe his tootsies agitated for attention.

‘Right!’ said Mr Langtry. ‘Emma? We’ll start with you.’

‘Crazy Nails,’ called Emma, scoring a smile. ‘I’ve got nail polish and stickers and glitter.’

‘Lovely!’ said Mr Langtry, making an entry beside Emma’s name in his book.

‘Tristan?’

‘Skittles.’

Another Langtry smile. ‘Superb! Hayley?’ ‘Make-up,’ said Hayley.

You don’t need make-up, thought Cal. He sighed as he caught a glimpse of the most perfect skin, the most perfect eyelashes, the most perfect
everything
in the whole wide world.

‘You know,’ Hayley went on, ‘lipstick, face glitter, eye shadow — that sort of thing.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Mr Langtry, writing it all down in his book.

Behind his hand Cal smiled at Hayley, thinking, Isn’t she heavenly? Heavenly Hayley. Sigh!

‘Stephen?’

Cal’s thoughts were wrenched back. Stephen sat in front of him so it would be his turn next! Cal sifted though his brain, searching for something to do. But his efforts were in vain. His mind was drawn to the foot. There it lay, glistening in the morning light, a skid mark stretching behind it.

Cal’s own feet were burning, lodging their protest at being imprisoned in tight school shoes and itchy-scratchy socks.

Stephen cleared his throat. ‘Flipper races,’ he answered Mr Langtry.

Mr Langtry’s beam faded to a questioning grin. ‘Flipper races? I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘It’s like a sack race and three-legged race all in one, but instead of a sack you wear flippers,’ explained Stephen.
‘And
you’re tied to a partner.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Mr Langtry. He smiled a knowing smile. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘There’ll be heats and finals,’ said Stephen. ‘First prize is two tickets to the movies.’

Cal imagined himself at the movies sitting beside Hayley. Sitting beside Heavenly Hayley and holding her hand.

‘Calvin!’ called Mr Langtry.

Cal almost met with the ceiling.

‘Why the dopey look?’ askedMr Langtry with a half-smile.

Cal’s face matched his burning feet. Everyone was staring at him. Even Hayley! His heart started to pound. His breath came in rasps. His tongue lay in his mouth like a dead …

‘Snail!’ began Cal, licking his lips. ‘I, um, I’m going to have snail races.’

Mr Langtry looked down his nose. His mouth zipped into a straight line. ‘Pardon?’ he said.

‘Snail races,’ repeated Cal, then warming to his theme, ‘you know, with snails. You paint numbers on their back. Put them in the centre of a circle. Kids put money on them.’

At this Mr Langtry rose to his feet. ‘They do
what?’
Mr Langtry glared at Cal, daring him to continue.

‘The first snail to reach the circumference wins,’ said Cal. He liked the way he’d thrown in circumference, but he didn’t like the bubbles appearing at the corners of Mr Langtry’s mouth.

‘This school does not condone gambling!’ said Mr Langtry, emphasising every word. ‘Of any kind.’

Cal blinked as rapidly as he was thinking. Without pausing he added, ‘Oh, it’s not gambling. The kids
buy
the snails.’ He grew taller, more confident with his argument and said, ‘They get to keep them.’

Mr Langtry licked away the bubbles. Slowly he sat down. ‘Aaaah!’ he said, then echoed, ‘They get to keep them.’

Cal nodded. He’d often wondered if there was a God of Snails. And now, he knew. Silently, he said a prayer of thanks.

Meanwhile, the source of his brainwave was cruising
along the floor leaving a silvery trail in its wake. When it hit the chair the snail’s stemmy eyes shrunk into themselves, closely followed by the whole foot till all that was left was a shell.

Cool! thought Cal, sliding his finger under his instep and giving it a good scratch. Wish I could do that.

‘This fair’s gonna be awesome,’ said Daniel, Cal’s best friend, as they sat eating their lunch. ‘Dad’s gonna help me make toffee apples.’

‘Good,’ said Cal.

‘Blue ones!’ announced Daniel with a grin.

Cal finished the last bite of his sandwich and reached for his pear.

‘We’ll all look like blue-tongue lizards!’ Daniel went on.