So Gross!

For David, Hugh, Shevaughn and Tullia, who inspire
me in ways they know not.

With thanks to my writers’ group: Pauline, Sue, Anne,
Alan, Ro, Susan, Eunice and Irini
.

Plunger Patterson crossed his legs and squeezed his bum cheeks together. Something feral was wrestling in his gut, kicking and punching and bringing tears to his eyes as it fought to escape.

‘Will everyone get out their class reader,’ snapped his teacher, Mrs Popov. ‘Turn to page twenty-four.’ She glared around the classroom. ‘Tim, you may start reading first.’ Tim was Plunger’s real name, but when those biscuit commercials came on the telly the kids at school started calling him Tim Tam. He changed his name to Plunger, after the local footy hero, to prove he wasn’t a wuss.

Plunger bent down to get his book out of his schoolbag and regretted it immediately.

Alex Matthews got the first whiff and keeled over onto his desk. His neighbour, Sally Serenti, turned blue from trying to hold her breath. She hastily scrambled to another seat. Simon de Britt began gasping for air, as though he was having an asthma attack, and had to get up to open a window.

The whole thing reminded Plunger of something he’d read on a dunny door:

Cough and the world coughs with you

Fart and you stand alone
.

Mrs Popov sniffed the air, her eyes widening in horror. ‘Will the child who needs the bathroom please leave the class,’ she said, fanning her face with her hand. ‘Immediately.’

Plunger didn’t move.

The pungent pong permeated his every pore, paralysing him with its putridity.

Plunger blamed his mother. Her latest health-food fad had finally taken its toll. He never wanted to hear the words ‘high fibre’ or ‘roughage’ again. Clutching his tummy, he wished he could just disappear. Discrete little
pfffts
built up to longer
pbbbrrr pbbbrrr
grumblings until another massive
psssht
shot out of his trousers and scampered to freedom.

‘Tim Patterson,’ yelled Mrs Popov. ‘That’s disgusting. Take your foul bowels out of my classroom and go to the bathroom. And when you’ve finished you can stand under that tree, where there is at least a bit of a breeze, and stay there until lunchtime.’ She pointed to a crippled-looking gum tree standing alone in the corner of the playground.

The whole class started to laugh.

Plunger couldn’t move. He felt hot and cold ripples over his body. His lower half felt much better but his upper half wished they weren’t related. It was like his insides were ticking off every piece of healthy food they’d been forced to digest in the last week.

Rolled oats —
pffft

Bran crumpets —
pfff pffft

Lentils —
pffft

With cabbage —
pfff pffft

‘Right now,’ shrieked Mrs Popov.

With his hands over his backside, Plunger steered himself out the door — guffaws and giggles ringing in his ears.

At lunchtime Plunger was again perched on the toilet seat when a gang of boys entered.

‘Oi. Plunger,’ yelled Josef Abboud. ‘Me dad reckons that fumes like yours are putting a hole in the ozone layer.’ Loud sniggers spurred him on. ‘We’re gonna get skin cancer at this rate. Either you stop eating your mum’s food or we’ll lock you in the broom cupboard where there’s no air. Me dad reckons you can die from
a-sphyx-i-a-tion!

Plunger moaned.

Dying from suffocation would be heaps better than dying from embarrassment.

For the rest of the afternoon everyone kept a wide berth, making a show of holding their breath and pinching their noses whenever Plunger went past. Mrs Popov made him stand next to an open window at the front of the classroom.

After the longest day of his life, Plunger slunk home and opened the kitchen cupboard. There were cans of carrots and corn, boxes of bran, packets of prunes and porridge, but not a chip or a biscuit in sight. Even the cockroaches had given up in disgust and moved next door.

It wasn’t as if Plunger didn’t like this food. He did. But he’d learnt in physical education that you
should eat all things ‘in moderation’. Even sugar and fat are good for you, as long as you don’t eat too much.

His mum, as usual, had gone way over the top.

Last week, after watching some health freak on the telly, she had announced that they both ate ‘far too much crap’ and ‘from now on things are going to change’. Every bit of food in the house was tossed in the bin, and up they went to the health-food supermarket.

Plunger had tried to plead for some muesli bars or popcorn but his mother was firm.

‘Maybe in a few weeks,’ she stalled.

At the dinner table that night Plunger looked down at his soya beans and tofu and tried a new tactic. ‘Muuum,’ he wheedled. ‘What’s happened?’ He patted her on the tummy. ‘You look like you’ve put on weight.’

Mrs Patterson knew what he was referring to but she was hoping that the uncomfortable bloating was only a temporary thing and would settle down as she adjusted to the new diet.

‘Course not. Just a bit of wind,’ she said with a smile, then a wink. ‘It’ll pass.’

Plunger wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He was fast becoming the most unpopular boy on the planet. Even Squidge, his dog, wouldn’t sleep in her usual spot curled up in front of the telly. Something had to be done.

The next morning Plunger decided he couldn’t face school. It wasn’t too hard to plead a stomach ache after walking past his mum and letting off with every step. He lay on the lounge wallowing in a mist of misery (and gas), watching a science show on TV — sort of like those cooking shows that parents like to watch.

This man was doing an experiment. He was demonstrating how plain white crystals reacted to different chemicals. Put them in water and nothing happened. Put them in acid and the whole solution turned bright blue and bubbled furiously.

The man was getting carried away, explaining how this simple experiment could be tried at home. He dipped his fingers into the beakers, licking them to prove they weren’t toxic.

Plunger heard him say something about krypton when pointing to the crystals and thought he’d said vinegar when describing the acid. Stomachs have acid, he thought absentmindedly.

That gave Plunger a flash of inspiration — the type you see in picture books when a light bulb turns on above someone’s head. He laughed. He whooped for joy. He danced through the kitchen
and back to the lounge room, leaving a smelly tempest in his wake.

Squidge hid in the laundry.

Friday was Safety Day at Plunger’s school. Everyone was to wear yellow clothes, eat yellow food and think yellow to remind them of safety first. There was going to be a special assembly where the teachers, students and even the parents were invited to listen to a talk about safety, given by Inspector Constable, the local policeman.

Parents were asked to send yellow cupcakes so the kids could buy them at recess. Plunger’s mum refused to make cakes on account of them not being healthy, but she was planning to bake a large batch of muesli muffins instead.

‘Mum,’ said Plunger that evening. ‘Can I make the muffins for Safety Day?’

Mrs Patterson looked at her son suspiciously.

‘Pleeease,’
he pleaded. ‘I really want to, Mum. Promise to clean up afterwards.’

‘All right,’ she answered. ‘But you have to leave my kitchen in exactly the same condition as you find it, young man. Spotless.’

Plunger nodded, silently cheering.

Everything was going according to plan.

Mr Sumoto lived two doors down from Plunger and worked in a big laboratory that made pharmaceuticals. Science was his passion. Once,
he’d given Plunger an old microscope and spent hours making up slides and explaining to him each little squiggle and blob. Plunger had no doubt that Mr Sumoto would do anything to help if it was to do with science.

Early the next morning he paid Mr Sumoto a visit. After explaining about the science show, and telling one or two white lies, Plunger convinced Mr Sumoto that he wanted to do the experiment himself. He asked for some krypton crystals. As expected, Mr Sumoto said yes. That afternoon he handed Plunger a small bottle with a big ‘K’ on it and wished him good luck.

Plunger cooked up a storm in the kitchen, pretending he was making a spell. Measuring out the ingredients wasn’t too hard, but when it came to the crystals, Plunger wasn’t sure how many to put in. A sprinkle didn’t seem enough. Nor did two. In the end, he emptied the whole bottle into the bowl, stirring furiously to mix it in.

By the time Mrs Patterson’s key could be heard in the lock, rows and rows of steaming muffins were cooling on wire racks, innocently hiding his secret ingredient.

‘Ooh. I’m so hungry,’ said his mother, reaching out for one. ‘I could eat ten of these.’

‘Don’t!’ yelled Plunger a little too loudly, making his mother pull her hand back in fright. ‘They’re for school, Mum. You’ll get yours tomorrow.’

Mumbling something about no one noticing one less muffin on the tray, Mrs Patterson grabbed an apple instead and grumbled her way out of the kitchen.

Yellow balloons greeted the children as they arrived at school the next day. The banner over the gate announced that it was Safety Day and invited the local community to the midday assembly. Every shade of yellow marched into the school as the children arrived, dressed for the special occasion.

Plunger nipped into the classroom, hiding the muffins in his locker before returning to his mates in the playground. The bell rang for morning lessons. As Plunger rounded the stairwell, Josef Abboud pushed past, stuffing a stolen muffin into his mouth.

Plunger grinned. Now we’re cooking with gas, he thought.

‘Josef,’ called Plunger. ‘I’m gonna have the last laugh. You’ll see.’ Josef looked confused. ‘In assembly,’ explained Plunger with a wink.

During recess, parents sold yellow cakes at the canteen and the children jostled to buy the biggest ones. Plunger offered his tray of muffins to everyone in the staffroom, making extra sure that Mrs Popov and the headmaster didn’t miss out. Mrs Popov even had seconds. Delighted helpers, including his mother, ate the leftovers. Soon Plunger’s tray was empty.