So Gross! (11 page)

‘But why are they doing it?’ asked Matt.

‘Dunno.’ Sam shrugged.

‘Maybe they’re getting back at you for letting that huntsman loose in class last week?’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose! There was a hole in the box!’

‘I know that,’ said Matt, grinning. ‘But they don’t. They thought it was a joke. Thea nearly had a heart attack.’

Sam smiled. He remembered Rachel’s screams and big tall Mel balanced on top of her desk. His smile deepened. Sam had always loved spiders and couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. ‘I guess you might be right,’ he said.

Matt looked up. ‘Didn’t they say they’d pay you

back?’

‘It
is
payback time,’ said Sam, with a gleam in his eye. ‘But not in the way they think.’ He started to form a plan.

Sam would get Matt to hand out a few notes of his own. Notes that read …

Dear Rachel (or Thea or Melanie or Natalie), I love you. I can’t stop thinking about you
.

Meet me behind Gallows Tree at 1.00 p.m. (1.05 p.m., 1.10 p.m., and 1.15 p.m.)
.

Signed Anonymous
.

Gallows Tree was a huge eucalypt that grew in the corner of the playground. It got its name from the thick strong branch that grew several metres up, perfectly horizontal to the ground. In the old days, it was rumoured, bushrangers were hanged from this very branch. Usually the kids avoided it. Tally swore that she’d seen a ghost once and it was true that the air under there was always much colder than anywhere else in the playground.

In other words, it was the perfect place if you did not want to be disturbed.

Sam was nervous. The plan that had seemed so brilliant when talking to Matt now seemed rather stupid. He had never kissed a girl before — Thea had kissed
him
. What if he stuffed up? What if they laughed at him? Fear lodged as a ball in his throat. His heart began to race, his breath coming in short
shallow gasps. But worst of all, his mouth went dry. Sandpapery dry so that his tongue clamped to the roof of his mouth. Sam tried to swallow. He couldn’t. His tongue didn’t work at all. It was like it had been set in cement.

‘Hellooo.’ Rachel’s voice sent him into a spin.

Sam looked around wildly. He didn’t know what to do. And then he spotted something. Something shiny with moisture, glistening. Eagerly he reached out and picked it up.

Sam stepped out from behind the tree.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Rachel, not trying to hide her disappointment.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Sam. ‘I just want you to know, I know what you’re up to.’

Rachel snorted. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.

Sam shrugged. Let her play the innocent. Swiftly he leant forward. Rachel tried to squirm out of Sam’s grasp but he was persistent. He plastered her lips with his own. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ he called as Rachel rushed off, furiously scrubbing at her face.

Thea was next. ‘What do
you
want?’ she asked when she found out that ‘Anonymous’ was Sam.

‘This is for old-times’ sake,’ said Sam. He zoomed in for the kiss, making sure it was a good one, his lips travelling up to her nose and down to her chin, just as she’d done with him.

‘Oooh, yuck!’ said Thea, finally pulling away.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ yelled Sam to her retreating back.

‘It was just a bit of fun,’ said Mel, when her turn came.

‘At my expense,’ said Sam. ‘Some fun.’

‘Can’t you take a joke?’ taunted Mel.

‘Can you?’ asked Sam before standing on tiptoe and planting his lips on hers. This time he decided to go for a Reverse Suckerfish.

When Mel finally pushed away she blurted angrily. ‘Spew on you.’

‘No,’ said Sam. ‘I reckon the spew’s on you.’

Mel took off.

Three down, one to go, thought Sam. Natalie was the last. She came up hesitantly. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Is this some kind of a

joke?’

‘You tell me,’ said Sam. ‘You’re the expert on jokes.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Natalie, her face puzzled.

‘That “I love Natalie” note,’ said Sam. ‘You wrote it yourself.’

‘I did not!’

‘I found the yellow pad in your desk!’

‘So what?’ said Natalie. ‘Heaps of us use them. To mark things in our books.’

Sam frowned. Maybe he was wrong after all?

‘I’m telling you. I did not write that note!’ Natalie was looking more and more distressed. Tears
brimmed in her eyes. ‘You’re the one who’s had their joke.’ Furiously she blinked the tears away. ‘And the joke’s on me! I hate you Sam Wylie.’

‘I didn’t mean it,’ said Sam, but Natalie had gone.

Sam felt terrible. He’d been so eager to lump Natalie in with the rest, and now he’d hurt her feelings. Even lost her as a friend. At least he hadn’t slavered all over her! Sam heard the bell go for afternoon lessons. With a sinking heart he went to line up.

‘Sam’s the best kisser in the world.’ Rachel’s voice rang out over the noise of the line, bringing Sam to a halt. ‘He kisses so good he makes your head spin!’

Sam gulped. When was this nonsense going to stop? Several faces turned in his direction.

‘Sam kisses so good he makes you weak at the knees,’ said Melanie loudly.

More children turned to stare at him.

‘Sam kisses so good he makes your heart go pitter patter,’ chimed in Thea.

Sam had the undivided attention of his entire class.

‘Hey, lover boy,’ called Harry, following up with grunting noises.

Sam wished that there were a black hole in the universe that he could dive into. Valentine’s Day. He never wanted one again.

‘Lips that are moist,’ Rachel went on, in her gushy mushy voice.

‘Lips that are juicy,’ said Mel, in her swoony voice.

‘Lips you could drown in!’ cried Thea.

The girls started to giggle, enjoying their moment of triumph. They had turned the tables yet again.

A lump formed in Sam’s throat. What a loser! This was not going the way he had planned. ‘Hey, stud,’ said Harry.

Kids took up the cry. ‘Stud, stud, stud.’ The words pulsed through the air.

‘What’s your secret?’ yelled Tyrone.

‘Yeah, lover boy?’ said Harry.

Others took up the cry. ‘Lover boy, lover boy, lover boy.’

This had to stop! And Sam knew just how to do it. ‘Wanna know?’ he yelled, holding up his hand for silence. ‘Well, I’ll tell you!’ Sam waited till the last peal of laughter, the last ‘stud’ and ‘lover boy’ had died away. In a clear, loud voice he addressed the class. ‘Wanna know how to kiss?’ One boy nodded. ‘The secret,’ he continued, ‘is moist lips. Lips that can slide — glide even. Like you’re skating on ice.’

The air was heavy with silence.

‘And how do you get them like that?’ Sam taunted the line of kids.

‘Tell us,’ said Rachel.

‘Tell us,’ said Mel.

‘Yes, tell us,’ cried Thea.

‘Tell us. Tell us. Tell us,’ went the class.

Sam searched the line for Natalie. He found her, watching him, her face questioning. He winked. Natalie hesitated, then winked back. Only then did he turn to the rest of the class.

‘The secret of great kissing,’ he announced, ‘is slug slime!’

There was a collective intake of breath.

‘Slimy, juicy slugs,’ Sam went on. ‘There’s heaps of them, up behind Gallows Tree.’

‘Eeeeeek,’
screamed Rachel, swiping at her mouth.

‘Aaaagh,’
howled Mel, scrubbing her tongue with a tissue.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Thea, who promptly threw up.

The girls fled to find a tap.

Sam started to laugh. A deep grumbly laugh that started in his belly and erupted, to echo around the playground like a kookaburra calling.

Matt joined in, quickly followed by the others.

Soon the whole class was doubled up in fits of laughter. Even Natalie.

Sam went up to her. ‘Friends?’ he asked.

‘Friends,’ said Natalie, whose smile lasted long after their handshake had stopped.

‘Good,’ said Sam. But it wasn’t just good.

It was the best!

‘If you spent as much time on your study as you do eating, you’d be at the top of the class.’

Above the desk Ian Ferris was careful to keep his face blank. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘All that flubber. It strains the heart. No wonder the oxygen is not getting to your brain.’

Below the desk Ian’s middle finger stood straight and tall. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

Mr Scruby, his teacher, stood at the front of the class, contracting his abs and puffing out his chest. He was like that. ‘A strong body means a strong mind.’ Even holding up a pile of test papers involved a biceps flex. ‘And you!’ he said, throwing a paper on Sean Harding’s desk. ‘Do you think you can try really hard in the future to make your two, and only two, brain cells meet across a synapse?’

As well as his body, Mr Scruby loved science. He brought science into the classroom every chance he got.

Sean said nothing, the lumps in his cheeks the only sign that he was gritting his teeth. As Mr Scruby leant closer, Sean was assailed by the smell of stale cigarettes.

Smoking was Mr Scruby’s vice. His only vice. He tapped Sean on the head, pretending to listen. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘I knew it.’

Titters could be heard around the room.

Sean pondered on how you spelt ‘moron’, proof indeed that his brain was working.

Mr Scruby circled the room. ‘Know what Schuyler means?’ he asked his next unfortunate victim. Pieter Schuyler shook his head. ‘It’s a Dutch name. Means a scholar — a wise man.’ Mr Scruby was warming up in his afternoon of torment. He waved an exam paper under Pieter’s nose. ‘Sure you got the right name, boy?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Pieter.

‘Hmmph.’ Mr Scruby held up the test paper, which read 2 out of 10. ‘Must’ve been swapped at birth.’

‘Oh, yuk,’ interrupted Annabel Weekes, furiously fanning her face at the front of the room.

‘Who was that?’ Mr Scruby wheeled around, sniffing.

Colin Briggs didn’t try to hide it. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s those egg sandwiches.’

The class erupted into giggles.

‘Silence!’ bellowed Mr Scruby. He glared around the room before eyeballing Colin again.

Colin rolled sideways on to one bum cheek.
‘Pfffffft,’
he went. Not quite an SBD, but close. ‘That curried egg, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s a killer.’

Mr Scruby did not flinch but his eyes narrowed and he audibly drew in a breath. ‘So it would seem,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can join Ian, Sean and Pieter at lunch today. You would all benefit from a little extra work.’

Ian slumped on his desk. This was the third time this week he’d been kept in at lunchtime. He could hear a long sigh from Pieter and see Sean’s fingers curl into a fist.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Colin, with a resigned look on his face.

‘The body,’ announced Mr Scruby, ‘is what we are going to study next.’

‘Hope it’s hands on,’ said Ian.

‘You would,’ said Annabel.

‘Filthy mind, Ian,’ said Mr Scruby before continuing. ‘You lot are going to do a project on the body. How it functions.’ Loud groans filled the air. ‘Each project will be shown to the class in a five-minute presentation.’

Annabel raised her hand. ‘Will it be marked?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Scruby. He held up the pile of test papers on his desk. ‘And I’m warning you. If it’s as bad as this lot, I’ll make sure you regret it.’

Cries of ‘But, sir,’ and ‘That’s not fair,’ filled the air.

Mr Scruby ignored them. ‘I’m leaving it up to you. The topic is “The Body”.’ He wrote those two words up on the board. ‘You can write fact sheets, make observations — anything — as long as it is about the body and how it functions. Any questions?’

‘Do you want it in a special project book?’ asked Annabel.

Ian could already picture Annabel’s project
book. It would be covered in pink paper with a matching pink ribbon running down the spine.

‘I don’t mind,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘A project book, a poster, fact cards. It’s your presentation. You can do it how you like. All I ask is that you put some thought and effort into it and show it to the class.’

Ian put up his hand. ‘Can we do an experiment?’ he asked.

‘Even one that involves food,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘You’d be good at that.’ He laughed, looking around to see if someone would join in. Annabel tee-heed in return. Ian worked on his blank stare. ‘You can choose one part of the body and talk about that if you like,’ said Mr Scruby, warming up. ‘Sean, you might like to look at something you’re missing — the brain.’

The bumps in Sean’s cheeks grew to the size of golfballs.

‘Maybe Sean and Pieter should work with Ian and Colin?’ quipped Annabel.

Mr Scruby laughed again. The boys exchanged looks. They said,
She’s dead meat
and
You betcha
.

‘Which reminds me,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I don’t want you working in pairs. I want you to work alone. This should be all your own effort. Don’t even talk about it with each other. I want to see what you, alone, can come up with.’

The bell rang.

‘You’ve got one week,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘It’s due next Friday.’