Peanut Butter Boy

By Lel Bevan

Peanut Butter Boy is perfect for fans of humorous fiction.
Peter Butter is excruciatingly shy. Whenever someone so much as blinks in his direction, he turns that ugly shade of a baboon’s bum cheeks. It seems turning to a jar of peanut butter is the only way to keep his bashfulness under control.
Things go from bad to worse when Peter starts at Pincham High School and comes face to face with Pirate Poultice, the beastliest and cruellest teacher in the entire universe. Peter Butter's peanut butter obsession quickly spirals out of control and a chain of mysterious and nutty events unfold. Peanut Butter Boy is a hilariously funny and heartwarming adventure of good over evil; shy pupil versus tyrannical teacher. A unique, side-tickling mystery with a dollop of peanut butter smeared in. For 8+ years

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lel Bevan
• Release date: Mar 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370128471

Lel Bevan

Lel Bevan grew up in West Wales in the UK. She loved writing from an early age- from fantasy stories with daring quests to poetry and letters - some even to the Queen and the Prime Minister- using ridiculous pseudonyms too silly to repeat here. She studied French and Children's Literature and completed her Bachelor of Education at Westminster College Oxford. Formerly a primary teacher Lel likes nothing better than visiting schools and libraries to share her books with the children. The inspiration for Lel's latest book Peanut Butter Boy comes from Lel's own battle with shyness at a young age mixed with her very own 'Peanut Butter Boy' (her son) who absolutely adores peanut butter and would eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner if he thought he could get away with it!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Baboon’s Bum Cheeks

I heard her high heels clomping up the front path outside and dived into the shoe cupboard. The clang of the doorbell rang an alarm in my head. Silently, I inched the cupboard door to, held my breath and waited. Maybe Grandad wouldn’t hear the bell. He was going a bit deaf, after all. Surely she would just go away if nobody answered the door?

The doorbell chimed again. I flinched. The piercing jangle reverberated once, twice, three times. A barrage of knocks followed like a champion boxer pummelling their opponent. Betty Pimple was not going to give up.

Peter, answer the door son! Grandad hollered from somewhere in the kitchen. I froze. I could not answer the door to Betty Pimple. I’d rather drink cold sick and wash in a river of cow poo.

I’d just pretend I wasn’t here.

Peter? I heard Grandad grumbling and sighing irritably. The doorknocker stuttered like a machine gun. Betty Pimple caterwauled through the letterbox.

Yoohoo! Sid-ney?

Coming, Betty! Grandad answered, Dunno where that boy’s got to, he muttered as he shuffled down the hall. He slammed the shoe cupboard door as he passed, plunging me into darkness, making me jump. The shock gave me hiccups.

I clamped my hand over my mouth as Grandad turned the latch and pulled back the front door.

Ah Sidney dear, I thought you were out for a moment. You did say Saturday didn’t you? Mrs Pimple bustled over the threshold, cooing like a pigeon.

A slight kerfuffle followed as Betty Pimple clinched Grandad in her fleshy arms. Grandad gave a muffled cry as she pressed him to her enormous chest.

I call this move ‘The Pimple Smother’. Mrs Pimple employs this suffocating manoeuvre regularly and always when greeting someone. It’s a two-pronged attack.

First, she presses her victim’s face to her sweaty armpit until they are unable to breathe…often whilst telling them how nice it is to see them. Next she locks her sumo-sized arms around her victim’s neck to prevent any struggle. As her victim nears unconsciousness, she releases her grip, and brings them to by affectionately pinching their cheeks, thus readying them for the secondary onslaught. This is known as ‘The Inside-out Kiss’.

Betty Pimple has the enchanting gift of being able to turn her massive lips inside out, like a Koi carp. She employs this talent mercilessly when delivering ‘The Inside-out Kiss’.

Folding her lips back to create a giant sucker, The Pimple lurches forward, disabling her victim with a powerful bombardment of sucky wet splodges that leave a trail of slobber and treacly, salmon coloured lipstick in their wake.

Of course Grandad loves it.

Come on in Betty, I heard him croon. He never uses that voice on anyone else.

Cathy made some cookies before she went to work. I thought we could have one with a nice cup of tea.

Mum made those cookies especially for me.

They were peanut butter ones, my favourite. I scowled as I pictured Betty Pimple gorging on my favourite peanut butter cookies. Meanwhile I was sat in the darkness, a welly wedged uncomfortably against my buttocks.

She’ll eat them all!

I gasped in frustration, opening my mouth wide and letting out a loud hiccup.

What was that? Betty Pimple paused right outside the shoe cupboard.

What? Grandad stopped short.

I heard a noise coming from that cupboard. The floorboards creaked under The Pimple’s weight as she lingered on the other side of the cupboard door.

Please no! I can’t face The Pimple!

Grandad wrenched the door open.

Come out, Peter, he said without bothering to look inside.

My heart was pounding. Where was Mum or Saul when I needed them? I was going to have to face Betty Pimple alone.

"Is Peter in there?" Mrs Pimple cried.

He’s a bit shy Betty, Grandad said with an air of disapproval. Come on Peter, let’s not have any of that nonsense.

I was j-just looking for erm my sl-slippers, I explained from the darkness of the cupboard.

Well, you can come out and make Mrs Pimple a cup of tea, Grandad ordered.

I sighed; it was no good I was going to have to ‘feel the burn’.  Sheepishly I scrambled out of the cupboard, keeping my eyes on the floor. Sure enough my cheeks burned a scorching pink as I felt Betty Pimple’s gaze upon me.

Oh isn’t he a darling! she purred, Peter Butter! Is he still mad on peanut butter, Sidney?

I tried to smile, but I could feel myself getting hotter and hotter.

Oh yes, still obsessed with the stuff, Grandad said rolling his eyes. I cringed, madly casting about for an escape route.

You used to be like a walking peanut when you were little! She threw back her head in laughter and patted my arm. Was she about to give me The Pimple Smother?

And haven’t you grown? Let me see, I haven’t seen you since you were this high, she said, holding her hand level with her navel, but I guess I’ll be seeing lots more of you now that you’ve all moved in with your Grandad! She beamed at me.

My cheeks flushed from a raw pink to a blistering red, like that angry shade of a baboon’s bum cheeks (I call them BBCs). I wanted to evaporate.

"Ah! There’s no need to be shy of me, Peter!"

Next thing I knew, her two pudgy hands gripped the back of my head and I was yanked nose first into her fleshy, damp armpit. My arms flailed wildly as I tried to hold my breath.

It’ll all be over soon; just hold still and she’ll let go.

Grandad laughed. Put him down Betty, you’re embarrassing the lad.

Mrs Pimple chuckled and slid her hands from my head to my cheeks and went in for the pinch. My face was already stinging hot, but as she clasped my flesh between her thumbs and forefingers, I thought I might actually burst into flames.

The Pimple leaned her fat nose down towards mine, cooing at me. I watched in terror as her thick, salmon lips curled backwards forming the sucker of death.

Not The Inside-out Kiss!

I backed away to the mouth of the shoe cupboard. The sucker lunged closer; The Pimple’s breath sprayed my face. I arched back, leaning further away still, as the salmon sucker pressed downwards, hovering over me.

It was too much. Just as the sucker came in to land, I ducked, scooting under Mrs Pimple’s outstretched arms and fleeing for the front door. A warbling cry resounded behind me and I turned around to see Betty Pimple pitch forward and disappear head first into the shoe cupboard. Her large bottom stuck high in the air, wedged in the narrow doorway.

Grandad’s face twisted in a kind of awkward horror. Should he grab Betty Pimple by the bottom and heave her out, or maybe yanking her by the feet would be more appropriate? He stood, pushed back his hat and scratched his head.

I had to get out of there. I bolted out the door and went to hide in the garage.

I was in disgrace. As soon as Mum got back from her shift at the hospital, Grandad’s tirade began. Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘having a cow’? Well, he had one; except it wasn’t a cow it was a giant buffalo. He was seriously mad.

Betty’s a lovely woman. She was only trying to be friendly. He paced up and down the living room. I watched uncomfortably through the crack in the door.

She loves art. I thought she might talk to Peter about her oil paintings, but he really upset her. Grandad shook his head. I don’t think she’ll come back to visit me in a hurry.

Maybe something good has come of this, after all.

"You know what he’s like, Dad. I don’t suppose he meant for Mrs Pimple to fall into the cupboard." I detected a quiver in my mum’s voice as she stifled a giggle.

Sooner or later he’s going to have to sort himself out. I won’t have him being rude to my friends. Grandad retorted.

He doesn’t mean to be rude, he’s just shy.

He needs to get out more, play some football with Saul, get some colour in his cheeks. Grandad gestured to the window.

I gritted my teeth. What was he talking about? I was always getting colour in my cheeks. I hated colour in my cheeks.

Maybe you should spend a bit more time with him. Get to know him a bit better. It might help his confidence. Mum suggested.

Maybe, Grandad conceded. I just don’t know how he’s going to cope when he starts up at the secondary school, I really don’t.

I’m sure the teachers will look after him, Mum soothed.

As I listened, a cold uneasiness crept into my stomach, winding into a tight knot.

Grandad stopped pacing and adjusted his hat.

I think you’re right, Cathy. Maybe I should spend more time with him. That boy could do with toughening up a bit. He can help me out in the garage. Chores, that’s what he needs.

I slunk off to bed. Saul was still not back from football practice so I had the room to myself.

Chores?

It wasn’t my fault that I turned the colour of a baboon’s bum cheeks whenever I spoke. Imagine being completely butt naked in the middle of your local town centre on a busy Saturday afternoon. That’s how I felt. Whenever I spoke to anyone, particularly somebody new, I felt like they could see me naked. With each new encounter, my cheeks flared like sunburnt beetroot.

I fished a jar out from under my bed, unscrewed the lid and began to tuck in.

Chapter 2

Shelley’s Warning

First chore of the day: Go and fetch me a newspaper, Grandad announced, slamming a five-pound note onto the kitchen table.

I put down my toast.

What’s the matter? he asked, studying my face.

Can’t Saul do it?

Listen son, you’re supposed to be doing chores for me. Grandad took his hat off and dropped it onto the table.

I could hear the whomp of my heart like a giant’s footsteps dashing towards me.

Just ask Mrs Damilo behind the counter for Sidney Butter’s copy of The Coggington Post. Grandad said, sighing.

M-Mrs Damilo? I repeated.

Yes, she’ll help you.

What if I forget the name? I imagined Mrs Damilo laughing at me as I stood stuttering and stammering before her.

Just tell her you’ve come for Sidney Butter’s paper.

Grandad rolled his eyes and turned to look out of the window.

I really didn’t want to ask Mrs Damilo, but Grandad was losing his patience.

And when you get back you can start tidying out the garage. I want it finished before tomorrow, he nagged. And make sure you don’t touch my spray paints or any of my tools and car stuff. He turned back towards me. His mouth dropped wide.

For heaven’s sake boy, put the knife down!

I looked to the knife in my hand. It was slathered in peanut butter.

You’ve got it everywhere! Grandad ranted. He picked up his tweed hat. It was his favourite. He wore it everywhere, even on the loo.

It’s all over my hat! he yelled, his face turning crimson, mirroring my baboon’s bum cheeks (BBCs).

I blinked back my surprise. Grandad was right; his hat was dripping in peanut butter.

I don’t remember doing that!

"You better get yourself up the shop for my newspaper, son. Now!" Grandad attempted to wipe the peanut paste from his hat, but smeared it all over his hands and shirt instead.

I grabbed the five-pound note from the table and stalked off.

Stupid hat! Maybe if Grandad hadn’t nagged me so much, it wouldn’t have happened. I was feeling pretty sore at having to do his errands. Saul was allowed to go off and play football, but I had to run around after Grandad instead of enjoying my last day of freedom; my last day before starting secondary school.

It was Grandad’s fault I had to go to that school in the first place. Pincham High– pronounced with a ‘ck’ like the colour pink. Saul said they should call it ‘Pinch’ ’cos the teachers are so strict, they pinch you if you don’t sit up straight.

I slammed the front door as I thought about my friends from primary school. Every single one of them was going to the secondary on the other side of town.

Ooh, someone’s in a temper, a voice piped up from somewhere nearby.

Oh no, not Shelley ‘Megladon’ Sparks!

A low and rather unruly hedge bordered our small front garden. This meant unfortunately, that our neighbour Shelley Sparks could see right over it and watch anyone coming and going. Shelley liked nothing better than watching what other people were doing.

As soon as I was out the door and down the garden path, she was there. She dashed around her side of the fence to open the gate for me.

I wasn’t in the mood for facing Mrs Damilo and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for being interrogated by Shelley Sparks.

"You’ve got your first day