So Grotty!

By J A Mawter

Just when your stomach had settled, J.A. Mawter returns with more sick and silly stories. Have you ever had a cockroach in your undies or taken part in a cheese race? these are only two of the serious issues tackled by J.A. Mawter in this the fifth book of the So! series. As for Gus Gordon, he's gone totally mad in this book and the illustrations are more hilarious than ever. Ages 8+

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730491316

J A Mawter

J.A. (Jeni) Mawter is the author of Unleashed!, the first book in the Freewheelers series, and also the popular So! series. She has an MA in Children’s Literature and is a tutor at Macquarie University. She lives in Sydney with her family.

Book preview

And They’re off!

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Chapter One

‘Suck eggs!’

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A body bolts past. I don’t look up. I know who it is. The weed with speed. I grip onto my spoon. Gotta concentrate. Gotta reach Ollie before it’s too late. My legs pump hard—pump-i-i-ing, pump-i-i-ing. My fingers ache. Eggie lurches, threatening to jump. Hang in there. I send telepathic messages. You come from a good home. You’re too young to die. I grip my spoon harder.

Eggie writhes around, protesting, busting to go over the edge. I check out the others, knowing full well that precious seconds will be wasted. They’re close, so close that my ears vibrate to the thud of their feet.

Not far now. I do this secret deal with Eggie. Hang in there and you won’t get hurt. Do the bolt and I eat you for breakfast.

I risk another glance. Ollie’s still ahead. But now he’s stopped. Stopped? ‘No-o-o-o-o!’ I cry out loud. And then? Disaster! I stumble. I arch my back and sidestep, trying beyond hope to keep my hand steady. Too late. I’m falling—down, down. Turf rises to meet me. Ooomph! Knees hit first. There’s pain. Thighs next. More pain. Down go the hips. Aaaagh! Major face plant. There’s grass in my mouth, more grass than you’d see in a golf course commercial. I stagger to my feet. I’m spitting dandelions!

‘Suck eggs!’ yells Ol again, only this time he’s grinning fit to bust and pointing at my sports shirt.

I look down and groan. Scrambled egg. Yuck! So much for winning the first novelty race.

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Our sports teacher comes running. Mr Cassius. We call him Mr Cass. His voice booms over the track. ‘If I’d’a known we were making omelettes I’d’ve brought my own frypan.’

‘Ha, ha, Mr Cassius,’ I say picking eggshell out of my bellybutton. ‘You’re such a clown.’ If Mr Cass can make omelette jokes I can do a bit of name-calling of my own. Actually, he could be a clown—all bald head and tummy. A real eggshell blonde with a BYO eggcup. I want to say it out loud but I don’t. Mr Cass isn’t a bad egg. Not really.

Just then Stella Mazoni walks past. Stella’s with Karina Nelson and Ella Quinn, Miss Quinn’s precious niece and a boil on my butt.

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‘I never realised we had such an egghead in our school,’ says Ella. With her try-hard smile she looks like an egg-bound budgie.

‘Egghead?’ says Karina. ‘More like egg roll.’ And together they laugh. What is it with this school? Everyone’s a comedian! I feel like marching up to Karina and Ella. Egg? I’ll give them egg—a great big fat eggy right in their faces. But then I think of Miss Quinn and I shut up. At least Stella’s not in with them.

‘Go and have a wash,’ says Mr Cass flicking some shell off my shirt. ‘There’s plenty of time. Next race is in twenty minutes.’

Stella interrupts saying, ‘Mr Cassius. You missed a bit.’

My clothes start to prickle, and it’s not the eggshell.

‘How so?’ asks Mr Cass, turning to her with a good-natured frown on his face.

Stella points to my forehead. ‘Up there, sir.’ She and Karina and Ella are all straining not to laugh. Their lips are so tight they look like they’ve been zipped up. Stella goes on. ‘I believe the saying goes…there’s egg all over his face.’ The three of them fizzle up. Cackling like the evil witches from Macbeth.

I look up. Where’s thunder, lightning and rain when you need them? Even the sun takes a pot shot, beaming down on me like a jolly yellow giant. I keep picking off eggshell, praying for this sports day to end.

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‘If you lot don’t let up,’ I warn Stella, Karina and Ella. ‘You’re gonna wear egg flip!’ I glare at them, daring them to cross the line.

‘Calm down, Kris,’ says Mr Cass. ‘Don’t get so egg-cited!’ He stands there, clapping at his own joke, his great big head wobbling in the sunshine. Reminds me of a Jack-in-the-Box I had when I was a kid. ‘Girls,’ he adds, ‘you best…scramble,’ which sets them all off again.

‘You okay?’ asks Ollie after they’ve left.

I shrug and scowl as I look at my splotchy shirt.

‘Could be worse,’ says Ol, flinging an arm round my shoulders.

‘Yeah? How?’

‘Coulda been an emu egg.’

Despite myself I smile. Trust Ol to see a bright side. ‘Better get on with it,’ I say, stepping towards the tap. ‘Wheelbarrow race is soon.’

Ol ’n me line up at the start of the wheelbarrow race. I’m back and Ol’s front. His legs are tucked up under my armpits. All he’s got for balance are these scrawny little arms.

‘Ready!’ calls Mr Cass, holding up the starter’s gun.

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Quickly, I check out the opposition. Sam’s paired with John, Mark’s with Lewis, and Alex is with Eb. Swe-e-e-et! Ol ’n I should romp home.

‘Set!’ calls Mr Cass.

I adjust my grip on Ol and focus on the finish line.

‘Ease up,’ growls Ol and he wriggles his legs to loosen my stranglehold.

‘Go!’

Ollie starts moving, armsticks pumping, faster than spokes on a wheel. So fast we’re churning grass!

We’re half-way to the finish when I notice something. Uh, oh! With all that thrashing and squirming Ol’s gym shorts have started to ease down. There’s more bum crack than a herd of hipsters.

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I keep going. There’s nothing I can do. If I stop to yank them up I’ll drop him. But with every step the shorts retreat further. Ollie’s showing more groove than Grandpa’s gramophone records. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He hasn’t faltered. We’re winning and that’s all that counts.

‘Ol,’ I gasp. ‘Your duds…’

‘Forget ’em,’ gasps Ol. He gets a minor case of the wobbles but doesn’t stop his stride.

We power along. My eyes drag down. Not that I’m a perve. I just can’t help it. Ollie’s cheeks look like…eggs! Two eggs in a carton jammed together. I didn’t know he had that mole! Ollie wriggles harder. Finish line here we come.

‘Yes!’ we cry, collapsing over the finish line, panting and sobbing with relief.

We look up, waiting for our blue tag to say we’ve won. But there’s no blue tag. Miss Quinn holds up a white card.

A white card? No-o-o-o!

‘Disqualified!’ she announces. ‘For lewd and disgusting behaviour.’ She says lewd like there’s a ‘y’ in it. L-yewd.

I can’t believe it. ‘We won that race fair and square,’ I say, turning to Mr Cass as he ambles over.

Miss Quinn gets slits for nostrils. ‘In all my 35 years at this school,’ she begins, ‘I’ve never, I repeat never seen anything so rude as Mister Grant baring his backside!’

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‘We didn’t mean it,’ I try to explain. ‘It was