Three Stories from the So series

By J A Mawter

What happens when your mother feeds you more roughage in a week than a health farm dishes out in a year?How will Macca "iron gut" Mactavish's mates make him throw up?How will Gumby Mason score a boogie from his football Coach?If you're a fan of cockroaches, vomit, boogie, and turds - then SO StORIES is the e-book for you. three of the funniest and most revolting stories ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730499077

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.

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CONTENTS

DEDICATION

THE KRYPTON CRYSTAL CAPER

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

WITH A MILKSHAKE

WHAT’S IN THE BOX?

THE BEST BOOGIE COLLECTION IN ALL THE WORLD

PUCKER UP

YOU DIRTY RAT

Dedication

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.

CHAPTER ONE

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

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.

CHAPTER FIVE

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.

The bell rang. It was time for assembly.

The children were seated in rows on the floor and chairs had been lined up at the sides for the parents. There was a microphone on stage for Inspector Constable, as well as a table and two rows of chairs for the headmaster and staff.

When there was silence the teachers filed in. Plunger’s mum, as president of the P&C, had the honour of opening the proceedings, and sat with importance beside Mrs Popov. Mrs Popov was the school safety officer and wore her yellow safety warden’s helmet with pride.

All began well. Mrs Patterson welcomed them to the first school safety assembly and thanked the parents for making such delicious cakes. Inspector Constable showed some interesting slides and talked about safety houses in their area.

Plunger watched carefully. Nothing was happening. Teachers and parents were smiling and nodding and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Inspector Constable talked about crossing the road with safety and safety when riding a bike.

Still nothing happened.

But when Inspector Constable started to talk about fire safety, some of the teachers began shifting around in their seats. By the time he got to stranger danger, others were crossing and uncrossing their legs. One or two were crumpled over, inspecting the dust on the floor.

CHAPTER SIX

A little cloud of blue rose from behind the headmaster’s chair.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Others followed suit.

Soon all the teachers were sitting in a blue mist. Mrs Popov had completely disappeared — except for her hat. Parents were trying to fan away the telltale signs, waving their arms behind their bottoms, desperately hoping to look casual at the same time.

Josef Abboud ground his bum against the floor to block out the flow. It backfired. Spurts of blue came out of his mouth and nose, making him look like he was about to blow up. Josef shook his head furiously, triggering a tremendous explosion from down below which launched him into the air.

The children began to giggle.

Inspector Constable got quite carried away and started telling jokes.

Giggles turned to guffaws until finally great gales of laughter echoed throughout the hall.

Mrs Patterson’s face looked like she’d woken up in the middle of sleepwalking naked through a crowded supermarket. Wafts of blue kept rising from her behind like Indian smoke signals. She stood up and was jet-propelled off the stage.

Mrs Popov tried to bring some order back to the assembly, but nobody would listen to a talking hat.

Josef was booed out of the room, Plunger’s wink the last thing he saw before stumbling outside.

Plunger felt an eensy bit sorry for them, but then he remembered how much he’d been teased for that very same problem and was glad at how things were turning out.

The school was closed for the rest of the afternoon. There just weren’t enough toilets to go round.

Plunger chuckled all the way home, stopping at the corner shop for a milkshake to celebrate.

In the two days it took for the air to clear, Mrs Patterson stayed in hiding. On the afternoon of the third day, Plunger opened the kitchen cupboard and grinned. Real food lined the shelves. There were chips and noodles and pasta and sweets, popcorn and bread and jam. There was jelly and tuna and muesli and rice, cheese sticks and nuts and ham.

Grabbing the peanut butter, Plunger started to make a sandwich.

CHAPTER ONE

Sometimes you hear about people who are just like their names. Mr Bottomley who’s got a big bottom or Mrs Booby with the huge bazookas. Sometimes a Miss Clues might be a policewoman or a Mr Nuss might have a first name beginning with ‘P’.

So I suppose Tom R. Oach was destined.

Some said the ‘R’ was short for Rupert or Reginald or something just as embarrassing, but Tom wouldn’t let on.

Me? My middle name is Vincente, after my dad. Eduardo Vincente Pirini. Ed or Eddie to my mates. Edward to Mrs Sher, our teacher. Eduardo only to Nonno and Nonni, my grandparents. All in all, a pretty safe name.

But with a name like Tom R. Oach, poor Tom didn’t stand a chance.

Bugged for life.

Not that he seemed to mind. He loved bugs.

This is a story about something that happened to Tom and me a while back.

I swear it’s true.

It all started on the day of the school fete.

Well, maybe it didn’t start then, ’cause of Tom’s destiny and all, but it was that day that sticks in my mind.

It was a really hot summer’s day. The fete was meant to raise money to buy Christmas presents for underprivileged kids, the ones that you see on the posters at the railway station. Every class had to have a stall at the fete. Ours was having problems. None of the parents could be bothered to co-ordinate it. We were getting desperate when Tom came up with this great idea.

Worms.

For the compost.

I told you he was mad about bugs. Well, one of his ‘things’ was to have a worm farm under the house. In this huge plastic tub. There were thousands of them. He sold them round the neighbourhood for one dollar a bag. Twenty worms to a bag. Made a bit of money on them, he did.

Tom offered to sell them to the school for fifty cents a bag. That way when we got a dollar for each bag we were making a fifty-cent profit. Pretty good of him ’cause he was only making half as much as he usually did.

We all thought it was a great idea. It meant we didn’t have to collect junk, or make tizzy little craft things, or cadge prizes off anyone.

Mrs Sher wanted to have lucky dips but we gave her heaps till she finally agreed.

She made it quite clear that her job was to handle the money and not the worms.

CHAPTER TWO

Most of us kids were pretty cool about holding worms. Even the girls.

Except Samantha Saunders.

She said she’d hold the plastic bags but if anything slippery or slimy touched her she wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. Somehow I couldn’t see Samantha Saunders all touchy feely with a worm either.

We made big posters for our stall saying things like ‘Environmentally Friendly Pets’ or ‘See if you can worm out of this one,’ or ‘Have you got worms? Well, you should.’

That was my idea, that one.

Tom’s dad agreed to lug the breeding bin to school on the back of his work truck and we all found plastic bags to put the worms in.

The fete started at ten but Mrs Sher made us get there at nine so we could start filling the bags. She must’ve thought there’d be a bit of a rush, but whoever heard of a worm frenzy?

Things started off all right.

Each kid grabbed a plastic bag, carefully counting in twenty worms before they sealed it, then put it on the table for sale.

Tom was real careful of his worms, insisting there was an umbrella up to give them some shade (they hate the light) and squirting a bit of water into each bag before they were sealed.

Despite this they didn’t seem too happy. They writhed around, their bright pink bodies throbbing with blood as they looked for somewhere to bury themselves.

I felt sort of sorry for them.

What if families were being separated? You know, mothers and fathers from their babies. I said something about this to Tom and felt a right knob when he explained to me that in Worm World you’re both the daddy and the mummy. You make the sperm and have the babies. Not at the same time though. You do have to mate with a partner, but that partner could be a boy one minute and a girl the next.

Confusing, eh?

In a future life I hope I never come back as a worm.

By ten o’clock we were ready for business. We’d even had a customer. Mr Rogers, the school handyman, bought two bags, saying they’d taste great with a bit of pepper on toast. Mr Rogers is weird at the best of times. He has these great conversations with someone called Ted.

But Ted’s never there.

Even Mrs Sher seemed reluctant to hand over the bags.

People started arriving in hordes and by ten-thirty we’d already sold twenty-three bags. At times they were queuing. We couldn’t fill up the bags fast enough. People were shouting for service and complaining about having to wait.

And that was the beginning of all our problems.

CHAPTER THREE

The customers started yelling out and pushing, so we really had to get a wriggle on.

We started hurrying so fast that David Winegarten accidentally flicked a worm on Samantha Saunders. Samantha naturally screamed and jumped backwards, and that would have been okay, but she knocked over Katrina Britton, who fell into the arms of Dave Gray. Dave caught her very smoothly, I felt, but she completely freaked out at the thought of Dave’s boy germs and flung her arms up in the air, knocking over our display table and sending our entire Worm World slithering across the playground.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if everyone hadn’t panicked, but of course they did.

There was a mini stampede. A tidal wave of worms. Kids clawing at each other to get out of the way. Mrs Sher making these noises like a stranded whale. Samantha Saunders still screaming and crying, all at the same time.

And in the middle of it, thousands of worms, slithering and sliding and getting smashed to smithereens.

Blood and guts everywhere.

Tom R. Oach was as white as tripe. He didn’t dare move his feet in case he squashed more. He stood there with these lead feet, scooping his precious worms into his lap, looking like someone had tipped a giant plate of pink noodles over him.

You had to feel sorry for him.

They were like family, you know.

In the end Mr Rogers got the hose and swooshed them all across the playground into the flowerbeds. At first he turned it on too hard, sending a second wave of worms spraying up into the air but then he got the water pressure just right. There were lots who didn’t make it into the flowerbeds. If you stood real still you could see bits of the playground on the move.

That’s until someone trod on them.

Sometimes it was a mistake but sometimes, especially for boys like Alexander Poll, it was a game. Who could jump across the playground landing on the most worms?

The playground looked like there’d been a massive spaghetti fight.

I was trying to help Tom but it was hopeless. He stood there, copping an earful from Mrs Sher about how this would never have happened if they’d stuck with lucky dips. You could tell that he was trying not to cry.

I really felt for the guy.

We saved about a hundred. Enough for Tom to start breeding again.

But he didn’t.

Reckoned he could never look a worm in the eye again. If they had one. An eye, that is.

I’ve gotta say this for Tom. He doesn’t stay down for long. He just moves on to something else. Which is how he got started on his true vocation. Went on to bigger and better things.

Well, that’s my opinion.

You be the judge.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was getting further into summer and we’d had all this rain and heat.

Perfect conditions for breeding, Tom noticed.

If you’re a cockroach.

In no time at all he’d built up a pretty impressive collection of cockroaches. From the big, juicy Australian bush ones, to the smaller, more golden German numbers, to the eensy black ones with white stripes across their backs that look like beetles from a distance.

He kept them in a fish tank and used a piece of glass with a brick on it for the lid. They were fed every two to three days, usually scraps from his lunch box. They loved Vegemite sandwiches the best.

Of course, Tom never told his mum. She’d’ve freaked.

The cockroaches lived under the house, hidden behind this brick pylon. Tom would crawl under there with his torch, feed them, watch them for a while, then crawl out, all the while thinking of ways to make a bit of dosh, seeing as he’d retired from the worm business.

One day he made me a proposition. In the playground. At recess.

‘I’ve trained my cockroaches to do tricks,’ is what he said. ‘You an’ me, Eddie, should go into business together. You scam up an audience and me and my cockroaches will do the rest.’

‘Get outta here.’

‘I’ll show you.’

Tom put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a glass jar. An old Vegemite one with tiny holes punched through the lid.

‘This is Bertha,’ he said, introducing me to this whopper of a cockroach, like I was about to shake its hand. ‘She an’ I are mates. I’ll show you.’

He unscrewed the lid and carefully gripped Bertha by the sides. By the look of those legs flying around, this wasn’t Bertha’s idea of a good time. I took a tiny step back. It wasn’t my idea of a good time either, being this close to a cockie.

Tom held Bertha up to his lips.

For a second there I thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn’t.

He whispered in her ear. I’m not kidding. I couldn’t hear what he said but she stopped wiggling for a minute so she must’ve liked what she heard. Then he got Bertha and gently sat her behind his ear.

I held my breath.

Was he for real?

Bertha dive-bombed into his ear and turned around. Only her feelers stuck out.

I could almost feel it crawling in my own ear. It tickled something awful. I had to give it a good scratch, just to make sure.

‘Now, Bertha,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t be shy. Come out and say hello to Eddie.’

Tom’s face was dead serious. You wouldn’t read about it but out she came.

‘Now I’m going to get Bertha to walk across my head and over to the other side.’

With two fingers he tapped beside his ear. Tap, tap. Rest. Tap, tap. Rest. Then he did the same on the other side.

Blow me away if Bertha doesn’t begin her midday stroll, coming out of his ear, walking up over the soft skin of his temples before disappearing in the undergrowth of hair.

I’ve got to say it. ‘Unbelievable.’

I’m glued to Tom’s hairline, watching for any little movement. Every now and then I think I can see some of the hairs part, before collapsing back into place.

My own head is itching like hell.

Tom’s eyes have glazed over. You could see him willing her to make it to the other side.

I’ve got to admit I clapped when Bertha crawled out and perched on Tom’s other ear.

This was a real goer.

Kids would pay to see something like that.

Even I’d pay to see Bertha do it again.

‘How’d you do it?’ I asked.

‘Secret. But I promise you, she’ll do it every time.’ Tom winked. ‘You supply the crowd and I’ll give you ten per cent of the profits.’

‘Twenty per cent,’ I quibbled. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood.

‘Ten,’ said Tom. ‘She’s my cockroach and it’s my head.’

‘Done.’

CHAPTER FIVE

At lunchtime that day I convinced four boys to meet behind the toilets and bring their money with them. We decided to charge them one dollar each.

‘That’s too much,’ said Alexander Poll. ‘I’m not paying.’

‘Suit yourself,’ I said. ‘But I promise you, you’ve never seen anything like this.’

He caved in and paid his money.

Just to show what a good sport he was, Tom did the trick three times in a row.

Alexander Poll looked impressed, although I’m not sure if it was with Bertha, for finding her way home, or with Tom, for never flinching. ‘You gonna do it tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘’Cause I’ll be there.’

I looked at Tom.

He nodded.

‘Sure. Bring your friends.’

The next day eight kids turned up. They handed over their money. Sure enough, Bertha strutted her stuff.

Tom made $7.20 for his efforts.

I, on the other hand, only