So Gross!

by J A Mawter

Annabel poked her tongue out at Ian, but only after Mr Scruby had turned to write on the board.

  ‘You dirty rat,’ whispered Ian. He emphasised the word rat, and was happy when the smug look quickly left her face.

  ‘This is going to be good,’ said Colin, arriving at school on Friday and carrying a bucket with him. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘This is going to be better than good,’ said Sean. He carried a bowl that looked like a pudding basin with a lid.

  ‘What’s in it?’ asked Pieter.

  ‘Patience,’ said Sean, tucking it securely under his arm.

  ‘How’d you go, Ian?’ asked Colin.

  ‘I did an experiment,’ said Ian. ‘Doubt it’s ever been done before.’ He grinned. ‘Probably never be done again.’

  ‘What’s it on?’ asked Colin.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s just say, I’m gonna enjoy watching Mr Scruby’s face.’

  ‘Are you now, Ian?’

  Ian’s feet almost left the ground. Where had he come from?

  ‘I’m enjoying watching your face,’ said Mr Scruby, delighted with his surprise attack.

  Ian felt cornered. He shrank into his shirt collar, conscious of the sweat sprouting on his top lip. He blinked. ‘I only meant, sir, that a face is part of the body. One of the only parts of the body we can actually see to study in class.’

  ‘Careful, boy,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I can feel an essay coming on.’

  So could Ian. ‘I just meant,’ he tried again, ‘it would be interesting to study the face…’

  Mr Scruby glared for a moment longer, then swung around to stalk back inside.

  ‘Whew,’ said Ian. ‘That was close.’

  ‘Too close,’ said Colin. ‘I thought you were done for, for sure.’

  Ian spat on the ground, his heart still racing. ‘The guy’s a sadist.’

  ‘What’s a sadist?’ asked Sean.

  ‘Someone who gets their rocks off by inflicting pain,’ said Colin.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sean. ‘That’s him, then.’ He turned to Pieter. ‘What about you? How’s your project?’

  ‘Mine’s good,’ said Pieter modestly. ‘Two-lungs-smoking good.’

  ‘Don’t you mean two-guns-smoking sort of good?’ asked Sean.

  ‘No,’ said Pieter with a wink at Ian. And he wouldn’t say any more.

  The boys raced off for a last minute game of touch football, but Ian decided not to join them. He hadn’t quite recovered from his recent narrow escape. He was on his way to throw some water on his face in the boys’ toilets when he saw Annabel and Michelle duck into Miss Trelawney’s office. Miss Trelawney was the special resources teacher, but she only worked part-time and her office was often empty.

  Both girls were carrying their projects gingerly, as though they were made of glass. Annabel carried a large sack. It seemed to have a wooden board inside. She held it firmly in two hands, flat, not letting it hang down. Ian ducked behind a corner, his curiosity aroused.

  What were those two girls up to?

  Standing on the playground bench he peeped through the window, careful not to show his full face. He could see Annabel untying the neck of her sack and Michelle at the door, glancing furtively down the hallway. From the corner of his eye Ian spotted Mr Robinson, the music teacher, striding his way. Quickly he leapt off the bench.

  ‘Mr Robinson,’ he said, running up to him. ‘They need the percussion instruments from Miss Trelawney’s office.’ Mr Robinson frowned. ‘For the junior school assembly,’ called Ian, before dashing round the corner.

  They really do need those instruments, Ian thought to himself. The singing at the junior school assembly is dreadful.

  After making sure that Mr Robinson headed inside, Ian returned to his vantage-point, just in time to see Michelle shriek and Annabel drop her sack. He could hear everything through the partly opened window.

  ‘Come quickly, girls,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘But,’ began Annabel.

  ‘Straight away,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘No arguments. I need you to help me take this equipment to the assembly.’

  ‘But what about our bags?’ said Annabel.

  ‘They’ll be quite safe here,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘It’ll only take five minutes.’

  As Annabel and Michelle lugged the equipment down the corridor, Ian got to work.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Presentation time,’ said Mr Scruby when the students filed in. ‘Who’d like to go first?’

  Sean, Colin and Pieter all put up their hands, a sight never before witnessed by the class.

  ‘Such enthusiasm,’ said Mr Scruby.

  ‘I’d like to go first,’ said Annabel, half-getting to her feet.

  ‘Sit down, Annabel,’ said Mr Scruby, ignoring the look of thunder that crossed her face. ‘We’ll save the best till last.’ The thunder rolled away to a quiet grumble.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to choose,’ said Mr Scruby to the waving hands. ‘Sean. We’ll start with you.’

  Sean walked to the front of the class clutching his pudding basin. He removed the lid and turned it over, making it double as a plate. Carefully, almost reverently, he tipped the contents of the basin onto the plate and stood back. ‘Brains,’ he announced in a loud clear voice.

  Cries of ‘Disgusting’ and ‘Yuk’ could be heard.

  ‘This is a sheep’s brain,’ said Ian. ‘I’m going to dissect it for you to show you what’s inside. I would have used a human brain,’ he went on with a grin, ‘but mine’s missing.’

  Everyone laughed. Except for Mr Scruby.

  ‘Brains look a bit like two dirty-coloured cauliflowers stuck together.’

  Sean sliced down the middle with a steak knife and pulled the two sides apart. He held them up. ‘This is grey matter,’ he explained, pointing to the darker outer rim. ‘This paler, middle bit is called white matter. The dangly thing at the bottom,’ said Sean, pulling this tube-like thing that stretched and snapped back, ‘is part of the spinal cord. Damage that and you’re dead.’

  ‘Ohhhh,’ said the class.

  ‘Like cauliflower,’ said Sean, poking at the veiny outer surface, ‘brains are good enough to eat.’

  ‘Errrrh,’ said the class.

  ‘Lots of people eat them,’ said Sean. ‘Some people believe that eating brains will make you smarter.’ He leant forward and grinned. ‘We all know what Mr Scruby must eat for breakfast.’

  Mr Scruby smiled wanly, unsure if this was a compliment or not.

  ‘As a special treat,’ said Sean, ‘I got Mum to cook some up so you can taste them. You’ll be pleased to know there’s half a brain for everyone.’ He proceeded to scoop one onto a disposable plate where it wobbled — a mound of greyish pink.

  Several hands went up, children asking to leave the room.

  ‘You first,’ said Sean, holding it out to Mr Scruby. Mr Scruby looked at Sean, then back at the plate. The seconds ticked past. Finally he leant forward, a sly grin on his face. ‘No thanks,’ he announced. ‘I’m vegetarian.’

  Sean couldn’t hide his disappointment. Mr Scruby had outsmarted him.

  ‘Thank you, Sean,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I believe that concludes your talk.’

  Sean scraped the brains back into the pudding pot. As he went to sit down he whispered to Ian, ‘I tried to make him throw up. I really tried.’

  Michelle was called next. Ian thought of the little plastic pins now buried in Miss Trelawney’s pot-plant. He hadn’t removed them all — just one or two — from strategic places. He leant forward, eagerly waiting for Michelle to begin.

  Ian learnt far more than he wanted to about bones. He learnt that there were 206 bones in the human skeleton and they were made up of living and non-living parts. The living parts were made of protein and the non-living parts were made of calcium. He learnt that children have less calcium in their bones than adults and that’s why they are more flexible. It was when he was learning that bones were fitted together at joints tha
t the first problem arose.

  Michelle lifted the skeleton, hoping to demonstrate a joint, when the arm came off in her hand. ‘Oh, no,’ she said.

  Colin started to laugh.

  Michelle clutched at the shoulder to steady it. The whole spine began to separate. ‘Aaagh!’ she shrieked. More and more children started to laugh as the lower limbs and pelvis clattered to the floor. Michelle stood with just the upper torso in her hands. She began to jerk, snatching here, snatching there, trying to stop the skeleton from falling apart completely. ‘Help,’ she cried as the ribcage gave way.

  In the end, the only thing she saved was the skull. The class roared with laughter.

  ‘Is this your idea of a joke, Michelle?’ asked Mr Scruby. ‘Personally, I don’t think it’s funny.’

  Michelle burst into tears and ran out of the class.

  One down, thought Ian. He looked at Annabel, who was sitting bolt upright, her lips pursed. One to go.

  ‘Pieter Schuyler, you’re next. I hope you can do better than the last one.’

  Pieter ambled to the front of the class and laid a huge white cloth on the desk. ‘My presentation is on lungs,’ he said. He held up a pink sponge in the shape of a football. ‘I want you to imagine that this is a normal lung. Notice how pink and healthy-looking it is. It comes in a pair. They sit on either side of the chest.’

  Children stared vacantly. There was nothing remarkable in what he’d said.

  Pieter held up a jar. It looked like it was filled with car oil. ‘Pretend this is tar,’ he said. ‘It’s what’s inside cigarettes.’ He turned to Mr Scruby, indicating the rectangle in his top pocket. ‘I believe you smoke, sir. Could I borrow your packet of cigarettes for a minute.’

  Mr Scruby sniffed. He started to cough. Reluctantly he handed the packet to Pieter, who began to read the fine print out loud.

  ‘The smoke from each cigarette contains, on average, eight milligrams of tar,’ read Pieter, ‘containing chemicals that cause cancer, point-eight milligrams of nicotine, a deadly and poisonous gas,’ Mr Scruby squirmed in his chair, ‘and ten milligrams of carbon monoxide, a deadly gas which reduces the ability of blood to carry oxygen.’ Pieter looked up. ‘That’s one cigarette we’re talking about.’ He flipped the packet over and continued to read. ‘Children who breathe your smoke may suffer asthma attacks and chest illnesses.’

  When he had finished Pieter looked up, holding Mr Scruby’s stare. Then he opened the jar and poured it out. Thick black liquid oozed onto the sponge. ‘This is like a smoker’s lung,’ he said. His hand was streaked with black.

  ‘Ugghhl’ said the class.

  Pieter held up the grotty sponge for several seconds, so everyone could see. He then held up the pink sponge. ‘This, is a non-smoker’s lung.’

  ‘Ahhhh,’ said the class.

  Pieter turned to Mr Scruby. ‘This is your lung,’ he said, pointing to the blackened one, ‘and this is mine.’ He pointed to the pink one. ‘Now you know why I’m called Schuyler.’

  And with that Pieter sat down.

  A pall of silence hung over the class.

  What would Mr Scruby say?

  ‘Let’s take a five-minute break,’ is what he said as he disappeared out the door. ‘Annabel, watch the class.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Mr Scruby on his return. ‘Let’s proceed. Colin Briggs. You’re next.’

  With a wink at Ian, Colin stood and walked to the front of the room. Carefully he placed the bucket beside Mr Scruby’s desk. On the board he stuck a poster he’d drawn of the human digestive system. Picking up a pencil to use as a pointer, Colin turned to the class. ‘As you know,’ he began, ‘the body needs food to survive.’ The class listened in silence. ‘We put a Weetbix into our mouths…’ he pointed to the mouth of the head drawn on the poster, ‘…chew it up into little pieces… mix it with saliva and swallow. Down it goes, along the oesophagus…’ the pointer went down this pipe, ‘… into the stomach, where it’s mixed with gastric juices and starts being broken down.’ Colin paused, ensuring he had everyone’s complete attention.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Mr Scruby.

  ‘From here it goes along the small intestine and the large intestine,’ he ran his pencil along some squiggly bits, ‘… where it’s broken down further so that the body can digest it.’ Mr Scruby was nodding and smiling. ‘But,’ said Colin, waving his pencil to the air, ‘sometimes the food is not easily digested. Sometimes it gets to the stomach and stays there,’ he went on. ‘The gastric juices fail. What happens then?

  I’m going to show you. Ta-dah!’ he said, tilting the bucket for all to see.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said a girl.

  ‘Ah,’ said Colin. ‘Quite right. This is sick, or vomit, or in scientific terms, partially digested matter expelled from the stomach.’

  The room swelled with the unmistakable stench.

  Several children dry-retched.

  Colin noted the look of horror on Mr Scruby’s face. ‘This is the Weetbix I had for breakfast,’ he said. ‘You can still tell.’

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ cried Annabel, placing her hankie over her nose.

  Colin beamed at the class. ‘The darker brown bits are toast and the black’s the Vegemite,’ he finished triumphantly.

  Mr Scruby’s suntan had disappeared. He was fighting to refrain from making his own contribution to the bucket.

  ‘This is a natural function of the body. And that concludes my talk,’ said Colin, who put the lid on his bucket, took down his poster, and returned to his seat faster than Mr Scruby could say, You’re on detention.

  Mr Scruby clamped his mouth firmly shut, too afraid to open it in case something unsavoury came out. He went to the window and stood there, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

  Chapter Five

  ‘This is going better than I thought,’ whispered Ian. ‘Well done.’

  ‘You reckon?’ said Sean. ‘He didn’t even get close enough to my brains to smell them.’

  ‘Did you see Michelle’s face?’ said Ian. ‘Wasn’t it a beauty?’

  ‘Wonder who did that?’ asked Pieter.

  The old blank look came back to Ian’s face. ‘If you think that was good,’ he said, ‘wait till you see what’s coming.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners.

  ‘What’ve you done?’ asked Sean.

  Ian’s lips quivered. ‘You’ll see,’ he said.

  Mr Scruby returned to his seat. ‘You’re next, Ferris,’ he said. The room went quiet.

  ‘Right,’ said Ian, grabbing his school bag and walking to the front of the class. He opened his bag and lined up an assortment of food. There was a slice of cake, some meat curry and a few licorice all-sorts.

  ‘This isn’t a picnic, boy,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘It’s meant to be a science project…’

  ‘… on the body,’ Ian finished for him. ‘I know, sir. It is. You’ll see.’

  ‘Hmmmph,’ said Mr Scruby.

  ‘Thanks to Colin,’ began Ian, ‘we all know about the alimentary system and the intestines. What you don’t know, is what goes on in the intestines.’ He nodded to Mr Scruby to say, I told you so. ‘When food goes into the small intestine it is partly digested. It consists of proteins, carbohydrates and fat. In the intestines enzymes attack these so that the good stuff is absorbed.’ Ian glanced at the sea of upturned faces.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Scruby, urging him on.

  ‘Protein turns into acid, carbohydrate to glucose and fat may be broken down further or absorbed.’

  ‘Huhh-hmmm!’ Annabel gave an almighty yawn, covering her mouth with an exaggerated movement. She then closed her eyes, laid her head on the desk and pretended to fall asleep. Some of the girls around her started to giggle.

  Ian frowned. The angry feeling returned. ‘Not everything is absorbed,’ he went on, ‘as I’ve recently proved in an experiment.’ He picked up the slice of cake and showed it to the class.

  ‘I like the pink icing,’ one girl called out.

  ‘Funny y
ou should say that,’ said Ian. ‘It’s a bit over the top for me, almost crimson from the cochineal I used to dye it with. Now this,’ said Ian reaching into his bag, ‘demonstrates what happens to the stuff that intestines can’t absorb.’ He pulled out a glass jar, the shape and size of a jam jar, and flourished it about.

  The class leant forward, puzzling to make sense of it.

  ‘This, here,’ said Ian, pointing to the bright pink contents inside, ‘is pink poo.’

  Annabel sat up abruptly. ‘You’re foul,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Ferris,’ interrupted Mr Scruby. ‘Put that disgusting thing away.’

  ‘But, sir,’ said Ian. ‘This is fascinating. See this curry?’ He held up a container. ‘It’s full of cumin. And what does large amounts of cumin give us?’ He directed his question to the class, reaching into his bag at the same time, then brandishing another jam jar about. ‘Yellow poo!’

  Cries of ‘Gross!’ and ‘Disgusting!’ and ‘Yuk!’ echoed around the room.

  But Ian was only warming up. For his big finale he decided to keep it simple. He decided to quote his mother. ‘Black licorice?’ Out came another jar. ‘Black poo!’

  To his surprise, the class started to clap. They whistled and stamped their feet. He could not have hoped for a better reaction.

  Mr Scruby attempted to quieten the room. ‘Enough…’ he said, but the word lodged in his throat, reducing him to a fit of coughing. He went red in the face, even redder than the icing on the cake. ‘Water,’ he cried, staggering from the room.

  ‘That was awesome,’ said Colin.

  ‘Feral,’ said Sean.

  ‘Cool,’ said Pieter.

  Annabel stood up. She pointed at Ian. ‘You are the most disgustingest, revoltingest person I know,’ she stormed.

  Ian bowed. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,’ he said.

  By the time Mr Scruby returned, Ian was back at his desk. Mr Scruby looked pale and slightly disoriented. ‘I think we’ll leave the rest of the presentations for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on to other work.’

  ‘But what about me?’ cried Annabel. ‘I have to do mine today or it will go off!’

  Mr Scruby blanched. He wiped his brow and checked his watch. There were still ten minutes before the bell went. And this was Annabel. The most dedicated student in his class. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, waving her forward as he sat back down.