Germs!

by Alan MacDonald

  “BERTIE!” hissed Gran, prodding him in the ribs.

  Bertie looked up to see the South East Champions beaming down at him. Close up, Keith’s hair looked like a racoon’s bottom.

  He patted Bertie on the head. “Hello, little man. Having a good time?”

  “I was,” scowled Bertie.

  Kerry-Anne laid a hand on Gran’s arm. “Oh Dotty, so sorry to hear about poor old Stan. So you won’t have a partner for Saturday! Isn’t that a shame, Keith?”

  Keith yawned. “Yeah, shame. Still, you were never likely to win, were you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Gran. “I’m not giving up. I’ve found a new partner, haven’t I, Bertie?”

  Bertie opened his mouth and let out a burp. Keith and Kerry-Anne burst out laughing.

  “HA! HA! Oh that’s so SWEET! Your grandson! HA HA!”

  Gran folded her arms. “I don’t see what’s so funny. Bertie happens to be a very talented dancer.”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “And I’ve watched it on TV.”

  “Then you probably know we’re the South East Champions – three years running,” boasted Keith. “Our paso doble is legendary!”

  “Huh!” said Bertie. “We’re doing the passo doobie, aren’t we, Gran?”

  Gran’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

  “You?” scoffed Keith. “You couldn’t dance the hokey-cokey! Come on, Kerry-Anne, let’s leave these amateurs to their dreams.”

  Bertie nudged Gran. “Did you see that? He’s wearing a wig!”

  “Never mind that,” groaned Gran. “Why did you tell them we’re going to dance the paso doble?”

  Bertie shrugged. “It just came out. Anyway, I thought you wanted to win?”

  “I do. But the paso doble takes months of practice!”

  Bertie slurped the rest of his drink. “Well then, we better get started.”

  CHAPTER 3

  For the rest of the week Bertie practised every spare minute. He was determined that he and Gran were going to win the contest. No way were creepy Keith and Kerry-Anne winning that luxury cruise.

  Bertie threw himself into learning to dance like a matador. He practised his steps in his bedroom, stomping up and down until his dad yelled at him to be quiet. He practised on his way to school – which drew funny looks from people at the bus stop. And on Friday Mum found him having a tug-of-war with Whiffer in the kitchen.

  “Bertie! What on earth are you doing?” she cried.

  “Practising!” panted Bertie.

  Mum took a closer look. “That’s not my best scarf, is it?”

  “I’ve only borrowed it. I need it for my costume.”

  “It’s filthy! Take it out of Whiffer’s mouth!”

  “I’m trying!” gasped Bertie. “He won’t … let … go!”

  There was the sound of something ripping. Whiffer let go.

  “Phew!” puffed Bertie, sitting down. “Dancing is hard work.”

  Saturday, the day of the contest, arrived. The finals were at the Regency Ballroom. Bertie’s family were coming even though he’d begged them to stay away. Suzy said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  On the way Gran and Bertie called in at the hire shop to pick up their costumes. Gran’s dress was Spanish, with bright red polka dots. Unfortunately, it was made for someone a lot smaller than her. Bertie stood outside the changing rooms while she wrestled with the zip.

  “You’ll have to breathe in,” panted the shop assistant.

  “I AM breathing in!” moaned Gran.

  Bertie had a smart matador’s costume with a black hat and a scarlet cape. He stood in front of a tall mirror, swirling the cape like a bullfighter.

  “Olé! Olé! Ol-oops!” A stack of boxes toppled off the counter. Quickly he bent down to pick them up. The boxes contained practical jokes such as ice-cube flies and whoopee cushions. Most interesting of all was a small red box.

  Bertie’s eyes gleamed. Think what you could do with itching powder! You could use it on someone you didn’t like – Keith or Kerry-Anne for instance. Come to think of it, that wasn’t a bad idea. It might even help him to win the contest. He slipped the box into his pocket and left some money on the counter.

  CHAPTER 4

  At the Regency Ballroom the audience were taking their seats. Bertie and Gran hurried backstage to get ready. While Gran pinned up her hair in front of the mirror, Bertie looked around … now was his chance.

  He set off in search of their rivals. He found Kerry-Anne in her private dressing room, wearing a petticoat and a scowl.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

  “Oh, sorry, I was um … looking for Gran,” said Bertie.

  “She’s not here,” said Kerry-Anne. “But since you’ve barged in, you can make yourself useful. Fetch me my dress from the rail. It’s the blue one with the sequins.”

  Bertie closed the door. This was too good a chance to miss. He found the dress on the rail. Checking to see no one was watching, he took out the red box from his pocket.

  Keith’s laugh boomed from the next room. “HA HA! It’s hilarious! The kid hardly comes up to her waist!”

  That did it. Bertie shook some of the orange powder into the lining of the dress. It wouldn’t take long to work – then they would see who was hilarious.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, will our dancers please take to the floor for the paso doble!”

  The lights dimmed and a trumpet fanfare split the air. This is it, thought Bertie.

  His costume was making him sweat. Worse still, his cape was so long it kept getting under his feet.

  “Bertie, we’re on!” whispered Gran, shoving him in the back. Bertie stumbled on to the floor. The audience giggled. They’d never seen a matador wearing plimsolls. Gran skidded into the spotlight, grabbing Bertie to keep her balance.

  In the front row, Mum, Dad and Suzy tried to keep a straight face. The music started. Keith, Kerry-Anne and the other couples wove patterns across the floor.

  Bertie swirled his red cape round and round. He was El Berto the fearless matador.

  STOMP! STOMP! went his feet.

  SWISH! SWISH! went his cape.

  STOMP!

  SWISH! … ARGH! The cape had gone right over his head.

  Bertie blundered about blindly, trying to get it off.

  “Ow!” He collided with something soft. It was Gran and the two of them wobbled and swayed like wrestlers on ice. Gran stepped on the train of her dress and fell over. Bertie landed on top of her.

  “LOOK OUT!” cried one of the couples, but it was too late…

  CRAAAAASH!

  THUMP!

  THUD!

  Bertie pulled off the hat which had fallen over his eyes. Dancers lay struggling in a messy heap of arms, legs, bows and ruffles. Bertie clambered off Gran, whose dress had split at the back revealing her winter vest.

  A judge was marching towards them with a clipboard and a grim expression. Bertie had a feeling his dancing days were over.

  Gran and Bertie sat watching the final in progress. The judges had disqualified them as a danger to other contestants.

  “Oh well,” said Gran. “We did our best. Sorry we won’t be going to New York.”

  “It’s OK,” shrugged Bertie.

  “It’s just a pity those two show-offs are going to win,” said Gran. “They’ll be bragging for weeks. Look at them!”

  Bertie watched Keith lift Kerry-Anne over his head. Her shoulders twitched.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said. “Maybe things are just warming up.”

  Certainly Kerry-Anne was beginning to act rather strangely. She was wriggling around as if she had ants in her pants.

  Down on the dance floor, the itching powder was beginning to work.

  “What’s wrong with you?” hissed Keith.

  “I can’t help it!” she moaned. “It’s this dress. It’s so itchy!”

  She clawed at her back.

  “Stop doing that!” snapped Keith. “Peop
le are staring! Pull yourself together!”

  “I’m trying!” squealed Kerry-Anne. “But… Eeek! Argh! Ohh! It itches!”

  She stamped her feet and pawed at her arms. She scratched her back like a dog with fleas. Keith tried to grab her hands, but she shook him off.

  “DON’T JUST STAND THERE!” she yelled. “DO SOMETHING! I’M ON FIRE!”

  Keith did what you do when something is on fire. He snatched a jug of water from the nearest table and emptied it over his partner’s head.

  There was a brief, terrible silence. Then Kerry-Anne screamed.

  “ARGHHH! YOU …YOU … IDIOT!”

  She swiped at Keith. He gasped and turned bright pink. Clutching at his bald head he fled from the hall.

  “See!” shouted Bertie. “I told you it was a wig!”

  The audience cheered. If this was ballroom dancing they wanted more.

  Gran took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Well,” she grinned. “That was the best show I’ve seen in years. I wonder what got into Kerry-Anne?”

  Bertie looked blank. “Search me,” he said. “Maybe she just had an itch.”

  Things hadn’t worked out so badly in the end. He wouldn’t be going to New York, but at least he still had the itching powder. And there was plenty left in the box.

  I wonder if Miss Boot can dance? thought Bertie. There was one way to find out.

  CHAPTER 1

  Mum put down the phone. “That was Gran. She can’t come.”

  “What?” said Dad. “But she’s babysitting tonight!”

  “She was. But she went to the dentist today and now she’s got toothache.”

  Dad groaned. “What are we going to do? Paul and Penny are expecting us.”

  Bertie looked up from the comic he was reading. “It’s OK,” he said. “I can look after myself.”

  It would be great not having a babysitter. Suzy was sleeping over at Bella’s so he would have the house all to himself. He could have a perfect evening: scoffing crisps, watching TV, scoffing chocolate and staying up late. Gran was a hopeless babysitter anyway – she always fell asleep in the middle of playing pirates. And, besides, Bertie didn’t see why he needed a babysitter. He wasn’t a baby. He knew where the snacks were and how to work the TV, so he could look after himself.

  Mum didn’t agree.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bertie,” she said. “We can’t possibly leave you on your own.”

  “Why not?” asked Bertie.

  “What if something happened?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you burning down the house,” said Dad.

  Mum sighed. “I’ll just have to ring Penny and cancel.”

  “We let them down last time,” said Dad. “There must be someone who could babysit. What about Alice?”

  “She’s back at college.”

  “Jackie then?”

  “She won’t come, not after Bertie put a slug in her hair.”

  “It wasn’t a slug!” protested Bertie. “It was a snail!”

  “I know!” said Mum. “What about Kevin?”

  Bertie looked up. Kevin? Spotty Kevin from over the road? Were they mad? He hardly ever spoke! Bertie thought he’d rather do his homework than spend an evening with Kevin!

  “Does Kevin babysit?” asked Dad, doubtfully.

  “It’s worth a try. I’ll ring his mum and find out.”

  Five minutes later it was all settled. “He’s on his way,” announced Mum.

  “Oh don’t worry about me!” said Bertie, bitterly. “You just go out and leave me with Frankenstein. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Bertie, he’s just a normal teenager,” said Mum. “I expect he’s a bit shy!”

  “He doesn’t look shy to me,” said Bertie darkly. “He looks like a murderer.”

  “Anyway it’ll be nice having a boy to babysit for a change,” said Mum. “Maybe he likes playing games?”

  Bertie scowled. He hated having babysitters. And Kevin was going to be the worst ever.

  CHAPTER 2

  DING DONG!

  Mum hurried to open the door.

  “Kevin! How are you?” she trilled. “Bertie’s in the lounge. He’s so excited you’re babysitting!”

  Kevin drooped into the lounge. He looked like he was going to a funeral. He was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and a long black coat. His T-shirt said “The Dead Skunks” and had a picture of a skull on it. He stared at Bertie through a dark curtain of hair.

  “Right, we better be off,” said Mum, brightly. “Don’t stay up late, Bertie.”

  “And don’t make a mess,” added Dad.

  They hurried out, slamming the door behind them.

  Kevin flopped into a chair. A heavy silence filled the room. Bertie picked his nose. He waited for Kevin to tell him to stop. Kevin just sat there like a dark cloud. Bertie looked at the ceiling and let out a loud burp. He glanced at Kevin. Kevin looked bored to death. Bertie plonked his feet on the coffee table. Kevin scratched one of his spots and examined his finger.

  Bertie couldn’t understand it. Most babysitters told him off in the first five minutes.

  He looked around for something to do next. “I’m hungry,” he announced.

  Kevin looked at him.

  “Usually Mum lets me have a snack when she goes out. Can I get one?”

  Kevin shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Great! thought Bertie. Normally he had to go on and on for hours before he got a snack – and even then it was one measly biscuit. When Alice babysat she made him eat fruit. But Kevin didn’t seem to care what he did.

  Bertie stole into the kitchen. He eyed the “Treats” cupboard where Mum kept all the forbidden goodies. He wasn’t allowed to snoop in there. Not since the time he’d made himself sick eating a family-size bar of chocolate. Still, one tiny little snack wouldn’t hurt, and Mum would never find out. Bertie opened the cupboard and peeped inside.

  A door creaked.

  Bertie jumped, banging his head and dropping the bag of crisps he was holding. When he looked round Kevin was leaning in the doorway watching him. It was creepy how he could appear without making a sound.

  “Oh, hi,” said Bertie. “I was just um … getting some crisps.”

  “Yeah?” said Kevin.

  “Do you want some? Crisps?”

  Kevin shrugged. “If you want.”

  “Right. What flavour?” asked Bertie. “We’ve got plain, prawn cocktail or cheese and onion?”

  Kevin took all three.

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CHOMP!

  Bertie watched in amazement as Kevin wolfed down the crisps. He chewed with his mouth open. He slurped and burped and dropped bits on the carpet. And Mum and Dad say I’m a messy eater! thought Bertie. They’d obviously never seen Kevin.

  “Had enough?” asked Bertie.

  Kevin dropped the empty bags on the floor.

  “We’ve got biscuits.”

  “Yeah?” said Kevin.

  “In the tin. Or chocolate bars – but Mum notices if they’re missing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Bertie thought it over. “I suppose one would be OK,” he said.

  CHAPTER 3

  BUUUUURP!

  Bertie lay back on the sofa and patted his full stomach. To tell the truth he felt a bit sick. Kevin wiped chocolate from around his mouth. The room was littered with crisp packets, chocolate bar wrappers and biscuit crumbs. Kevin glanced at the clock.

  Uh oh, thought Bertie. It was almost nine o’clock – way past his bedtime.

  “Mum usually lets me stay up late on Saturdays,” said Bertie.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, when I’ve got a babysitter.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Bertie could hardly believe his luck. He never got to stay up later than nine o’clock – even on Christmas Eve. Maybe if he could keep Kevin occupied he could stay up all night?

  “Do you want to play a game?” he asked.

  Kevin scratched
a spot on his chin. Bertie wondered if he could see anything through all that hair.

  “I don’t mean a board game,” said Bertie. “We could play pirate ships. Or alien invasion. Or maybe have a pillow fight?”

  Kevin stopped scratching.

  WHACK! THUMP!

  Bertie whacked Kevin. Kevin thwacked him back.

  They bounced up and down walloping each other with pillows. This is fantastic, thought Bertie. Mum never let him have pillow fights or bounce on the sofa. She said something would get broken.

  WHUMP!

  Bertie swung his pillow back, knocking over a lamp. The lamp landed on a vase of flowers. It wobbled and fell over with a crash.

  “Whoops!” said Bertie.

  WHUMP! Kevin’s pillow walloped him in the face. It split open, filling the room with clouds of feathers.

  THUMP! CLUMP! BIFF! BOFF!

  They flopped back on the sofa out of breath.

  “Phew,” panted Bertie. “That was great. What shall we do now?”

  He found the remote and switched on the TV. This is the life, thought Bertie. Mum and Dad never let him watch telly this late. And there were so many great programmes he wanted to see. He flicked through the channels. A love story – yuck! A cookery show – boring! A quiz show, adverts, more adverts, a horror film… WAIT! Bertie never got to watch scary films.

  “Shall we watch this?” he asked.

  “Night of the Zombies III. Wicked!” said Kevin. “It’s well scary.”