Billionaire Boy

by David Walliams

  The Grubbs burst in a few paces behind them, their genders still uncertain.

  “If you aren’t eating, get out!’ shouted Mrs Trafe.

  “But Mrs Trafe…?” said either Dave or Sue.

  “I SAID ‘OUT’!”

  The twins reluctantly retreated, as Joe and Bob tentatively made their way to the serving counter.

  Mrs Trafe was a large, smiley soul, of dinner-lady age. Bob had explained on the way to the canteen that she was nice enough, but her food was truly revolting. The kids in the school would rather die than eat anything she cooked. In fact they probably would die if they ate anything she cooked.

  “Who’s that, then?” said Mrs Trafe, peering at Joe.

  “This is my friend, Joe,” said Bob.

  Despite the vile smell in the canteen, Joe felt warmth spread through him. No one had ever called him their friend before!

  “Now what would you like today, boys?” Mrs Trafe said with a warm smile. “I have a very nice badger and onion pie. Some deep-fried rust. Or for the vegetarians I have jacket potatoes with sock cheese.”

  “Mmm, it all looks so nice,” said Bob, lying, as the Grubbs stared in at them through the grimy windows.

  Mrs Trafe’s cooking was truly unspeakable. A typical week’s menu for the school canteen looked like this:

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  School Lunch Menu

  Monday

  Soup of the day – wasp

  Gerbils on toast

  Or

  Hair lasagne (vegetarian option)

  Or

  Brick cutlet

  All served with deep-fried cardboard

  Dessert – A slice of sweat cake

  Tuesday

  Soup of the day – Caterpillar consommé

  Macaroni snot (vegetarian option)

  Or

  Road-kill bake

  Or

  Slipper frittata

  All served with spider’s web salad

  Dessert – Toenail ice cream

  Wednesday

  Soup of the day – Cream of hedgehog

  Parrot kedgeree (may contain nuts)

  Or

  Dandruff risotto

  Or

  Bread sandwich (slice of bread between two slices of bread)

  Or

  Char-grilled kitten (healthy option)

  Or

  Soil bolognese

  All served with either boiled wood or deep fried iron filings

  Dessert – Squirrel dropping tart with cream or ice cream

  Thursday: Indian Day

  Soup of the Day – Turban

  To start – Paper poppadoms (A4 or A3 sizes) with chutney

  Main course – Wet-wipe tandoori (vegan)

  Or

  Moth korma (spicy)

  Or

  Newt vindaloo (very spicy)

  All served with bogey bhajis

  Dessert – a refreshing sand sorbet

  Friday

  Soup of the day – Terrapin

  Pan-fried otter steaks

  Or

  Owl quiche (kosher)

  Or

  Boiled poodle (not suitable for vegetarians)

  All served with a slice of gravy

  Dessert – Mouse mousse

  “It’s so hard to choose…” said Bob, desperately scouring the trays of food for something edible. “Mmm, I think we will just have two jacket potatoes please.”

  “Is there any chance I could have it without the sock cheese?” pleaded Joe.

  Bob looked hopefully at Mrs Trafe.

  “I could sprinkle on some ear-wax shavings if you prefer? Or a showering of dandruff?” offered Mrs Trafe with a smile.

  “Mmm, I think I will just have it totally plain please,” said Joe.

  “Some boiled mould on the side perhaps? You are growing boys…” offered Mrs Trafe, wielding a serving spoon of something green and unspeakable.

  “I’m on a diet, Mrs Trafe,” said Joe.

  “Me too,” said Bob.

  “That’s a shame, boys,” said the dinner lady dolefully. “I have a smashing dessert on today. Jellyfish and custard.”

  “My absolute favourite too!” said Joe. “Never mind.”

  He took his tray to one of the empty tables and sat down. As he put his knife and fork into the potato he realised that Mrs Trafe had forgotten to cook it.

  “How are your spuds?” called Mrs Trafe across the hall.

  “Delicious, thank you, Mrs Trafe,” Joe called back, as he pushed his raw potato round the plate. It was still covered in soil and he noticed a maggot burrowing out of it. “I hate it when they are too well done. This is perfect!”

  “Good good!” she said.

  Bob was trying to chew his but it was so utterly inedible he started crying.

  “Something the matter, boy?” called Mrs Trafe.

  “Oh no, it’s so delicious that these are tears of joy!” said Bob.

  Once again, that wasn’t your doorbell, reader. That was the bell to signal the end of lunch.

  Joe let out a sigh of relief. Dinner hour was over.

  “Oh, what a shame, Mrs Trafe,” said Joe. “We have to go to our Maths lesson now.”

  Mrs Trafe limped over and inspected their plates.

  “You’ve hardly touched them!” she said.

  “Sorry. It was just so filling. And really really tasty though,” said Joe.

  “Mmm,” seconded Bob, still crying.

  “Well it doesn’t matter. I can put them in the fridge for you and you can finish them off tomorrow.”

  Joe and Bob shared a horrified look.

  “Really, I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” said Joe.

  “No trouble at all. See you then. And I’ve got some specials tomorrow. It’s the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbour, so it’s Japanese day. I’m doing my armpit hair sushi, followed by tadpole tempura… Boys…? Boys…?”

  “I think the Grubbs have gone,” said Bob as they sneaked out of the canteen. “I’ve just got to use the bog.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” said Joe. He leaned against the wall, as Bob disappeared through a door. Usually Joe would have said that the lavatories were smelly – and he’d have been horrified to have to use them, after the privacy of his own en-en-suite bathroom, with emperor-size bath. But the truth was that the toilets didn’t smell as bad as the canteen.

  Suddenly Joe sensed two figures looming behind him. He didn’t need to turn round. He knew it was the Grubbs.

  “Where is he?” said one.

  “He’s in the boys’ loo, but you can’t go in there,” said Joe. “Well, not both of you, anyway.”

  “Where’s the chocolate bar?” asked the other.

  “Bob’s got it,” said Joe.

  “Well, we’ll wait for him then,” said the Grubb.

  The other Grubb turned to Joe, a deadly look in its eye. “Now give us a pound. Unless you want a dead arm, that is.”

  Joe gulped. “Actually… I’m glad I bumped into you two guys, well, guy and a girl, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” said Dave or Sue. “Give us a pound.”

  “Wait,” said Joe. “It’s just… I wondered if—”

  “Give him a dead arm, Sue,” said a Grubb, revealing for perhaps the first time which of the twins was male and which was female. But then the Grubbs grabbed Joe and spun him around, and he lost track again.

  “No! Wait,” said Joe. “The thing is, I want to make you two an offer…”

  Chapter 8

  The Witch

  “The bell is a signal for me, not you!” said Miss Spite sharply. Teachers love saying that. It’s one of their catchphrases, as I’m sure you know. The all-time top ten of teachers’ catchphrases goes like this:

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/>   Teachers' Catchphrases

  At ten… “Walk, don’t run!”

  A non-mover at nine… “Are you chewing?”

  Up three places to eight… “I can still hear talking.”

  A former number one at seven… “It doesn’t need discussion.”

  A new entry at six… “How many times do you need to be told?”

  Down one place at five… “Spelling!”

  Another non-mover at four... “I will not tolerate litter!”

  New at three… “Do you want to pass your GCSEs?”

  Just missing the top spot at two… “Would you do that at home?”

  And still at number one… “It’s not just yourself you’ve let down, but the whole school.”

  Taking the History lesson was Miss Spite. Miss Spite smelt of rotten cabbage. That was the nicest thing about her. She was one of the school’s most feared teachers. When she smiled she looked like a crocodile that was about to eat you. Miss Spite loved nothing more than giving out punishments, once suspending a girl for dropping a pea on the floor of the school canteen. “That pea could have had someone’s eye out!” she had yelled.

  Kids at the school had fun thinking up nicknames for their teachers. Some were fond, others cruel. Mr Paxton the French teacher was ‘Tomato’, as he had a big round red face like a tomato. The headmaster, Mr Dust, was called, ‘The Tortoise’ as he looked like one. He was very old, extremely wrinkly, and walked impossibly slowly. The deputy head, Mr Underhill, was ‘Mr Underarms’, as he ponged a bit, especially in the summer. And Mrs MacDonald, the biology teacher, was called either ‘The Bearded Lady’ or even ‘Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy’ as she… well, I imagine you can guess why.

  But the kids just called Miss Spite ‘The Witch’. It was the only name that really ever fitted and was passed down through generations of pupils at the school.

  All the kids she taught passed their exams though. They were too scared not to.

  “We still have the small matter of last night’s homework,” Miss Spite announced with an evil relish that suggested she was desperate for someone to have failed to do it.

  Joe reached his hand into his bag. Disaster. His exercise book wasn’t there. He had spent all night writing this intensely boring 500-word essay about some old dead queen, but in the rush to get to school on time he must have left it on his bed.

  Oh, no, he thought. Oh no no no no no…

  Joe looked over at Bob, but all his friend could do was grimace sympathetically.

  Miss Spite stalked the classroom like a Tyrannosaurus Rex deciding which little creature it was going to eat first. To her evident disappointment, a field of grubby little hands held aloft essay after essay. She gathered them up, before stopping at Spud.

  “Miss…?” he stammered.

  “Yeeeessss Ssspppuuudddd?” said Miss Spite, drawing out her words as long as possible so she could relish this delicious moment.

  “I did do it, but…”

  “Oh yes, of course you did it!” The Witch cackled. All the other pupils except Bob sniggered too. There was nothing more pleasurable than seeing someone else get into trouble.

  “I left it at home.”

  “Litter duty!” the teacher snapped.

  “I am not lying, Miss. And my dad will be at home today, I could—”

  “I should have known. Your father is clearly penniless and on the dole, sitting at home watching daytime TV – much as you will no doubt be doing in ten years’ time. Yes…?”

  Joe and Bob couldn’t help but share a smirk at this.

  “Er…” said Joe. “If I called him and asked him to run the essay over here would you believe me?”

  Miss Spite smiled broadly. She was going to enjoy this.

  “Spud, I will give you fifteen minutes exactly to place said essay in my hand. I hope your father is quick.”

  “But—” started Joe.

  “No ‘buts’, boy. Fifteen minutes.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss,” said Joe sarcastically.

  “You’re quite welcome,” said The Witch. “I like to think that everyone gets a fair chance to rectify their errors in my class.”

  She turned to the rest of the class. “The rest of you are dismissed,” she said.

  Kids started to spill out into the corridor. Miss Spite leaned after them and screamed, “Walk, don’t run!”

  Miss Spite couldn’t resist another catchphrase. She was the queen of the catchphrase. And now she couldn’t stop.

  “It doesn’t need discussion!” she called after her pupils, randomly. Miss Spite was on a roll now. “Are you chewing?” she howled down the corridor to a passing school inspector.

  “Fifteen minutes, Miss?” said Joe.

  Miss Spite studied her little antique watch.

  “Fourteen minutes, fifty one seconds, in point of fact.”

  Joe gulped. Was Dad going to be able to get there that fast?

  Chapter 9

  “Finger?”

  “Finger?” asked Bob, as he offered half of his Twix to his friend.

  “Thank you, mate,” said Joe. They stood in a quiet corner of the playground and contemplated Joe’s bleak fate.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I dunno. I texted my dad. But there’s no way he can get here in fifteen minutes. What can I do?”

  A few ideas raced through Joe’s mind.

  He could invent a time machine and travel back in time and remember not to forget his homework. It might be a bit hard to do though, as if time machines had ever been invented then maybe someone would have come back from the future and prevented Piers Morgan’s birth.

  Joe could go back to the classroom and tell Miss Spite that ‘the tiger had eaten it’. This would only be half a lie, as they did have a private zoo and a tiger. Called Geoff. And an alligator called Jenny.

  Become a nun. He would have to live in a nunnery and spend his days saying prayers and singing hymns and doing general religious stuff. On the one hand the nunnery would give him sanctuary from Miss Spite and he did look good in black, but on the other hand it might get a bit boring.

  Go and live on another planet. Venus is nearest, but it might be safer to go to Neptune.

  Live the rest of his life underground. Perhaps even start a tribe of below-the-surface-of-the-earth dwellers and create a whole secret society of people who all owed Miss Spite some homework.

  Have plastic surgery and change his identity. Then live the rest of his life as an old lady called Winnie.

  Become invisible. Joe wasn’t sure how this might be achieved.

  Run to the local bookshop and buy a copy of How to Learn Mind Control in Ten Minutes by Professor Stephen Haste and very quickly hypnotise Miss Spite into thinking he had already given her his homework.

  Disguise himself as a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.

  Bribe the school nurse into telling Miss Spite he had died.

  Hide in a bush for the rest of his life. He could survive on a diet of worms and grubs.

  Paint himself blue and claim to be a Smurf.

  Joe had barely had time to consider these options when two familiar shadows loomed behind them.

  “Bob,” said one of them, in a voice neither high nor low enough to determine its gender.

  The boys turned around. Bob, tired of fighting, simply handed them his slightly nibbled finger of Twix.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Joe. “I’ve concealed a large number of Smarties down my sock.”

  “We don’t want your Twix,” said Grubb number one.

  “No?” said Bob. His mind started racing. Could the Grubbs possibly know about the Smarties?

  “No, we wanted to say we are very sorry for bullying you,” said Grubb number two.

  “And as a peace gesture we would like to invite you round for tea,” prompted Grubb number one.

  ‘Tea?” asked Bob, incredulous.

  “Yes, and maybe we can all play Hungry Hippos together,” continued Grubb number
two.

  Bob looked at his friend, but Joe just shrugged.

  “Thank you, guys, I mean guy and girl, obviously...”

  “Obviously,” said an unidentified Grubb.

  “…but I am a bit busy tonight,” continued Bob.

  “Maybe another time,” said a Grubb, as the twins lolloped off.

  “That was weird,” said Bob, retrieving some Smarties that now had a faint taste of sock. “I couldn’t imagine a night when I would want to go and play Hungry Hippos with those two. Even if I lived until I was a hundred.”

  “Yeah, how strange…” said Joe. He glanced away quickly.

  At that moment, a deafening roar silenced the playground. Joe looked up. A helicopter was hovering overhead. Very quickly all the football games broke up, and the kids raced out of the way of the descending aircraft. Items from hundreds of packed lunches were whisked up in the air by the force of the blades. Packets of Quavers, a mint-chocolate Aero, even a Müller Fruit Corner danced about in the whirling air, before smashing to the ground as the engine shut down and the blades slowed to a stop.

  Mr Spud leaped out of the passenger seat and raced across the playground holding the essay.

  Oh no! thought Joe.

  Mr Spud was wearing a brown toupee that he held on to his head with both hands, and an all-in-one gold jumpsuit with ‘BUM AIR’ emblazoned on the back in sparkly letters. Joe felt like he was going to die of embarrassment. He tried to hide himself behind one of the older kids. However, he was too fat and his dad spotted him.

  “Joe! Joe! There you are!” shouted Mr Spud.

  All the other kids stared at Joe Spud. They hadn’t paid much attention to this short fat new boy before. Now it turned out his dad had a helicopter. A real-life helicopter! Wow!