by J A Mawter
‘Snail Paces!’ he announced in a loud voice. ‘Come and buy your snails. You get to take them home.’
Cal was hugely relieved when his first customer came up.
Relief turned to terror.
Hayley stood in front of him, her feet apart and her head thrown back.
Instinct told Cal to nick off but common sense made him stay. ‘How ‘bout I give you three snails for a dollar instead of one for three?’ he said. ‘It’s the least I can do after — you know.’
Hayley smiled. ‘Deal,’ she said, holding out her dollar.
‘Deal,’ said Cal. ‘Anything for a sale.’ And anything for you, he added to himself. Taking the money from Hayley, Cal held out the bucket saying, ‘Take your pick.’
‘Who am I going to race?’ asked Hayley, looking around after she’d chosen.
‘Me,’ said Cal, removing the snail from his pocket and placing it in his palm to show her. ‘Hayley, I’d like you to meet Helix. Helix, this is Hayley.’
‘Helix?’ asked Hayley.
‘Helix Aspersa,’ said Cal. ‘It’s his racing name.’
‘Funny name,’ said Hayley.
Cal nodded in agreement. ‘It’s, um, the scientific name for a snail.’
‘Oh-h-h,’ said Hayley, looking impressed. She bent forward. If you could shake a snail’s foot she would have. ‘Nice to meet you, Helix.’
Cal pulled a marker pen from his other pocket. At the same time he asked Hayley, ‘What names do you want on your snails?’
Hayley grinned and didn’t hesitate. ‘Dancer, Prancer and Dasher,’ she said.
More and more children gathered to watch, many buying snails.
‘I’ll take some, too,’ said Emma, pushing her way to Cal. ‘As long as you get your nails painted in return. That way both our stalls will make some money and we both have a chance at meeting those yummy Sliders.’
Cal laughed saying, ‘Boys don’t wear nail polish.’
Emma pretended to be cross. ‘It’s only fair,’ she barked. ‘I help you raise money. You help me!’
‘That is fair,’ agreed Hayley, her look daring Cal to argue.
Emma went on. ‘Don’t worry. No one has to know. I won’t paint your fingernails … ’
Cal breathed a sigh of relief.
‘… I’ll paint your toenails, instead.’
Cal shivered in the heat. He searched for something to say but, Paint my toenails and your fingers will drop off, wasn’t quite what he was looking for.
Emma stood in front of him, holding out her money. Cal looked at it. He looked down at his feet. Already they were screaming a No-o-o! in protest. But, the thought of Hayley and the Sliders was screaming Yes! Cal took the money and put it in his collection bag. ‘Okay,’ he said in a small voice, hoping that with all the excitement Emma would forget. ‘I’ll give you the same deal as Hayley. Three for a dollar.’
With a huge grin Emma dug into the bucket of snails, and pulled out three. Then, she wrote their names on their backs. Each one was the name of a Slider. Emma kissed their shells whispering, ‘Good luck, Drew. Good luck, Dylan. Good luck, Dom.’
‘Stand back!’ called Cal as more and more children came to watch. ‘We’re about to start.’
‘Wait!’ boomed a voice from the back. ‘I’d like some snails, too.’
Surprised, Cal looked up. He searched to see who had spoken.
‘Three snails, please,’ she said with a smile.
Cal shrivelled inside.
It was the chemist shop assistant!
Chapter Six
Cal gulped. He squirmed. He reminded himself, only cowards run. Make it quick, Cal prayed to the God of Snails as he handed over the bucket.
‘I’ll take this one, and that one, and this one,’ said the chemist shop assistant plucking reluctant pacers off bucket walls.
‘Ready?’ asked Cal as the snails were labelled Huey, Louie and Dewey.
‘Ready!’ came a chorus of voices.
Cal stood tall. In a loud voice he announced, ‘Let the paces begin!’
Everyone placed their snails into the ring.
Huey, Louie and Dewey hid inside their shells. Dasher should have been called Sleeper for all the dashing it was doing. And Dancer and Prancer could have been re-named Zombie and Dopey.
Drew, Dylan and Dom took one look at the course and went back to bed.
‘C’mon Prancer,’ called Hayley. ‘Go Dasher. Go Dancer!’
‘C’mon Drew,’ called Emma. ‘Go Dylan. Go Dom!’
And so it went …
‘Come on, my little darlings,’ yelled the chemist shop assistant, kneeling at the edge of the ring. ‘Come to mummy!’
Cal rolled his eyes at Hayley.
Hayley rolled hers back.
Together, they laughed.
‘Go, Helix!’ yelled Cal, his heart racing. But even Helix just sat there, not even putting out a feeler to check out how the land lay.
The crowd began to get restless.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Emma, turning to Cal with a puzzled look on her face. ‘Why aren’t they moving?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cal getting down on his haunches and lifting up a few shells to see if anyone was at home.
‘Maybe some food will help?’ said Hayley. She reached into her bag and pulled out a sandwich. Quickly she removed the wrapper and peeled off a slice of bread. ‘They like lettuce, don’t they?’
‘Thanks,’ said Cal, taking the lettuce leaf and tearing it into pieces, which he placed about the ring. He smiled at Hayley. And when she smiled back it felt so good, like birthdays and holidays all in one.
The kids fell silent. All eyes were on the ring.
Seconds ticked past. Cal stood stiffly, praying for something to happen.
‘Boo-o-o-o!’ went the children.
Cal picked up Helix and blew gently on his soft underbelly. Nothing.
The booing got louder.
Cal tickled Helix with his little finger. Still nothing.
He looked up at a sea of angry faces.
‘Refund. Refund. Refund,’ the kids started to chant.
‘I’m changing your name to Helix Asparagus,’ Cal said to his snail in disgust.
Helix remained unmoved.
‘Refund. Refund. Refund.’
There was a lump in Cal’s throat the size of Uluru. His chest felt tight. The Snail Paces were a failure! There would be no Sliders game, now. And no Hayley. Cal gritted his teeth. There was only one thing he could do. ‘Everyone gets to keep their snails,’ he called out.
The booing quietened but did not go away.
‘And you’ll all get a refund.’
‘Yay-y-y-!’
‘Come and get a box,’ said Cal. Turning to Emma he held out her dollar. ‘Here you go.’
‘Hard luck,’ said Daniel, giving Cal a gentle biff on the shoulder. Cal nodded, too disappointed to speak.
One by one the children lined up to get their money back till finally there were only a few coins to go.
‘Uh, uh,’ said Hayley, when her turn came. ‘You keep it. After all, I only paid a dollar.’ She looked at her snails in their boxes. ‘And besides, these little guys get to come home with me.’
Lucky buggers, thought Cal.
‘Keep mine, too,’ said another voice.
Cal looked up. It was the chemist shop assistant.
‘Cal,’ said Hayley. ‘I’d like you to meet Mrs Pitado, my mum.’
Cal did a Helix impersonation of his own. A double Helix impersonation. With arms and feet latched to his sides he swivelled into a heap on the ground like a DNA structure that’s lost its hydrogen bonds. Hayley and her mother laughed.
‘There, there, dear,’ said Mrs Pitado, peering at him. ‘It’s not that bad.’
It was at that exact moment that Cal’s feet asked to make Mrs Pitado’s acquaintance. They began to itch. Not just itch. They stung. They tingled. They prickled. They burned. They twitched! Inside Cal’s socks was like a bra
wl in a sweathouse.
Amputation is looking good, thought Cal, looking around. Where’s a chainsaw? Out loud he said, ‘Thanks, but I insist,’ and he pressed the remaining coins into Hayley and her mother’s hands. ‘Thanks for being such good sports,’ he added. Then he turned away, walked over to his sign and began taking it down before he made an even bigger idiot of himself.
Hayley and her mother hesitated, just for a moment, then headed in the direction of the cake stall.
Cal moaned. He stomped and stamped. ‘These feet are driving me crazy!’ he muttered to himself.
‘Want me to help?’ asked Daniel.
‘Nah,’ said Cal in a small voice. ‘Go and have some fun.’
Grabbing the bucket Cal marched as far away from the fair as possible and sat under the shade of a tree. The fire in his feet continued.
‘I know!’ said Cal. He tipped up the bucket and out fell the snails. With grim determination Cal marched to a tap and filled the bucket with water. In ten strides he was back. Quickly he ripped off his shoes and socks. His feet were so red they looked purple. Cal sat with his feet in the bucket, away from the prying eyes of the other children. The cold water was soothing, easing away the burning itches. Cal leant against the tree. He closed his eyes. ‘What a mess!’ he said out loud.
‘They are, aren’t they?’
Cal jerked. In his fright he knocked over the bucket, flooding the remaining snails with a tidal wave of water. Frantically he looked for something to throw over his feet.
‘Red, aren’t they?’ continued Hayley, who was looking down.
Cal nodded.
‘And scaly.’
Another nod.
‘Are they terribly, horribly itchy?’
In a very flat voice Cal said, ‘Terribly, horribly.’ Unable to look Hayley in the face he went on to explain, ‘I’ve got tinea — Scabies Crustosa.’
Hayley made little tsk, tsk noises. ‘I’m sure it can be fixed,’ she said.
‘It means I’m covered in scales. I’m gonna end up looking like a fish! I’ll never be able to do anything.’ Cal stopped. Now was his big chance. He looked Hayley straight in the eye. His voice dropped an octave as he said, ‘Not even go in a flipper race.’
Cal did not know what he was expecting but it wasn’t what he got. Hayley threw back her head and laughed.
Cal wished his whole body would frizzle up and evaporate.
Hayley’s laughter dimmed to a chuckle. ‘Why do fish wear flippers, you idiot?’
Cal frowned and asked, ‘Is this a joke?’
Hayley nodded, her face one big grin.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cal, reluctant to take part but trying to humour Hayley. ‘Why do fish wear flippers?’
‘To hide their feet!’ crowed Hayley.
Despite himself, Cal laughed. ‘Hey, look,’ said Hayley. She was pointing at Cal’s feet.
Cal peered down. Several snails had climbed up. One was balanced on his little toe and a few more were heading up his arches. Cal giggled. ‘Tickles,’ he explained as the snails left a trail along his angry skin.
‘The water must’ve woken them up,’ said Hayley, watching their progress.
‘Yeah,’ said Cal, enjoying the soothing feel on his skin.
‘Would … would you go in a flipper race, um, with me?’ asked Hayley.
Cal gulped. Was Hayley really asking him? Couldn’t she see how ridiculous he looked?
‘Pardon?’ croaked Cal, unable to believe the turn-around.
‘We’ve got a race to win,’ said Hayley, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along.
‘Why?’ asked Cal, still unsure.
‘Because,’ said Hayley, ‘there’s a movie I’m dying to see.’
‘What movie?’ asked Cal, floating along beside her.
‘Bigfoot!’
Pee Pee Poo
Chapter One
‘Cop that!’
Luke swivels, but he’s too slow. The ripe plum nicks him on the forehead. Skin explodes. Flesh explodes. Juice splatters everywhere. Luke is seeing red.
From his hiding place behind the tree Hamish screeches with laughter. ‘Gotcha!’
‘Yuck!’ cries Luke, swiping at the fruit mashed across his face. ‘Whatcha do that for!’ He flicks the pulp at the tree.
Hamish leaps out bellowing, ‘Missed me!’ He punches the air. ‘Yes!’
Sticky slime smears through Luke’s hair, leaving a skid mark any BMX rider would be proud of. His face is rivulets of red.
Hamish begins to stomp, he hollers, he charges at shadows like some sort of Indian warrior.
Luke shakes his head. He’s seen this war cry before. He tries to wipe the scum off his face but only succeeds in spreading it further.
‘You look like you’ve got a strawberry birthmark!’ howls Hamish, doubling over.
Hope he cacks himself, thinks Luke, picking bits of plum skin out of one nostril. With his smeared and bloodied face it is Luke who looks like an Indian warrior, the one who has lost the battle. Luke glances around, scanning for something, anything, to retaliate with when he realises that he’s two houses from Mrs Sully’s! His lips plough into a smile as a plan takes form.
‘Good one, Hamish!’ says Luke, but his laugh is tinny as he starts to move towards Mrs Sully’s.
‘That’s for the sardine sanger!’ yells Hamish, following closely, but keeping a respectful distance.
Two days before as Hamish was passing under a pedestrian bridge at school a sardine sandwich had landed on his head. He didn’t have to look up to know who the owner was. He and Luke had been at this game for ages — not game, war! Their weapons were legendary — cream pies, rotten bananas, squashed pears — all hurled with abandon.
Hamish had smelt like a fish cannery all day.
‘Touché!’ says Luke, grinning at the memory. He bows and eases backwards, not too fast, pretending to walk away, all the while keeping an eye on Hamish. He peeks through his matted hair pleased that Hamish is tracking him. Who’s stalking who? Luke chuckles to himself.
Hamish is hesitant. Something is not quite right. He shoves his hands in his pockets, hoping by some miracle he’ll find another blood plum. He doesn’t. There is the chewy from last year still glued to his pants’ liner, some rolled up pieces of tissue (you never know when there’ll be the next spit ball fight) and the bottom half of a pencil. The top half is rammed in the storage cupboard at school — the one where Mr Bingles keeps his chocolate stash. Hamish trails behind Luke, keeping his distance. ‘Who’s plum ugly, now?’ he goads.
Luke is nearing his goal. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ he yells back to Hamish, lulling him into a false sense of security. ‘You’re a real comedian. Should be on Hep’s Happy Hour.’ (Hep’s Happy Hour is a program on TV.)
Hamish grins at the idea. ‘Yeah, mate!’ he says. ‘I’d be real good.’
Luke is getting close to his destination. He can tell by the pong. It might be the prettiest garden in Simpson but it sure isn’t the sweetest smelling. Luke keeps edging backwards, careful not to let on that he has a plan. From the backyard he hears Mrs Sully.
‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ coos Mrs Sully. ‘Pretty Boy. Pretty Boy.’
Luke tries not to laugh.
‘Who’s mummy’s little Pee Pee?’
Pee Pee? wonders Luke. He’s thinking warm and yellow. But, he’s on the wrong track.
‘Pee Pee — you Precious Pigeon, you!’
Luke bites back a laugh. Everyone in Simpson knows that as well as her garden Mrs Sully loves her birds. Some say she loves her birds more than she loves her own husband. And everyone knows that Pretty Boy is her prize-winning racing pigeon.
Luke’s eyes begin to water. He tries to breathe through his mouth but it is too late. Wafts of chook manure clog the air. They lodge in Luke’s nose and cling to his throat. That’s something else everyone knows. Chook manure. It’s Mrs Sully’s secret weapon for winning Simpson’s Garden of the Year.
‘Phwoar!’ cries Hamish. �
��Smells like Mr Sully’s carked it.’
Luke nods. He smiles. ‘Yeah!’ he says in agreement. ‘Reckon the old biddy’s done him in.’
Hamish goes to cover his mouth and nostrils with his hand.
With Hamish distracted Luke leaps into action. It isn’t the smell he’s come for! It’s the lemon tree that’s hanging over Mrs Sully’s fence. Luke snatches a lemon from the ground — a deflated looking lemon with clumps of mould on it. His fingers spear the soft fruit. The texture is just right, not pithy and hard like a normal lemon, more like pureed prune.
Fear flits across Hamish’s face. He turns … Splat!
‘Bull’s–eye!’ yells Luke, laughing when the yellow fruit clings to Hamish’s back. ‘Take that!’
Hamish hollers as he tries to shake off the wet mash. He snorts, then charges. ‘Aaagh!’ Hamish scoops up a lemon and pelts Luke back, fair on the shoulder. ‘Ha!’ he laughs. The shattered lemon does no harm but it does leave a huge blob on Luke’s school shirt.
And then it’s on. Another mighty battle. Lemons launching, lemons flying, lemons landing everywhere. Hamish is throwing like a boy possessed. He’s firing off lemons quicker than a tennis–ball machine. Luke, though slower, is more accurate, picking off a head here, a stomach there, and how about an ear?
‘Oi!’ A voice shrieks from over the fence. ‘Stop that!’
The boys are too busy to hear. They’re chucking lemons faster than a production line in a processing factory. The street is littered with yellow corpses dotted with bits of white skin. The fence, too, has scored its fair share. It is plastered with pulp and pith. Piles of fruit lie on the ground at its base. The boys are covered with rind and seeds and fermenting matter. They look like the dregs in a bowl of punch.
‘Enough!’ It is the voice from over the fence. The voice backs up with a squirt of water. The water catches Hamish first, its cold spray taking him by surprise. He drops his lemon, cursing as it lands on his foot, and swings to face his newest opponent.