She glares at me, blows a tiny gum bubble, pops it and says, ‘Shut up, reject,’ and slams the front door. She trudges across the lounge room, past the couch, past me. I inch sideways as she goes by, trying to keep my body between her and my French assignment.
She stops. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you acting strange?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are seriously the weirdest brother in the world.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, hoping we can wrap up this conversation ASAP.
She moves off towards the hallway and I shuffle a little to the left. She stops. I stop. She moves. I move. She turns and shoves me in the shoulder, pushing me out of the way, revealing what’s sitting on the bench.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Is that what you made for French?’
‘No.’
‘Is it?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You mean “yes”?’ she asks.
‘Well, not exactly.’
She drops her bag on the floor. ‘Give me some.’
‘No,’ I say. She moves to grab the plate and I block her. ‘I’ve still got to photograph it and –’
‘Give it to me now or I’ll tell Mum you ate the whole packet of emergency Tim Tams off the top of her wardrobe.’
I scowl at Tanya. It’s true. I did do that. Two days ago. How can you stop at just one? Or seven? I’m annoyed that she knows. Mum is very, very protective of those biscuits. But if I give Tanya a taste of Bando’s special dessert, it will ruin all the good work I’ve done today. I’ve lasted nine whole hours without doing a single bad thing. I still have 15 hours to go. Am I really prepared to throw it all away just to see my sister eat dog poo in front of me?
Possibly.
A good boy would throw it in the bin. A good boy would drop the plate on the floor and make it seem like an accident. A good boy would run out the back door screaming, ‘FIRE!’ and chuck it on the compost heap. The question I have to ask myself is: Am I a good boy? Or am I evil?
‘Okay,’ I say, and I move aside. ‘You can try it.’
I guess I must be evil.
Tanya moves towards it. ‘That actually looks good. You suck at cooking. You sure you didn’t buy this?’
‘Yep. I’m sure,’ I say. ‘Definitely didn’t buy it.’
She leans down towards the plate and sniffs it.
‘What’s in it?’ she asks. ‘It smells amazing.’
‘Secret recipe,’ I say.
‘It smells like chocolate and …’
‘Cinnamon?’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
‘Hint of vanilla?’ I suggest.
‘Totally.’
‘Freshness of pear?’
‘Exactly!’ she agrees.
She dips the tip of her pinkie into the pile.
‘Wow, it’s got rice bubbles in it. I love rice bubbles.’
She raises it to her face, sniffs it again and I feel myself flinch. My face screws up. Even though it’s Tanya, I know this is wrong. I really should say something. She puts her pinkie between her lips, tastes it, swirls it around with her tongue, smacks her lips together … I wait for her to scream, to clutch her throat, scrape her tongue or vomit, but she does none of these things. Instead, she says, ‘Mmmm, delicious. A bit rich and earthy, but nice. And warm, too. Did you really make this?’
I shrug and flick a look down at Bando, who is gazing up at Tanya, his head tilted to one side. I don’t think he’s ever seen a human eat his poo before. This thought almost makes me explode with laughter, but I manage to turn it into a cough.
‘What?’ Tanya asks, immediately suspicious. ‘Did you buy it?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘All made from ingredients in the pantry.’
She maintains eye contact with me as she picks up the spoon from the edge of the plate and digs it in. Not a small scoop but a large one this time.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t –’ I begin.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t interrupt me when I’m eating,’ she says.
She dips the spoonful into the cream and delicately places a raspberry on top with her fingers. Then she moves it slowly towards her mouth, grinning, teasing me, proud to be eating my delicious, rice-bubbly, cinnamon-y, chocolate mousse right in front of me.
My lips quiver and a laugh roars up my throat. I try to choke it down, but I can’t stop it. It screams out of me, burning the back of my throat and finishing with a snort.
Tanya stops. ‘What?’
Should I tell her? It’s one thing to let your sister eat poo. It’s another thing to tell her what it was. I should stop now. She demanded to eat the mousse. There’s nothing I could have done. But to tell her would be bad. It would totally wreck my 24-hour goal to be good, but I may never have a chance like this again. The two sides of my brain – the good and the evil – do battle.
Tell her.
Don’t say a word.
Do it.
Don’t do it.
Be evil.
Be a good boy.
Nuts.
‘Do you know what you’re eating?’ I ask.
‘Duh. Chocolate mousse.’
I shake my head.
‘What?’ A finger of fear pokes her.
‘Not chocolate mousse.’
‘What then?’ she asks.
‘Something special,’ I say, almost in a whisper.
‘What?’ she asks, resting the spoon on the plate with a tiny clink. ‘Did you put dirt in it? If you did –’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not dirt.’ My lips quiver under the weight of the laughter I’m trying to keep inside. ‘Let’s just say Bando and I made that dessert together.’
She looks down at Bando, then up at me, and a look of terror washes over her face, turning her skin from olive to white. I will never forget that look as long as I live.
‘Is it …?’ she asks.
I nod slowly.
Tanya drops the plate on the floor and it explodes into pieces, spattering the wall with the remaining ‘mousse’. She runs along the hall to the bathroom, shrieking, and flips up the lid of the toilet. ‘I’m telling Mum,’ she screams between barfs. ‘You are so dead!’
I laugh hysterically, and Bando and I run through the kitchen and out the back door. I howl great, big, heaving chunks of laughter, despite having epically failed my 24-hour experiment. It will be a long, long time till I get my Xbox and pocket money back. I’ve also proven to myself that I cannot be good for even one single day.
In all the excitement Bando poops in the corner of the yard, laying another perfect soft-serve spiral of mousse au chocolat de Bando, and this makes me fall down on the grass, laughing harder than ever before. I plead with myself to stop. It hurts my belly. Bando comes over and licks my face. I sit up and, when the laughter finally eases, I crawl over to the back steps and sit on the lowest one, looking out into the yard, Bando sitting next to me.
‘Do you think it was worth it?’ I ask him, and he smiles that goofy, black-lipped smile at me. ‘I guess I’ll try being a good boy again tomorrow.’
He yawns excitedly.
My tummy groans and I realise that I’m starving. I haven’t eaten a thing since lunchtime. My eyes drift towards the still-steaming pile that Bando has left in the corner of the yard. Cinnamon-y. Vanilla-y. Freshness of pear.
Surely one little taste couldn’t hurt.
‘Get your nits! Two dollars per infection. Get your nits!’
‘Not so loud,’ I whisper to Jack. ‘Miss Norrish is on duty, just over there.’
Miss Norrish is the best teacher I’ve ever had. She lets us chew gum on Fridays, she does roller derby on the weekend, and she once taught us for the entire day dressed as a llama to raise money for charity. But I’m not sure she’d approve of our latest harebrained business scheme.
‘Sorry,’ Jack says, not lowering his voice at all. ‘Get your nits! Guaranteed day off school or your money back
!’
We’re down behind the school hall, near the bottom oval, and we have a growing line of customers snaking all the way over to the bubblers.
At this morning’s assembly, Mr Skroop, the Deputy Principal, announced, ‘Any child caught with head lice in tomorrow morning’s annual inspection under the fig tree in the middle of the playground will be sent home immediately.’
As soon as he said it I looked across at Lewis Snow, one of my best friends, and I knew that he would be going home, possibly for life. Lewis has thousands of nits living in his wild blond afro. He’s never had a haircut. Lewis has had nits for so long he has a nit retirement village behind his left ear. A week ago, I swear I saw a head louse in a little rocking chair back there.
I was so jealous that Lewis would get off school, and I knew everybody else would be feeling the same way. The idea popped into my head fully formed: we’ll open a Nit Shop.
‘Get your nits!’ Jack shouts.
His voice echoes off the bricks at the back of the hall, and I know Miss Norrish is going to hear him, shut us down and make us donate our profits to the llama farmer she sponsors in Peru. We have $44 already – almost a record for us. We haven’t seen cash-flow like this since I charged admission to see my weird, four-toed, slightly webbed foot. And there are another 15 kids in line, at least. But there are only seven minutes till lunchtime is over.
‘We don’t need any more customers,’ I say. ‘Let’s stop while we’re ahead. Get it? A head? No? Okay.’
I take Nikki’s two dollars and smoosh her head against Lewis’s. She winces at the feeling of being invaded by the louse army. I can actually see her fresh, white scalp being infested by the six-legged mini-beasts. They begin to feast. A small amount of vomit rises in my throat. I decide there’s no way I’m giving myself nits, even if it means missing out on a day off. By the time Nikki stands up she’s already scratching like mad.
Jonah Flem steps up next.
‘Don’t you already have nits?’ I ask him, taking his two dollars.
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but I figure the combo of my nits and Lewis’s might create some kind of super-nit that can never be exterminated. I’ll have the rest of my life off school.’ He grins a lopsided grin and I smoosh their heads together.
‘Can you guys hurry?’ Lewis says. ‘I feel like a cow being milked for my nits. And you’d better not be squishing any of them. These nits are on loan. I want them back next week.’
Lewis is the world’s greatest – and only – lice lover.
By the time the bell rings we’ve made $74 – a new record! Lewis takes 50 per cent for providing the product. Jack and I split the rest, so I get $18.50.
‘Nice work,’ Jack says. We high-five and start to head off to class when Miss Norrish appears around the corner of the hall. She looks on edge. My heart pounds and I slip the cash into my pocket.
‘Sorry, Miss Norrish, we’re just coming now. We –’
‘I know what you’ve been doing,’ she says. The words are like a knife in my heart. She’s such a nice teacher. I don’t want her to know that I’ve been involved in the illegal trafficking of head lice.
She shoves a fist towards me and I step back. She opens the fist, and sitting on her palm is a two dollar coin.
I look at her, confused.
‘I really need a few days off,’ she says.
‘No problem,’ Jack says, snatching the two dollars. ‘If you just lean in close to Lewis –’
I whack Jack in the arm. ‘Why, Miss Norrish? I thought you loved teaching us!’
‘Yeah, why would you want to take a day off?’ Lewis asks.
‘Well … for the same reason you would,’ she says.
‘We’re kids,’ I say. ‘It’s our job to try to get days off school by any means necessary. It’s in the contract we sign when we’re born. But you’re supposed to be passionate about education. You’re supposed to say things like, “I would do this job even if I wasn’t being paid.”’
‘Well, it’s not always easy teaching you guys. If Brent burps the answer to a maths problem one more time … And school holidays are nine weeks away. I need a rest.’
I have to break it to her: ‘I’m sorry, Miss Norrish, but we can’t give you nits.’
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Jack asks. ‘This is discrimination against teachers.’ He jerks his eyes towards the two dollar coin in his grubby little hand.
‘You just infected dozens of your peers,’ Miss Norrish says. ‘I was watching you out of the corner of my eye the whole time. And I demand that you give me nits immediately.’
‘But they’re just students,’ I tell her. ‘They don’t shower very often and they smell a bit and they have nits half the time anyway. You’re a grown woman. Your hair’s all shiny and straight, and it smells like daffodils and stuff. I’m sorry. We have standards.’
‘Look, I don’t have time for this. Here’s five dollars,’ she says, taking a note from her purse. It’s the first note we will have earned.
I look at my business partners to see what they think. Jack’s eyes are on fire, but he’d sell one of his grandmother’s kidneys for five bucks. Lewis shakes his head to say, no deal.
‘If you’re away we’re stuck with Mr Skroop,’ I tell her. Deputy Principal Skroop is the Darth Vader of the teaching world. ‘And 25 per cent of five dollars just isn’t enough for me to risk having Mr Skroop –’
Her hand shoots out towards Lewis’s hair to grab some nits. This shocks me. I never saw her as a thief. Lewis pulls his head back just in time.
‘This is why I want a few days off! None of you listen to me! Either you give me head lice immediately,’ she says, her voice now sharp and demanding, ‘or I’m afraid I’ll be forced to tell Mr Skroop about your shady little head-lice racket.’
I can feel the warmth of the $18.50 in my pocket. I can’t give it up.
Jack nudges me and gives me a look that says, If the lady wants nits, give her nits.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but I don’t feel good about this, and I don’t want you telling the other teachers.’
Miss Norrish smiles, leans down and presses her head into the springy blond sponge of Lewis’s hair. I can see lice the size of baby cockroaches crawling across the hair bridge from Lewis’s scalp onto hers. After ten or 15 seconds I say, ‘Okay, that’s enough. Consider yourself infected.’
Miss Norrish stands. She waits. She scratches the back of her head near her neck with one long red fingernail. Then on top. Then just above her ear. Within 30 seconds she’s scratching all over. She looks relieved.
‘Thank you, boys. Not a word of this to anyone … or you know what happens?’
We nod.
‘Now, off to class.’ Miss Norrish turns and disappears around the corner of the hall. Jack kisses the five dollar note.
I know what I have to do. I have no choice. I can’t have Skroop as my teacher. What if he wants nits, too?
‘Do you mind?’ I ask Lewis.
He shrugs.
I take a deep breath and press my head against his. Within seconds I can feel lice scurrying over onto my scalp, beginning to feed, and I start to scratch.
‘Hey!’ Jack says, outraged. ‘Have you paid your two bucks?’
I bet you think you know stuff about nits, right? Wrong. Since I almost died in a mutant nit attack*, I’ve done a bit of research on pediculus humanus capitis (their official name), and I’m pretty sure I know more about them than you. Here’s a quiz to test how ‘nit-smart’ you are. This information might, one day, save your life:
1. Even though we call head lice ‘nits’, which one of these is officially a ‘nit’?
A) Lice eggs
B) Teenage lice
C) Grandma lice
D) Cute little wubbzy baby lice
2. How does a head louse travel?
A) Jump
B) Fly
C) Crawl
D) None of the above. It hoverboards.
3
. Head lice are:
A) Arachnids
B) Reptiles
C) Insects
D) Vampires
4. The oldest known head lice specimens were found:
A) About 30 years ago in Gloucestershire, England
B) About 200 years ago in Tanzania, Africa
C) About 10,000 years ago in north-east Brazil
D) One billion years ago on the planet Tralfamadore
5. If you discover that you have head lice you should:
A) Throw a party
B) Run around the house screaming, ‘I’m under attack!’
C) Call the fire department
D) Give them to your best friend
E) All of the above
6. The main food source for head lice is:
A) Crispy dandruff chips
B) Human blood
C) Other head lice
D) Cheese sticks
7. Head lice travel at the following speed:
A) About 1.37 centimetres per second
B) About 23 centimetres per minute
C) About 7 metres per hour
D) As fast as the kid carrying them can run
8. The best treatment for getting rid of head lice is:
A) Hair conditioner and comb
B) Peanut butter
C) Picking and eating the lice in a similar manner to a gorilla or chimpanzee
D) Massaging a litre of Neapolitan ice-cream into your scalp and leaving for 30 minutes before rinsing with vinegar
9. True or False: Nits like dirty hair more than they like clean hair.
A) True
B) False
10. The Ancient Egyptians attempted to rid themselves of head lice by:
A) Punching them in the nose
B) Smearing them in mouse fat and reciting an ancient incantation
C) Massaging the scalp with sand
D) Eating warm date meal and water, then spitting it out
Answers:
1) A
2) C
3) C
4) C
5) E
My Life and Other Weaponised Muffins Page 7