Give Peas a Chance Page 11

  ‘You are the best holiday destination in the whole world,’ said Blob. ‘And when we tell our travel agent about you and your very reasonable rates, you’re going to be the most booked out.’

  Wilton grinned.

  Or he would have done if worms had grin muscles. As they don’t, he let gentle ripples of contentment run along his whole body so each waste duct was briefly stretched into a little smile.

  If all the future guests were as nice as these two nose germs, Wilton couldn’t wait.

  ‘You won’t mind?’ said Aristotle. ‘Being booked out all the time?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Wilton happily. ‘It’s my job.’

  Snugglepots And Cuddlepies

  Those Cuddlepies are scum.

  I’m sorry, I know it’s not a nice thing to say. Mum would probably punish me if she heard me. Stop me watching Australian Idol for a week or something. Mum believes we should behave with compassion and respect towards other human beings, including Cuddlepies.

  But I can’t help it.

  They are scum.

  Wait till I tell you what a bunch of them did today.

  I don’t know what they were taught at those Cuddlepie Early Learning Centres, but it sure wasn’t compassion or respect. Or nice smiles. We did nice smiles in the first week at my Snugglepot Kindy Solutions Centre. It wasn’t easy because I was only one and a half, but I did the homework and I passed nice smiles in first term.

  OK, I know that’s boasting, but I’m proud to be a Snugglepot even after all these years, and Mum reckons it’s OK to be proud of yourself if you deserve it.

  ‘Give yourself a pat on the back, Paloma,’ Mum said to me a few days ago when I told her I’d been chosen for the year six netball team. She asked me to do the patting myself cause she was delayed in Perth at a meeting and probably wouldn’t be home till after midnight.

  After we hung up I gave myself a pat.

  I could have asked Dad to do it, but he was rushing around getting ready to go to his men’s group. He was in a flap because he had to give them a talk on his experiences as a workaholic, so I didn’t want to distract him.

  I didn’t mind. Patting myself on the back is another thing I learned at kindy. They teach it at all the Snugglepot Kindy Solutions Centres around the country, so if you ever see somebody patting themselves on the back, they’re probably a Snugglepot.

  That bunch of Cuddlepies who attacked me and Cheri today weren’t patting themselves on the back.

  Or smiling nicely.

  I was on my way to school with Cheri and we ducked into Northpoint to check out the lipsticks in Pricerite. Mum reckons I’m too young to wear lipstick, but she’s a big supporter of people planning ahead in their lives.

  Cheri was sniffing a Dusky Peach tester when I gave her a nudge.

  ‘Cuddlepies,’ I whispered.

  There were about six of them coming out of Subway. You can spot Cuddlepies a mile off when you know the signs and you’ve had them in your class since year one.

  Tyson Phelps was at the front. He saw us and pointed.

  ‘Check the Snugglepots buying the ugly sticks,’ he jeered.

  The others all laughed and did that cruel Cuddlepie sneer. Including Gale Bishop who always rubs her tomato sauce on her lips to look sexy when she thinks nobody’s looking.

  Cheri pretended to ignore them, which was sensible. Cuddlepies can be vicious if you get them worked up.

  I wasn’t sensible.

  ‘She’s not buying, cretin brains, she’s just looking,’ I said to the Cuddlepies. ‘And anyway, she’s not a Snugglepot, so rack off.’

  Tyson Phelps did another Cuddlepie sneer.

  ‘Don’t lie,’ he said. ‘Why would she hang around a smelly Snugglepot like you if she wasn’t one herself?’

  Cheri put the lipstick down and turned and faced the Cuddlepies and put her hands on her hips. She’s pretty short, but she read somewhere that putting your hands on your hips makes you look bigger and tougher.

  ‘I hang around her because she’s my friend,’ said Cheri. ‘You heard her, rack off.’

  When Cheri’s defending you, her face goes really pink and she gets asthma and can’t breathe properly. But it doesn’t stop her. And do you know what’s even more amazing? She’s not even a Snugglepot. Her parents didn’t send her to a Snugglepot Kindy Solutions Centre. They didn’t send her anywhere. When she started in year one, she confessed to me that she’d never been to a single Kindy Centre or Long Daycare Playschool or Early Years Speed-growth Camp or anything.

  Poor kid.

  ‘Rack off yourself,’ replied Tyson Phelps to Cheri.

  You can see the sort of wit they teach at those Cuddlepie so-called Early Learning Centres.

  I turned my back on the whole lot of them because by this stage Cheri was bending over and wheezing and I had to help her find her puffer in her school bag.

  While we searched, I felt cold sloppy things hitting my face.

  Tyson and the others were flicking bits of Subway at us. Turkey loaf and salad extender and slices of pickle that really sting if they hit you in the eye.

  I haven’t been able to get much work done this morning here in class. I’ve just been sitting here thinking about them doing that.

  Only Cuddlepies would attack a sick kid like Cheri and do it with really vinegary sandwich fillings.

  See what I mean about scum?

  At 4pm I had my first netball match ever against another school.

  It was a very big occasion for me.

  And, as it turned out, a very confusing one.

  The hall was full of parents. Mum couldn’t be there, she’s in Cairns at a meeting, and Dad had an appointment at his therapist, but I didn’t mind because I had Cheri. She’s not allowed to play netball on account of her wheezing, but she’s a fantastic supporter as long as she doesn’t get too carried away and pass out.

  I was on the bench for the first quarter. New team members always are.

  Cheri came and sat next to me and we tried to work out which people on the visiting team were Cuddlepies.

  I hadn’t met any of them before. Their school is about ten suburbs away. But you can spot a Cuddlepie on the netball court a mile off if you know the signs.

  Rough play is one.

  And sneering at the umpire behind her back.

  With this visiting team it was really hard to tell. They played tough but fair. When the umpire blew her whistle against them, they copped it. Some even with nice smiles.

  ‘Amazing,’ I whispered to Cheri. ‘They must all be Snugglepots.’

  Cheri didn’t say anything. She’d spent most of the match so far crouched down rummaging in her bag. Probably looking for her spare puffer, I thought, in case the last quarter was a nail biter.

  I studied the visiting players more closely.

  There was one, their wing defence, skinny with long bleached dreads, who kept glancing over at me and Cheri.

  That made me suspicious. Cuddlepies reckon they can spot Snugglepots a mile off too.

  ‘I reckon she’s a Cuddlepie,’ I muttered to Cheri. ‘Plotting some way to get me next quarter when I’m playing.’

  Cheri still didn’t say anything.

  Just looked worried.

  So I figured I must be right.

  Then the first quarter ended and an amazing thing happened. The Cuddlepie wing defence girl trotted over to us, bold as really bold lipstick.

  ‘G’day Cheri,’ she said. ‘I thought it was you.’

  Cheri gave her the sort of pasty smile she gives adults when she’s trying to persuade them she feels better than she really does.

  The girl saw me staring and gave me a friendly grin.

  ‘Me and Cheri used to know each other,’ she said. ‘We went to the same Cuddlepie Early Learning Centre.’

  I felt like a netball had just whacked me in the head.

  Cheri?

  A Cuddlepie?

  Cheri was looking like she was having a major attack, ey
es wide and mouth open, except she wasn’t wheezing.

  I grabbed at a wild thought. Perhaps this was all lies. An evil Cuddlepie plot by this other girl to break me and Cheri up. But if it was a lie, why wasn’t Cheri denying it?

  The girl stared at me with a friendly frown.

  ‘You weren’t at our Centre, were you?’ she asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ she said. ‘Which Cuddlepie Centre did you go to?’

  Cheri was looking panicked now and that’s when I knew the only Cuddlepie lie here today is the one Cheri has been telling me for the last five-and-a-half years.

  I glared at them both.

  ‘I went to a Snugglepot Kindy Solutions Centre,’ I said.

  The girl took a step back. She stared at me like I was a lump of dog poo in a netball uniform.

  ‘Gross,’ she said to Cheri. ‘Why are you hanging around with a slimy Snugglepot?’

  Cheri looked at us both helplessly. I’d never seen her lost for words before, except when she was slipping into unconsciousness.

  The girl turned and walked away.

  Cheri grabbed me and tried to say something.

  I didn’t want to hear it.

  The umpire blew her whistle for the second quarter and Mrs West our coach came over and told me I was playing goal shooter.

  The rest of the match was a blur. I scored some goals and the Cuddlepie wing defence girl fouled me every chance she got and at half time I stayed in the team huddle and we won I think.

  I tried to concentrate on the match but my dazed mind just kept thinking the same thought.

  My best friend is a Cuddlepot.

  I mean Cuddlepie.

  See how confused I am?

  At the end of the match as I hurried towards the changing room, Cheri came up to me. She looked like she’d been crying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled miserably. ‘I hated lying to you but I just wanted to be your friend.’

  I pushed past her into the changing room and locked myself in a cubicle and I’ve been here ever since.

  Confused.

  I should be furious with Cheri for pulling a typical low Cuddlepie stunt and lying to me. That is so typical of them.

  But I’m sitting here trying to be angry with her, and I just can’t do it.

  When I saw how upset she was I wanted to put my arms round her. That’s partly because I’m a Snugglepot and I have compassion and respect towards other human beings, but mostly because she’s my best friend.

  This is weird.

  I’m feeling all warm and loving towards a Cuddlepie.

  OK, here’s what I reckon has happened. Cheri has spent so much time with me over the past five-and-a-half years that she’s turned into a Snugglepot.

  Yes, of course, that must be it.

  Phew, I’m feeling better already.

  Here’s what I’m going to do. Go out there right now and give Cheri a hug and say sorry for ignoring her. It might be a bit hard for her at first, discovering she’s a Snugglepot, but she’s a pretty amazing person so I reckon she’ll cope.

  Here I go.

  Hang on.

  Oh, no.

  What if it happened the other way round?

  Over the past five-and-a-half years I’ve spent just as much time with Cheri as she has with me.

  What if I’ve turned into a…?

  No way. I can’t believe I’m even thinking this. It couldn’t happen. It’s impossible. Me turn into a Cuddlepie? Not a chance.

  Except if I’m a Snugglepot and Cheri’s a Cuddlepie, why do we care about each other so much?

  Of course.

  Yes.

  I know what’s happened.

  Why didn’t I realise it before?

  OK, here I go. I’m on my way to give Cheri a hug and explain the whole thing to her.

  I know.

  People will laugh.

  Specially that Cuddlepie lot. The Snugglepots probably will too.

  But me and Cheri won’t care because we’ll have our friendship. We’ll stand side by side and proudly tell the world the truth.

  We’re not Snugglepots.

  Or Cuddlepies.

  We’re a mixture.

  We’re Snugglepies.

  Or, if Cheri prefers, Cuddlepots.

  And anyone who says we’re not, they’re scum.

  Why My Dad Could Be Prime Minister

  My dad could be Prime Minister because he’s kind to animals and he knows good jokes and he loves Australian food including noodles and he lets the neighbours borrow our lawnmower and he doesn’t snore and he can wiggle his ears and he’s modest after he’s put a fire out in somebody’s house and he gives other people his seat on the bus except if they’re hooligans and he only cries if a movie is really sad or it’s got onions in it and he does his own ironing and he trims his own nose hairs and he can bend metal with his bare hands and he’s got heaps of friends and he can lift a telly if it needs rescuing and he knows quite a lot of cartoon voices and he’s good at putting band-aids on cut fingers and he gives you a hug after.

  But he does have three bad habits he would have to change if he was going to be Prime Minister.

  One is, he sometimes gets words wrong.

  Like tonight.

  Dad was reading the politics part of the paper, which he does a lot, and suddenly he looks at the clock and sees we’re still up.

  ‘OK, you kids,’ he says. ‘Let’s have a new law in this house. Let’s call it the Bedtime Choices Act.’

  Me and Beth and Charlie all cheer. We like the idea of choosing our own bedtime. It means we can finish the Sim city we’re working on. But most of all we want to wait up till Mum gets home.

  ‘Agreed?’ says Dad.

  ‘Yes,’ yell me and Beth and Charlie.

  ‘OK,’ says Dad. ‘I want you all in bed in three minutes. Which is just enough time to save your game, do your teeth and give me a very big kiss.’

  I look at Dad, confused.

  He does breathe in a bit of smoke at work sometimes from the burning buildings. Maybe it’s affected his brain.

  ‘But,’ I stammer. ‘You said…’

  ‘Bedtime Choices,’ grins Dad. ‘Your bedtime, my choice.’

  Me and Beth and Charlie stare at him.

  ‘Not fair,’ wail Beth and Charlie.

  I wonder if I should explain to Dad that he’s got it wrong. I decide not to. It might take more than three minutes.

  ‘We want to stay up till Mum gets home,’ I say quietly.

  Dad’s face goes serious.

  ‘I know you do, Jack,’ he says. ‘But she might be home pretty late. Very late, actually. As you know, she’s gone to the movies. I’m not sure what time her movie ends.’

  A small flicker of worry starts in the bottom of my guts. Like one of those little flames that can grow into a huge fire.

  Why doesn’t Dad know what time Mum’s movie ends? The movie times are on the internet. I bet the Prime Minister always knows what time his wife’s movie ends.

  Maybe Mum hasn’t gone where she told us she was going. To the local movie theatre. Maybe she’s gone to that big multiplex, the one on the very busy dangerous road. Maybe I was right when she was saying goodbye earlier and I saw that strange look on her face.

  The guilty one.

  I wondered then if something was going on and I’m wondering it again now.

  ‘Two and a half minutes,’ says Dad.

  As I lead Beth and Charlie off to the bathroom I wonder if Dad has got the words ‘gone to the movies’ wrong just like he got the words ‘bedtime choices’ wrong.

  If he has, that means Mum could be anywhere.

  I don’t ask Dad about it in case it upsets Beth and Charlie.

  That’s the thing about having a dad who’s a firefighter. Who risks his life every day at work. Who you can never be totally sure will come home safely.

  You grow up to be a kid who worries a lot.

  I can’t sleep.
>
  The worry flame is getting bigger and my insides are burning.

  I get out of bed and creep into the living room. Dad is asleep on the sofa in front of the telly. The clock says 11.47.

  MUM still isn’t home.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, giving him a prod.

  He opens his eyes.

  ‘Is Mum in hospital having a serious operation?’ I ask.

  Dad stares at me. Then he pulls me onto his lap.

  ‘No, mate,’ he says. ‘She’s not.’

  I can see he’s telling the truth. He’s got little crinkles round his eyes. Mum calls them crows feet. Dad calls them heat lines. I call them truth crinkles.

  ‘Is she having a love affair with another bloke?’ I ask.

  Dad doesn’t grin.

  Even though it’s a very crazy idea, he knows how awful it would be if she was.

  ‘No, Jack,’ he says. ‘Definitely not.’

  He’s still telling the truth.

  I tell him my last worry. That’s the great thing about a dad like him, you can. If I was voting for a Prime Minister, I’d always vote for one who lets you sit on their lap and tell them your worries.

  ‘Has Mum committed some crime,’ I say, ‘and she’s gone to hand herself in?’

  Now Dad does smile. But he’s shaking his head and his truth crinkles are still there.

  ‘So Mum really has just gone to the movies?’ I say.

  Perhaps tonight our local cinema is showing all six Star Wars movies back to back.

  ‘She really has,’ says Dad.

  I stare at him.

  Something has happened to his eyes. The truth crinkles have vanished. He’s not telling the truth.

  This is the second bad habit he’ll have to change. He doesn’t tell lies much, but you can’t tell them at all if you want to be Prime Minister.

  I don’t have that thought at the time.

  I’m too panicked.

  Plus, one second after I discover from Dad’s face that Mum isn’t at the movies, she walks in. Very slowly. Like she’s in pain. She looks even more pained when she sees I’m up.

  I stare at her, a worry bushfire ripping through me.

  Mum’s shirt is unbuttoned and underneath it I can see a big bandage round her chest.

  The other bad habit Dad will have to change if he’s ever Prime Minister is the one where he says he’s thinking about other people when he’s really thinking about himself.