Pizza Cake Read online

  ‘Didn’t you think he was brave?’ says Glenn.

  ‘We thought he was selfish,’ says Mum. ‘We begged him not to go off on any more rescues. But every time all he’d say was, piece of cake.’

  Glenn stares at Mum.

  She’s never said this before.

  ‘You mean pizza cake,’ he says.

  Mum looks at him, puzzled.

  ‘Pizza cake?’ she says. ‘No, he used to say piece of cake. It’s a stupid expression that means something’s as easy as eating a piece of cake. Which, when it involves mountains or storms at sea, it’s not.’

  Glenn sits up in bed.

  Cold panic is starting to churn his insides.

  ‘You didn’t hear it properly,’ he says to Mum. ‘What Grandad used to say was pizza cake.’

  Mum gives a bitter laugh.

  ‘I lived with him for about twenty years longer than you did,’ she says. ‘Trust me, it was piece of cake.’

  ‘No,’ says Glenn. ‘Pizza cake.’

  Mum rolls her eyes. She calls out to Dad, who is shambling towards the bathroom.

  ‘What was it my father used to say each time he went off to try to get killed?’

  Dad pauses and hitches up his pyjama trousers.

  ‘Something about taking the biscuit?’ he says. ‘No, hang on, piece of cake.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mum.

  She turns triumphantly to Glenn.

  But Glenn isn’t arguing any more. He’s flopped back into bed, sick with panic. He’s trying not to think about how his life has just fallen apart.

  The stupid risks he’s taken.

  Unprotected.

  The rest of his life, scarily ahead of him.

  Totally unprotected.

  Glenn struggles out of bed. He can’t let himself think these thoughts. Not yet.

  First he has to get to the church and warn Dougal.

  Dougal was right. St Catherine’s is a big church.

  Very big.

  Glenn recognises it as soon as he sprints out of the side street. It’s the church where they had Grandad’s funeral.

  Glenn crouches on the front steps, gasping for breath after running all the way from home. Once his breathing gets quieter, he creeps closer to the big doors and listens.

  He can’t hear sounds of laughter. Or jeering. And there’s no fire engine out the front. It’s not too late. He’s in time to warn Dougal.

  Glenn opens the door a crack.

  The church is full of people. Hundreds. Glenn closes the door.

  OK, he says to himself. This is going to be scary, walking in among all those strangers and finding Dougal and getting him out of there before he makes a fool of himself. It’s going to be one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Specially if Dougal is angry with me for being wrong about pizza cake. What if he loses it and gets violent? And chases me through the wrong door and I get wedged behind the christening font and they have to get the fire brigade to rescue me and I’m on the national news and everyone at school laughs at me for the rest of my life?

  Glenn pulls himself together.

  Time for a quick couple of mouthfuls.

  He reaches into his pocket.

  And remembers.

  For a second he wants to run. To the nearest bed and hide under the covers. Forever.

  But he can’t.

  He has to warn Dougal.

  Glenn pushes open the door and goes in.

  Too late. The minister’s voice is booming around the huge church, introducing Dougal. A proud grandson who wants to say a few words about his beloved nan. Dougal is standing up. He’s walking to the front of the church. He turns and faces the congregation.

  Glenn waves frantically at him.

  I’m too far up the back, thinks Glenn anxiously. He’ll never see me.

  But Dougal does.

  He squints at Glenn, gives him a little wave, a quick thumbs up and pats the pocket of his funeral trousers. Then he squares his shoulders and starts speaking in a loud and fairly confident voice.

  ‘It’s a miracle my nan fits in there,’ says Dougal, pointing to the coffin behind him. ‘Cause her heart is bigger than … than …’

  Oh no, thinks Glenn, ‘here we go.’

  ‘… than a cricket oval,’ says Dougal.

  A gentle wave of fond laughter ripples around the church.

  Dougal beams.

  Glenn watches anxiously.

  ‘I want to tell you some of the things her big heart did for us all,’ says Dougal, sounding more confident with every word.

  Of course he’s confident, thinks Glenn. He doesn’t know yet. He still thinks the pizza cake is helping him.

  Glenn wonders how to break the news.

  But he stays silent, partly because he’s scared to butt in, and partly because he’s slowly realising something.

  The pizza cake is helping Dougal. It’s helping him because he believes it will.

  Just because I can’t ever be brave again, thinks Glenn, that’s no reason Dougal can’t. He can get his own pizza cake each week and have a fearless life. As long as I don’t tell him.

  Glenn slips quietly out of the church.

  He reaches the street, and heads towards his place. Then he stops. He turns round and walks in the opposite direction towards the cemetery.

  It’s months since he’s visited Grandad’s grave.

  This feels like a good time to do it.

  The cemetery is quite big, and Glenn gets a bit lost for a while, but he finds the grave at last.

  ‘Hello, Grandad,’ he says, standing in front of the marble slab. ‘You probably think I’m a bit of a dope. But thanks anyway. The pizza cake helped me a lot, even though you probably haven’t got a clue what it is.’

  To fill Grandad in, Glenn lists the times pizza cake helped him be brave. The garlic aunties and the school roof and the pooey nappies, everything.

  By the time Glenn has finished, he’s starving. He remembers why. He sprinted out of the house without any breakfast, and now he’s weak with hunger.

  He goes through his pockets. Nothing. Just a piece of pizza cake left over from yesterday.

  Glenn sits on the end of Grandad’s grave and eats it. Now that it’s just cake, it’s actually a bit too sweet. But when you haven’t had breakfast it’s better than nothing.

  While he chews, Glenn has a thought.

  All those brave things Grandad did, he did them on his own.

  Without pizza cake.

  How?

  Glenn stares at the shiny black marble of Grandad’s headstone.

  Maybe, he thinks, when you’ve done something a few times, it gets a bit easier. Grandad spent his whole life being brave, which gave him plenty of experience at it.

  Glenn realises he can see his own reflection in the headstone.

  Me too, he thinks. I’ve had a fair bit of experience of being brave too.

  ‘Look who it isn’t,’ says a loud sneering voice.

  Startled, Glenn looks up. Looming over him is a tough-looking boy he vaguely recognises.

  Oh no.

  It’s the big bowler from yesterday.

  Glenn stands up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ says the boy with a threatening scowl. ‘This is our cemetery.’

  ‘How can it be your cemetery?’ says Glenn.

  ‘My dead uncle’s buried here,’ says the boy. ‘He died in a karate accident. But not before he taught me everything he knew.’

  The boy takes a couple of steps closer to Glenn.

  Now he’s standing very close.

  Suddenly Glenn understands. The church down the street. And the school next to it. St Catherine’s.

  ‘You’re dead meat,’ says the boy. ‘You might have fluked a win against us at cricket, but it was a big mistake coming over here for a gloat.’

  Glenn struggles to keep his voice from wobbling.

  ‘I’m not gloating,’ he says. ‘I’m visiting my dead grandad. He died in a hang-gliding accident. Bu
t not before he taught me everything he knew.’

  The boy hesitates. Then he scowls again.

  ‘Smarty pants, eh?’ he says. ‘This the old codger’s grave here, is it? Good, I need a leak and all this marble looks exactly like a bathroom to me.’

  He starts to unzip his fly.

  Glenn takes a step forward and stares directly up into the boy’s eyes.

  ‘Remember yesterday,’ he says, ‘when I wasn’t scared of your bowling? That’s because I’m fearless. You’ve probably never tangled with a fearless person before, have you?’

  Feeling sick, he waits for this to sink in, his eyes not leaving the boy’s.

  After what seems to Glenn like several years, the boy looks away. And zips his pants back up.

  ‘Not wasting good pee here,’ growls the boy. ‘We’ve got a lemon tree at home needs it.’

  He stamps away.

  Suddenly Glenn’s legs don’t feel completely fearless any more. He sits back down on the corner of Grandad’s grave and takes a few moments to recover. He catches sight of his own reflection again in the shiny marble.

  There’s a grin on his face.

  He’s never felt like this before.

  Trembling, but really good.

  He gives Grandad a thumbs up.

  Then, once his legs start working again, Glenn heads back towards the church to meet Dougal after the service.

  On the way he thinks about the big bowler and hears himself say something he’s never said before. He says it very quietly. So quietly he’s not completely sure it’s him saying it, but he’s pretty sure it is.

  ‘Piece of cake.’

  Charles The Second

  My name is Charles Rennie Mackintosh and I wish it wasn’t.

  I’m nervy enough as it is. The last thing I need is a name everyone thinks is hilarious.

  Well, not everyone. Mostly just the kids in my class.

  ‘Look, it’s Charles Rennie Mackintosh,’ they say several times a day. ‘Could that be the legendary early-twentieth-century Scottish furniture design genius?’

  Everyone sniggers because they know what’s coming next.

  ‘Oh no,’ they say. ‘Our mistake. It’s just farty-pants.’

  They’re right, I’m not the legendary early-twentieth-century Scottish furniture design genius. I was born in Australia but now we live in London. I’m in year seven. I don’t even do woodwork.

  And I am a bit of a farty-pants.

  I’ve tried every type of diet to stop it. Meat-free, wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, spice-free, fruit-and-veggie-free, bubble-gum-free. I even tried food-free for a few days. That didn’t work either. I just got so weak that when I did one I almost fell over.

  Mum says it’s because I’m so nervy. The doctor says my digestive process is a victim of stress. The kids at school say I let one out so often I should have an exhaust pipe.

  They’re right, but I wish they weren’t so cruel and unkind about it.

  Specially as it’s their fault.

  Nobody thought my name was hilarious till our new art teacher, Mr Pugh, arrived. At the start of his first lesson he noticed my name on the class list.

  ‘Amazing,’ he said, looking around the class. ‘Charles Rennie Mackintosh, where are you?’

  I put my hand up.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Mr Pugh, beaming at me. ‘You must be named after the legendary early-twentieth-century Scottish furniture design genius.’

  I looked at him, puzzled and confused. I’d never even heard of the other Charles Rennie Mackintosh. None of us had.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m named after a singer and a dead dog and my dad, sir.’

  I explained that Ray Charles is Dad’s favourite singer and Rennie was a dog Mum had when she was a kid in Adelaide and Mackintosh is Dad’s family name even though we’re not Scottish.

  Mr Pugh looked a bit puzzled and confused.

  Then he spent the rest of the lesson telling us about the other Charles Rennie Mackintosh, who as well as designing furniture also designed plumbing, curtains, pottery, jewellery, rooms, oil paintings, clocks, buildings and cutlery.

  Mr Pugh went online and put photos on the whiteboard of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s own house, which is on display in an art gallery in Glasgow. Not the photos, the actual house.

  You couldn’t see why they’d bother. It was a bit boring. The rooms were all decorated the same, mostly white. And there were little pieces of blue glass stuck in the middle of the doors and bed-heads and kitchen cupboards. It looked a bit mental. I felt sort of embarrassed for both us Charles Rennie Mackintoshes.

  Then it happened.

  ‘Your house sucks, Mackintosh’ muttered somebody behind me. ‘It looks like a very old iBook.’

  Everyone laughed.

  I’d never had a whole class laughing at me before.

  I went so tense my tummy hurt and before I knew it I’d let one out. A loud one. Which had never happened to me in public before.

  Everyone laughed again.

  Which made it happen again.

  Mr Pugh hardly even noticed. He just told us all to be quiet and carried on showing us pictures of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s very weird furniture. Including very tall chairs with bits of wood missing from their backs on purpose.

  ‘Look,’ somebody whispered. ‘His chairs have got air holes.’

  I glanced around the room. The class were grinning at each other and sniggering at me.

  I could see exactly what they were thinking.

  Farty-pants chairs.

  I don’t get the school bus anymore.

  It’s too stressful with everyone putting on those fake Scottish accents. I’d rather walk. It’s only another half hour.

  Anyway, Mum’s got me on a high-fibre diet at the moment, which means I have to eat these sorghum pellets straight after school and I’d rather do it in private.

  Yuk, they taste horrible.

  ‘Charles Rennie Mackintosh,’ says a voice behind me. ‘Slow down, yeah?’

  I turn.

  A girl in my class is hurrying towards me. Her name’s Jane something. She’s hardly ever spoken to me before.

  ‘Alright?’ she says.

  ‘I’m in a rush,’ I mutter, hurrying away.

  She’s probably on a dare. A mockery dare. I glance up and down the street to see if any of the others are hiding in hedges or front gardens.

  They don’t seem to be.

  ‘I know how you feel, Chas,’ she says, catching up and walking next to me.

  I give her a look. I doubt she does know, seeing as she hasn’t got the same name as a legendary early-twentieth-century Scottish furniture design genius and, to the best of my knowledge, she’s never let one off in class.

  ‘I’ve got a suss name too,’ she says. ‘Jane Austen, innit.’

  I shrug.

  ‘What’s so bad about that?’ I say.

  ‘Jane Austen,’ she says. ‘You know.’

  I don’t know. I’ve never heard of Jane Austen.

  ‘Story writer,’ says Jane. ‘Centuries ago. You want classic novels and literature and stuff, she’s the business. Mr Bailey says she’s well legendary.’

  Mr Bailey, our English teacher, is obviously keeping this to himself because he hasn’t said anything to the rest of us. I wish Mr Pugh was more like him.

  ‘People gunna get the goss on her one day,’ says Jane. ‘When they do, I’m knackered.’

  She’s right. Knowing the kids in our class, she will be.

  ‘Why did your parents call you that?’ I say.

  ‘It was my gran in Jamaica,’ she says. ‘When I was born, my mum was missing Gran so much she let her choose my name. Not clever, eh?’

  I shake my head sympathetically.

  My parents weren’t clever either, it turns out. The thought makes my tummy hurt.

  Jane Austen sniffs and wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Was that you?’ she says.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, fanning the a
ir behind me. ‘What’ll you do if people find out about your name?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she says. ‘They’ll probably start dissing me about historic prose styles and satirical subtexts and that.’

  I nod. They probably will if they know what those things are. Which I don’t. I’m impressed. I’ve never met a kid before who can talk like Mr Bailey.

  ‘Listen,’ says Jane. ‘Wanna do a deal? If I look out for you now, will you look out for me if I get sprung?’

  I think about this.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  She doesn’t tell me how she’s going to look out for me. Just gives me a thumbs up and heads off.

  I feel myself grinning.

  There probably isn’t anything she can do to help. But it feels good, having Jane Austen watching my back.

  By the time I get home I’m exhausted. Sorghum pellets just don’t give you the energy for long-distance walking.

  ‘I’m home, Mum,’ I yell. ‘I’m going up for a snooze.’

  I stop at the bottom of the stairs.

  Something smells strange. Like wet paint.

  ‘Come in here, Charlie,’ calls Mum from the living room.

  I go down the hall. But I don’t go into the living room straight away. Instead I stare at the door. This morning when I went to school it was just wood. Now it’s got little pieces of glass in it, arranged in a pattern. Light is coming through the bits of glass, making them glow.

  They’re blue.

  I think I’ve seen bits of glass like that somewhere before.

  ‘In here, Charlie,’ calls Dad.

  That’s unusual. They must both have finished work early. Usually they only do that when I have a medical appointment.

  I go into the living room. And almost fall over with shock.

  Our carpet has gone. So has our wallpaper. The armchairs, dining chairs and TV have gone too.

  Everything’s white. The whole room. Walls and floorboards. And white armchairs that I’ve never seen before, weird-shaped ones. Our dining table used to be light brown, but now it’s white. Around it are white dining chairs, really tall ones, with bits of wood missing from their backs.

  I stare at them.

  I know where I’ve seen chairs like that before.

  ‘What do you think?’ says Mum.

  She and Dad are standing by the fireplace, grinning. They’ve got old clothes on and they’re both covered in white paint splotches.