So Sick!

  To Lauren, Natalie and Courtney.

  With thanks to my family.

  J.A. MAWTER

  For Huntly. This is your sort of book. Enjoy!

  GUS GORDON

  Contents

  Jellyfish Undies

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Footrot Fair

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Pee Pee Poo

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  The Smelling Bee

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY J.A. MAWTER

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Jellyfish Undies

  Chapter One

  Jellyfish undies suck.

  But not as much as seaweed undies. Now, they tickle your nads — crabs creeping, sea lice leaping — and make you want to re-arrange your skin!

  No, jellyfish undies don’t do that. They just swill around your cheeks, jamming up your crack and jousting with your balls. That scientist who said jellyfish have no brains didn’t know what he was on about.

  I guess you’re wondering how come I was wearing jellyfish undies. ‘Cause Ollie wore the seaweed ones, that’s why. Now, before you go thinking we’re sickos or something, let me explain.

  HSIE. That’s Human Society and It’s Environment.

  It’s this subject at school that Mr Bryson teaches. This term we’re studying ‘Environmental Matters’.

  Load of crap! I’m not being off. I’m talking sewerage. You see, sewerage is a load of crap but it’s also an environmental matter. Well, Mr Bryson thinks so. And it’s because sewerage is a load of crap and an environmental matter that we’re doing this presentation. It’s on sewerage treatment plants. Bor-r-ring! you might say. And you’d be dead right. As boring as. So Ollie n’ me decided to make it more interesting . . .

  It all started when the toilet at school got bunged up. It took a couple of morons — and a mountain of loo paper — before anyone realised it wouldn’t flush. Mr Bryson had been trying to get a plumber out for days but there was some sort of delay. So, he’d stuck this big sign on the door saying, Toilet Blocked. Do Not Use. Penalty of Death. Fun-n-n-y! Anyway, that meant we were down to four. You’d think four toilets would be plenty and normally it would, except when a plague of gastro comes to school. It hit faster than you can spell ‘p o o’.

  I was scoffing chips when the dreaded lurgy hit. It was as though nothing else existed but my gut and my butt. I did this runner and found . . . how impressive is this? A queue! First time in the history of schools the boys’ dunny has a queue!

  If I wasn’t so desperate I’d have gone to Mr Bryson and asked to use the teacher’s loo, but the way my gut was firing I was about to spray the floor. So I did what any self-respecting person would do. I ignored the dunny blocked sign, barrelled in and lifted the lid. The pong rose like a mushroom cloud from a nuclear reaction. I was too desperate to care.

  But the boys in the queue did. Especially Ollie.

  Ollie lets out this yelp. Only he didn’t just yelp. He said that word to describe what I was doing, the one we all know you should never use in school (not if you value your spare time). So, Ollie yells out the ‘s’ word. How could he know that at that exact same moment Miss Quinn would walk past?

  In storms Miss Quinn. A female in the boys’ dunny — she could get the sack for that!

  If I wasn’t in such a state I’d have seen the funny side of things. Ollie hollering till he was fit to bust and me coming out of the forbidden loo still doing myself up.

  ‘I had to!’ I cried. But would Miss Quinn give me a chance to explain? Course not. Dragged me through the playground with my fly still undone, calling for ‘Oliver Grant!’ to follow.

  We were marched to Mr Bryson. Past Stella Mazoni, a dead ringer for Britney Spears’ little sister and the love of my life. I tried to act cool, but it’s hard to look cool with your heels scraping the ground and an air vent in your daks.

  ‘It was the gastro,’ I began to explain to Mr Bryson ten minutes later. ‘The stench!’ says Ollie. ‘I was busting,’ I said.

  ‘It just popped out,’ goes on Ollie, putting a hand over his mouth to demonstrate.

  Mr Bryson would not listen. Instead, he gave us this foul lecture about foul diseases and foul mouths. ‘I’ll hear no more excuses,’ continued Mr Bryson. ‘Unless they come under the heading of Environmental Matters.’

  I wanted to protest, to pulverise the wall, the door, anything. But the only thing that got pulverised was me n’ Ollie.

  We got the assignment: the presentation on Environmental Matters. And just to rub our noses in it the topic Mr Bryson gave us?

  Sewerage Treatment Processes.

  ‘This is a fascinating topic, you two. See if you can do it justice.’

  Chapter Two

  Ollie n’ me went to the library to do research. It was while we were up to our eyeballs with important things like micro-organisms and oxidisation that a phrase caught my eye: beneficial bacteria.

  Now, I’ve always been fascinated by bugs. Not the creepy-crawly-on-your-arm sort of bugs, but the creepy-crawly-in-your-gut sort of bugs.

  I’m pretty sure it all goes back to ‘germs’. Remember when you didn’t wash your hands before dinner? You’ll get germs! Or if you didn’t wash your hands after a pee? You’ll get germs! Or if you shared your drink bottle, or touched a girl, even just sat at a girl’s desk? That’s right — germs!

  For a long time there they had me worried. In Year One I could’ve answered to Clean Bean or Neat Freak I was so particular. But then I noticed . . . I didn’t get sick after dinner. My hands didn’t drop off when I didn’t wash them. And girls were just girls. So, I gave germs the flick. But, here they were again.

  “Germs, aka bacteria.” Beneficial bacteria, what’s more.

  We learnt that these little guys were important. They actually, get this, eat sewerage.

  Sick!

  They eat the sewerage and help to turn it back to drinking water. And I thought those African tribes who drink their pee were off! But I was hooked. I wanted to learn more.

  Enter Pseudomonas putida.

  ‘Let’s do our talk,’ I said to Ollie, reading from a book at the same time, ‘on the bacteria that metabolise the organic materials in sewerage to release CO2, H2O and energy.’

  Ollie gave it some serious consideration. I could see him weighing up the scientific possibilities. Finally, he said, ‘Huh?’

  ‘Let’s do our talk on bacteria that eat sewerage to turn it back into the water we drink,’ I explained slowly.

  Ollie went greener than algae. ‘Are you serious? You mean that that stuff from the tap is … ?’

  ‘Got it in one, Einstein.’ I smiled and thumped him on the back. ‘It’s sewerage! Well, er, a by-product of sewerage.’

  Ollie looked like he was about to produce some by-products of his own.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that if we’re going to collect a few of these bacteria to show the class,’ I warned.

  ‘But I don’t want to collect any bacteria,’ snapped Ol.

  He can be a right pain sometimes. ‘If we collect the bacteria, make up a slide show, or something, it’ll make this presentation awesome. No way will Mr Bryson stay mad at us.’

  I could see Ol needed con
vincing. ‘You know where we had that fish fight last summer? The one where Karina Nelson fell in the rock pool and her cossie went see-through and she went as pink as hippos’ milk.’

  ‘Hippos don’t have pink milk,’ Ollie interrupted. ‘Sure they do.’ I rushed on before he asked for proof. ‘Well, near there is that big pipe, the big slimy looking one.’

  Ollie wasn’t saying much but I could see he was listening.

  ‘The one that looks like it’s festering.’ I crossed my arms and dropped my voice to a low whisper.

  ‘Well, that’s a sewer outlet.’ I nodded for emphasis. ‘Dad told me. They only use it when it’s been raining a lot and there’s too much water overflow.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Ollie had found his voice. ‘They’re not allowed to do that sort of thing. Green Getters would be plugging it up.’

  I put on my most official voice. ‘Green Getters don’t know. Dad works at the council. He saw the plans.’ I let that hang for a bit, then went on, ‘Well, that’s where we’ll find the Pseudomonas putida!’

  ‘How’re we gonna collect them?’ asked Ollie. He cut the air with his hand as he said, ‘There’s no way I’m doing breast stroke up a sewer outlet.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ I said in my most reassuring voice. ‘Meet me at the rock pools after school, say four o’clock.’

  When Ollie turned up I was more prepared than a boy scout. ‘Pseudomonas putida here we come,’ I said, holding up a bag.

  ‘Whatcha got?’ asked Ollie, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Scientific equipment,’ I said and sat down on my haunches to unload. ‘Two pairs of rubber gloves. Thanks Mum. One pooper scooper. Thanks Miffie. One jar.’ I squinted to see that it was clean, then smiled at Ollie. ‘Had to wash the jam out first.’

  Ollie and I stood up and walked past the rock pools. We peered over the jutting edge to see a wall of rock that dropped into the ocean below. The sewerage outlet was set low in the rock, probably so nuisance kids like us wouldn’t find it. I sniffed. ‘Mmmm. Smells fine. Like the sea.’ I beamed at Ollie. ‘This’ll be a cinch.’ I pulled on my gloves and lay my body along the rock ledge. Grabbing the jar, I reached down with the pooper scooper to get a sample.

  ‘Too short,’ said Ollie.

  ‘As if I don’t know!’

  I eased forwards, trying to get a grip on something to stop myself toppling over. An unexpected wave slammed into the rock face, pelting me with … Yuck! Flotsam. Or was that jetsam? Water poured from my face. Lucky my mouth was shut.

  Ollie chatted to the seagulls, tipping back his head, ha-ha-hee-hawing away. No seagull had ever seen such teeth.

  ‘Your turn,’ I growled. ‘Your knuckles almost scrape the ground. Wasn’t your great-grandfather a gorilla?’

  The pearly whites disappeared, along with the ha-has. ‘You’re nearly there,’ said Ollie, trying to sidetrack me. ‘Only a couple of centimetres to go.’

  He was right. Lumpy liquid trickled close. But not close enough. ‘I need a good six to seven centimetres to be able to get the jar underneath.’

  ‘Give me a try,’ said Ollie, hoicking me aside and pulling on his glove.

  Despite our best bacteria-hunting efforts, we still couldn’t reach.

  ‘There’s gotta be another way,’ said Ollie, looking over the rock ledge at the pipe. ‘But what?’

  We sat down on the warm rocks planning and scheming, scheming and planning. The wind fumbled with our hair. Every so often a wave would dash extra hard against the rock and cover us with a fine spray.

  ‘What about tying the jar to a stick?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘No string.’

  ‘What about tying some rope around you and lowering you down?’

  ‘No rope.’

  ‘What about you dangling over the side and me holding on to your feet?’

  ‘No way!’

  I stared at the water, rising and falling. I looked at the swell. The tide was in. The swell was full. Not a dumper in sight. ‘Maybe we could swim up to the opening?’

  Ollie shook his head and said, ‘We ain’t got no cossies.’

  A brilliant idea began to form. I looked down at my school shorts and flicked the band down to check. You see, some days I don’t wear undies. A smile invaded my face. I looked at Ollie, tugged at my shorts and said, ‘No problem, man.’

  Chapter Three

  Ollie looked at me, proudly posing in my Y-fronts. He wore a puzzled look on his face.

  I acted like I was doing breast stroke.

  The puzzled look turned pained. Ollie leapt to his feet shouting, ‘No way. Absolutely, positively, definitely not!’

  Five minutes and a Chinese burn later we were both down to our underdaks.

  Suddenly, I began to laugh.

  You know all those times when your grandma insists on you wearing nice undies just in case. I used to think just in case meant in case you were in an accident. So when you get all mangled and they strip you off in the emergency ward all these doctors and nurses would shriek, Oh, my gosh. Hasn’t he got lovely undies. Although, why they’d be doing that and not trying to save your life is beyond me. Probably all those doctors and nurses had grandmas like mine.

  Anyway, Grandma was right.

  Ollie’s undies had more spots on them than a Dalmatian running through a mud puddle.

  I laughed harder saying, ‘You look like you should be in a washing-powder commercial.’

  Ol just shrugged. That’s what I like about him. He couldn’t care less about how he looks. Any smart remarks and you’re wasting your breath. ‘We gonna do this, or what?’ he said.

  So, here’s what happened …

  We walk to the rock ledge and sit down. It’s easier to swing into the water from this position. I go first, surprised that the water’s not cold. ‘Come on in,’ I call, treading water and holding the jar at the same time.

  Ollie follows. He grins as he says, ‘N-i-i-ce!’

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I say.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that although the tide is full it’s only on the crest of a wave that we can reach the pipe. As soon as the wave breaks we’re sucked down too low.

  ‘We’ll have to hang on to the pipe with one hand and try to scoop up some scunge with the other,’ I say. ‘See if you can get a toehold and push me up.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Ollie, moving closer to the wall.

  We go up, we go down, but neither of us can get a grip. ‘It’s too hard holding the jar,’ I call to Ollie. ‘I’ll have to put it in my undies until I can hang on.’ I unscrew the lid and hand it to Ollie. ‘You mind this.’ Like me, he stuffs it down his Y-fronts.

  With my free hand I manage to reach a jutting rock just above the pipe and cling on.

  ‘Good one,’ says Ollie. ‘Now collect some of the brown stuff and let’s get outta here.’

  ‘I’m onto it,’ I say, reaching into my undies for the jar. The water’s weighed them down and they’re all floaty.

  Instead of finding something hard and slippery I find something soft and slippery.

  ‘Ugh!’ I yell at the top of my lungs.

  ‘Whazzup?’ asks Ollie with a giggle. ‘Something wrong with your tackle?’

  As I pluck out the jar I pull a face. Something is still in there. I can feel this quivery blob sucking its way from front to back.

  It’s an MGW. Major Gelatinous Wedgie.

  Ollie dives under the water to get a better look. He comes up spluttering and laughing. ‘Looks like a giant turd,’ he says.

  ‘Giant jellyfish more like it!’

  Ollie throws back his head. He laughs so much a nearby seagull takes flight. ‘Jellyfish don’t hurt, ya wuss.’

  I can feel it sucking at my skin. ‘Get it out!’ I roar. But Ollie roars louder. ‘I’m not putting my hand in there!’

  I’m still clinging to the rock. With that hand gone there’s only one thing I can do.

  I hold the jar as steady as I can and fill it with this stuff.
It’s mega dirty, and I don’t mean the colour. ‘Here, quick,’ I say and hand the jar to Ollie. ‘Put the lid on.’

  Ollie reaches for the jar. He’s treading water like a frog with ADD, trying to put the lid on at the same time.

  ‘What the … ?’ yells Ollie. He drops the lid but manages to scoop it up before it spirals to the depths.

  ‘Lucky ba—’ I begin to say, but I’m cut short.

  ‘Aaagh!’ yells Ollie. He’s churning water faster than a washing machine with a power surge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something in my undies!’ yells Ollie.

  ‘What? A jellyfish?’ I put on my what’s-the-matter-with-you face. ‘Won’t hurt you,’ I echo.

  ‘This ain’t no jellyfish,’ pants Ollie. His face contorts with pain. ‘Ouch!’

  Ollie.

  Now, it’s my turn to laugh. I let go of the rim of the pipe and launch myself back into the sea. ‘Here, gimme the jar,’ I say, swimming over to The next thing I know, a spray of seaweed is flung in my face.

  ‘Get lost!’ I yell. I flip to get out of the way, but an extra large wave catches me by surprise. I slam into Ollie. He lets go of the jar of precious Pseudomonas putida. It disappears quicker than you can say collywobble. ‘Now you’ve done it!’ I yell.

  I’m so mad. I grab the first thing that comes to hand and shove it down Ollie’s undies. It’s a frond of seaweed, no, a whole branch of seaweed. ‘Take that,’ I yell.

  I shouldn’t have taken Ollie on while we were in the water. He’s a better swimmer than me by far.

  ‘You take this, then!’ yells Ollie.

  Another jellyfish is shoved in my undies. And another. And another. They’re pulsating like leeches on steroids. There’s no time to pull them out. I have to get Ollie back. Whole plants of seaweed make their way into Ollie’s daks.

  We’re twisting and squirming and laughing and panting.