So Festy! Read online

  It’s enough for me. ‘I get your point,’ I say. Then I think of something. ‘If you won’t diet, and you won’t dance, how are you at making conversation?’

  Mitch frowns and scratches his head. He shrugs, then grunts.

  I can’t help laughing. ‘Not too good.’

  ‘Not too bad, either,’ disagrees Mitch. ‘If it’s the right topic of conversation.’

  ‘Lesson One,’ I say and stand to face Mitch. ‘Conversation with a Girl. Pretend you’re a girl ’n I’m a guy ’n we’re at Bonnie’s party…’

  With no further encouragement Mitch is off. ‘My, how I just adore that skirt you’re wearing. That colour! Melon is so-o-o in.’ I can’t stop myself from grinning. ‘And aren’t they the most divine shoes!’ Mitch flips his wrist. ‘Platforms are to die for. And did you see who Janie came to the party with? Well, more to the point—did you see who Janie left the party with?’ Mitch pretends to go into a swoon.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I interrupt. ‘I get your point. You have no—absolutely no trouble with small talk.’

  Mitch grins, a satisfied look on his face, then says, ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Well, what about kissing?’ I ask. ‘Expert in that, too, are you?’

  Mitch’s face falls.

  ‘Ha!’ I slap him on the back. ‘I knew I’d get you!’

  ‘But you’re no good at kissing, either,’ counters Mitch.

  ‘Am, so,’ I bluff.

  ‘Not,’ says Mitch.

  ‘Watch this. The Perfect Pash.’ To prove my point I pucker up and using the back of my hand I demonstrate.

  Mitch doubles up. He crosses his legs. He’s laughing so much he’ll cack himself.

  ‘Debonair Duncan!’ he announces. ‘Not!’ In between giggles he adds, ‘That’s the Perfect Peck. Not the Perfect Pash.’

  I can feel my face start to go red, but I’m not going to let him get the better of me. ‘You mean you want some tongue action? I can give tongue.’ I half-curl my fingers into a fist, but loosely, so they’re nice and hollow. I hold up my hand to show Mitch, then get to work.

  I can remember when I started giving myself kissing lessons and I can remember why. It was when Harley and Craig came to school with matching love bites on their necks—boasting about how they got them at this party. I remember how everyone lined up behind the carpark for a look, and how jealous I was. It was then that I decided if I ever got some action myself, I would be prepared. I’ve been practising at home ever since.

  I glance over at Mitch. He’s now on his hands and knees, looking like he’s about to cark it. ‘You’re killing me,’ he says in between gasps and giggles and grunts.

  ‘Just call me Liquid Lips—or Lover Lips,’ I say as I run my tongue along my forefinger and thumb, setting Mitch off again.

  Just then, Harley, Craig, Bonnie and the others walk past. Even I have to admit, we must look pretty stupid. Me making out with my fist and Mitch on his hands and knees, belly wrestling. By the looks on their faces they agree.

  ‘Grotty Chops!’

  ‘Melon Butt!’

  ‘Get a life!’

  Chapter Four

  It’s Sunday, four o’clock, and things are looking sweet.

  ‘This GCQ campaign has definitely worked,’ I say to Mitch.

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Mitch. Getting to his feet, he prances around the room saying, ‘I can shake this Melon Butt as good as the next guy.’

  I laugh. ‘Shaking is fine, but watch you don’t shake it off. We don’t want your bum bouncing around the dance floor.’

  Mitch gives me a look to make me drop. ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’

  ‘What do you think of our stripey shirts?’ I ask.

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘And what about these baggie denims?’

  ‘Super cool!’

  ‘And these black runners?’

  ‘Mega cool!’

  Being a pop star is so much fun, I think to myself. ‘Hey. I’ve borrowed some gel from Sian and her Yve magazine. We can spike our hair just like the models.’

  ‘I don’t want mine spiked,’ says Mitch, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I prefer that carefully tousled, just-got-out-of-bed sort of look.’ He tosses his head so that his hair bounces out, then settles in a careful mess.

  I punch him in the guts, gentle like. ‘What would you know about a just-got-out-of-bed sort of look?’

  Mitch pretends to look offended. ‘Moi?’ he says, heavily accented, then he begins to sing, ‘Voulez vous coucher avec moi c’est soir?’

  I punch him again, mainly because I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes, fluffing and flicking, flicking and fluffing. ‘Fancy doing this every day,’ I say to Mitch as a random curl refuses to straighten. ‘I’d go bonkers.’

  ‘Movie stars and pop stars do it every day—sometimes for hours.’

  ‘At least they get paid for it,’ I concede.

  ‘There’ll be a pay-off for us tonight, mate,’ says Mitch. With his arms around an imaginary girl he whizzes her around the bedroom, then stops, and gives a beauty of an air kiss. Smack!

  ‘We should be so lucky,’ I say.

  ‘Hey? Not having second thoughts, are you?’ asks Mitch, letting his imaginary girl drop. ‘Not after all the trouble we’ve gone to.’

  I shake my head. ‘No way! Those invitations cost me.’ In the end I had decided to go for ‘Corruption of a Minor’ and bribed Sian to get some for me when she visited Bonnie’s sister. Twenty bucks! The rip-off artist. But now, looking at Mitch and I dressed to kill, it’s worth it.

  ‘Let’s see if we’ve forgotten anything,’ I say to Mitch. ‘Invitations?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Pop star clothes?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Groovy hair?’

  ‘Check.’ Mitch grins and waggles his finger. ‘Charm, wit and clever conversation.’

  ‘Check!’ we both say at the same time and collapse in a fit of giggles.

  Just then Dad walks past and sticks his head in my room. He whistles. ‘My, my. Don’t you two look handsome.’

  ‘We’re going to Bonnie’s party,’ I tell him.

  Dad’s eyes grow misty. ‘Parties!’ he says with a sigh. ‘I remember my first party…’ Then, a look of terror flits across his face. ‘Have you got some breath freshener?’ he asks, his voice slightly hysterical.

  ‘No!’ I look at Mitch and gasp, ‘We forgot breath freshener!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Dad. ‘You can chew parsley instead.’

  ‘But then we’ll have green bits in our teeth!’ I exclaim.

  Dad nods. ‘Yeah. Ditch the parsley.’ And with that he makes his exit.

  Mitch and I brush our teeth, eat a mint and chew spearmint gum.

  ‘Maybe we should use a mouth wash?’ says Mitch. ‘You know, to make sure.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I say and I walk over to him and stand two centimetres away. ‘We’ll test. I’ll huff in your face and you puff in mine.’ Huhhhh!

  ‘Seedy!’ says Mitch pulling a face. ‘Did you eat something with garlic?’

  I clasp my fingers over my mouth, and look at him in a panic.

  ‘You should see your face,’ says Mitch, giving a hoot of laughter before adding, ‘Just joshing!’

  I could kill him. This is no time for joking. I glance at my watch. ‘Six o’clock already. Time to go.’ Crunch time. Neither of us moves. ‘Come on. Up and at ‘em,’ I say, pushing Mitch towards the door.

  Calling, Bye, to Mum and Dad we go out. At the front gate I turn round. Sian is watching from her window. She holds up her thumb for good luck. I wave back, with much more confidence than I feel.

  ‘What if we don’t get in?’ asks Mitch as we get to the corner.

  ‘Don’t be silly. There’s going to be nearly a hundred people there. What’s two more?’

  We walk on in silence.

  ‘What if they call us Grotty Chops and Melon B
utt in front of everyone?’

  ‘We ignore it,’ I say, but I’m shaky on it.

  ‘What if everyone’s in normal clothes and we’re the only two who are dressed up?’ goes on Mitch. ‘We’ll look like losers!’

  I slow my pace. I need a minute to think. My heart is starting to pound. ‘You heard the kids at school talking about what they were going to wear. Of course they’re all dressing up!’

  Mitch and I have now slowed to a shuffle.

  ‘What if no-one will dance with us?’ I ask, angry at my too-small voice.

  ‘Or even speak to us?’ adds Mitch.

  The silence hangs heavy.

  ‘What if everyone laughs at us?’ I squeak.

  Mitch has started to sweat. Blisters are breaking out on his nose, his forehead. My underarms start to trickle. My heart is lodging a protest. I look around wildly, expecting a group of jeering kids to be standing behind me. But they’re not. There’s only a pizza shop. I squint up my eyes to read the sign.

  Two-for-the-price-of-one, it says. Then in fine print. For all orders between 5.30-6.30 pm.

  Mitch is standing patiently. I check my watch. I point to the sign. I hate myself for doing this but I say to him, Mitch-who-loves-food-more-than-he-loves-anything, ‘Wanna pizza?’

  ‘Sure!’ says Mitch, nodding so hard that sweat droplets fly through the air. We scramble for the door. Pathetic, eh?

  ‘We can always go after,’ I say, fingering the invitation in my pocket.

  ‘Sure,’ says Mitch, again. Reaching for our wallets we put in our order. The man from the pizza shop hands us some slips of paper. ‘Fill those in, boys,’ he says. ‘And drop them in that bucket. It’s to go in a draw. Some lucky diner’s going to win a voucher for free pizzas tonight.’

  ‘Supreme’s great,’ says Mitch, munching away about twenty minutes later.

  ‘So’s ham and pineapple.’

  ‘Vego’s not bad.’

  ‘Neither’s the pepperoni.’

  Mitch and I would never normally order four family-sized pizzas, but you have to admit, tonight’s not a normal night. Just as I’m shoving my third piece of pizza in my mouth a car pulls up out the front. It stops in such a hurry that the brakes squeal. A man and a girl get out, doors slamming as they race inside. At the same time the man is calling, ‘Order for Pirecki!’

  Pirecki! I choke on a piece of cabanossi.

  The girl spins around. ‘Fancy meeting you two here!’

  Bonnie is dressed in a grunge sort of glam—like a cross between Britney and Avril.

  Mitch stops chewing, a corner of pizza hangs from his mouth. He leans back, as though he’s trying to blend in with the booth. It’s not working. I can’t help laughing. Mum always says you gotta go careful with stripes. ‘Hi,’ mumbles Mitch.

  ‘Hi,’ I mumble myself.

  Bonnie marches over to the table. She takes in the four—yes, Bonnie you counted them right— four cartons of family-sized pizza. Slowly she runs her eyes down the length of me, from the tip of my gelled hair to the tip of my black shoes. She does the same to Mitch.

  ‘You two look awfully dressed up for eating pizza.’

  I don’t know what to say or do. Say nothing and keep chewing? Swallow my mouthful—chewless—and risk further embarrassment? Or spit it out? Mitch looks like he’s trying to make a similar decision. He opts to shove the dangly bit into his mouth and gives a warped smile—warped because his lips are trying to hold a whole piece of pizza in. And then it echoes around the whole joint, loud enough to make people stare.

  ‘Grotty Chops!’

  ‘Melon Butt!’

  ‘Get a life!’

  Chapter Five

  And the winner of the Pizza Give-Away is…Duncan Dunbar!

  ‘Yah-hoooo!’ I shout, punching the air.

  Mitch is clapping his hands, saying, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ He does a little dance still in his seat, like a hula gone wrong.

  I almost take out an old lady in my hurry to reach the counter to collect my prize. ‘What have I won?’ I ask.

  The man gives a chuckle. ‘A voucher for ten free pizzas, mate.’

  It takes a second to register. Ten! I think to myself. Hooley Dooley! I go back and tell Mitch. ‘Enough to eat pizza every Sunday night for the rest of term,’ I say.

  Before Mitch can answer a large group of kids migrate into the pizza shop. I nudge Mitch. It is Harley, Craig and their mob. Mitch and I slink low in our booth.

  ‘Worst night on record,’ Harley is saying.

  I blink in shock. Is he talking about Bonnie’s?

  ‘Worst party I’ve ever been to,’ agrees Craig.

  I shake my head. This doesn’t make sense.

  ‘Grotty Chops and Melon Butt were lucky not to be invited,’ Craig goes on. At the mention of our names we ooze down further.

  ‘Add those two and the party would be j-u-u-st perfect!’ says Harley, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Other voices join in. ‘I can’t believe the DJ didn’t turn up.’

  ‘The music’s from Boppety Bops.’

  ‘Talk about boring!’

  I frown as I try to make sense of what they are saying.

  ‘Not Bonnie’s party, surely?’ Mitch whispers.

  ‘We’d have more fun at home,’ says one voice.

  I risk a peek. There’s a collage of angry faces.

  ‘I’m starving,’ says one voice.

  ‘There’s nothing to drink…’

  ‘And can you believe they ran out of pizza?’

  At the mention of the ‘p’ word I grin and wink at Mitch, holding up the voucher.

  ‘Let’s see how much money we’ve got,’ says Craig. They rifle through wallets and pockets, only to come up with, ‘Seven bucks fifty.’ Together they peer at the menu. ‘It’s not enough!’ says Craig, throwing the coins down in disgust.

  ‘Hey, mate!’ says Harley. ‘Got anything for seven bucks fifty?’

  The man thinks for a moment. ‘Two servings of garlic bread or one garden salad.’

  ‘Great,’ moans Harley. ‘One lettuce leaf each.’

  ‘We’ll take the garlic bread,’ says Craig. He turns to the others. ‘And then we better head back to the party, before Mrs Pirecki realises we’re missing.’

  Mitch and I watch. They leave, with Craig carefully doling out slices of garlic bread and starving kids shoving them into their mouths.

  ‘Shame that the party’s a fizzer,’ I say.

  ‘Bummer,’ agrees Mitch.

  ‘Shame that they’re all hungry,’ I say.

  ‘Bummer,’ agrees Mitch.

  ‘Shame they’ve got no money.’

  ‘Major bummer.’

  Together we start to laugh. Just then, I notice the voucher on our table. ‘Shame to let them kids go hungry,’ I say, twirling the voucher under Mitch’s nose.

  ‘What?’ asks Mitch, his eyebrows joining as one.

  ‘Shame to let all those kids go hungry,’ I repeat, then add, ‘when there’s ten good pizzas just here.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ says Mitch, playing with his belt buckle and scowling. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘All those starving, ravenous kids,’ I say, picking up the sauce bottle and showing it to him. ‘So hungry they’d eat anything.’ I walk towards the pizza man and place the voucher on the counter…

  By the time we rock up to Bonnie’s party it is after ten o’clock. ‘Party’s almost over,’ I say to Mitch.

  ‘They’ll be coming out soon.’

  ‘Better get on with it,’ I say.

  ‘Yup,’ says Mitch, and he begins to open a carton.

  Ten minutes later and the front door opens. Kids stream out. But as they reach the front gate, they stop. Some sniff the air.

  ‘Mmmmm!’ says a voice. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Delicious!’

  ‘Yummy.’

  Laid out on the low brick fence, as far as the eye can see, are pizzas. Cheese, ground beef, salami, capsicum, mushroom, o
nion, chicken, anchovy, pepperoni, cabanossi, ham and pineapple—the list goes on.

  Harley reaches for a piece when I stop him by saying, ‘Ah, ah, ah-h-h!’ and shaking my finger at him. ‘Everyone has to share.’

  By now the front garden has swelled to a crowd. I can recognise almost everyone in our year. Even Bonnie comes out. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks.

  ‘Surprise!’ I shout. ‘Happy Birthday, Bonnie.’

  Bonnie does look surprised but not so surprised that she holds back when we offer her pizza.

  ‘Form a queue,’ says Mitch. ‘One at a time.’

  In no time at all, the pizzas disappear. They barely touch the sides—which is just the way I want it.

  ‘Thanks, er, Duncan,’ says Craig. ‘M-Mitch.’

  Mitch and I look at each other and grin. ‘Our pleasure!’

  Come early Monday Mitch and I set ourselves up beside the sports equipment shed where we can get a good view of the toilet block. At 8.15 am we get our first ‘customer.’ By 8.27 am there’s a steady stream. Then by 8.35 am they’re starting to queue. Boy’s loo, girl’s loo, they’re both the same.

  ‘Look at Harles!’ I whisper to Mitch as he exits the toilets from one door, then joins the queue at the other.

  ‘Walking a bit funny don’t you think?’ says Mitch with a laugh.

  I scan down the girl’s queue. Some are standing tall and straight, others are crouched low, but all with misery written over their faces. Bonnie is clutching her bum.

  ‘What exactly did you put on those pizzas?’ asks Mitch.

  ‘Sweet Chilli Sauce mixed with tomato sauce,’ I say with a chuckle. ‘Ring burn guaranteed.’

  ‘Ouch,’ says Mitch, with an exaggerated wince. ‘Raw deal.’

  ‘You mean bum deal,’ I say with a chuckle. I look out at the playground—kids fanning their behinds, kids clutching their bums, kids walking with funny mincing steps. I turn to Mitch and add, ‘Not much of a life.’ And then I get another brilliant idea…