Just Disgusting! Page 2

  Some deal. I never had a say in it. As if I’d agree to a stupid deal like that.

  Jen sniggers. She pokes her fork into a brussel sprout and raises it to her lips.

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ she says, putting the sprout into her mouth and acting like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever tasted. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Andy.’

  I know she’s just trying to annoy me, but it gives me an idea.

  ‘OH NO!’ I say, jumping to my feet and pointing out the kitchen window. ‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT!’

  Mum, Dad and Jen all jump to their feet as well.

  ‘What is it?’ says Mum. ‘Is that cat back again?’

  ‘Are the birds on my new lawn?’ says Dad.

  ‘Is it Craig?’ says Jen. ‘But he said he wasn’t coming until later! I can’t let him see me like this!’

  While they’re all staring out of the window trying to figure out what I’ytext">Mum puts her head on the side and raises her ey’s plate. It’s too easy, really.

  ‘Just tricking,’ I say, sitting back down.

  Everybody else sits down as well.

  Mum sighs.

  Dad shakes his head.

  ‘Are you going to be an idiot all your life?’ says Jen.

  ‘Probably,’ I say. ‘The pay’s a bit average, but the hours are good ... and you can pretty much work whenever you want.’

  She ignores my reply, stabs the sprout I just put on her plate and puts it into her mouth.

  Do I feel any pity for her?

  No, I do not.

  She deserves it.

  One down. Four to go.

  ‘Excuse me, funny boy,’ says Dad. ‘Would you mind passing me the pepper?’

  I look at the pepper grinder. I hate pepper. It always makes me sneeze.

  Of course!

  Pepper! Sneezing! The oldest trick in the book! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

  ‘Sure,’ I say, quickly putting one of my brussel sprouts into my mouth.

  I pick up the pepper grinder, pass it across the table to Dad and then launch into the biggest fake sneeze in the history of big fake sneezes.

  Ah ...

  I grab my handkerchief out of my pocket

  AH...

  I unfold it and hold it up to my face.

  AH-CHOO!

  I spit the brussel sprout out into my handkerchief, wipe my nose and quickly put the whole lot back into my pocket.

  ‘Bless you,’ says Mum.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I think a bit of pepper got up my nose.’

  Mum nods.

  Jen’s still ignoring me.

  Dad’s grinding pepper onto his dinner.

  I got away with it again.

  I quickly shovel some chicken, gravy and potato into my mouth to get rid of the taste of the sprout.

  Two down. Three to go.

  I feel something nudge my foot.

  Sooty!

  He’s not supposed to be in the kitchen while we’re eating, but he’s managed to sneak in and hide underneath the table anyway.

  Which is fantastic, because Sooty eats anything.

  Even brussel sprouts.

  I hunch forward over my plate, conceal one of the sprouts in the palm of my hand and sneak it under the table into Sooty’s waiting wet mouth.

  Yes! He’s eating it!

  Good dog!

  He’ll be able to eat the other two for me as well.

  Suddenly the most disgusting eye-watering smell fills the kitchen.

  Mum looks at Dad.

  Dad looks at me.

  I look at Jen.

  Jen looks at Mum.

  We all shrug.

  Dad looks under the table. ‘How did that bloody dog get in here?’ he says, jumping up.

  Sooty shoots out from underneath the table.

  Dad chases him and shoos him out the back door.

  Damn.

  Just when I was so close!

  ‘I bet Andy let him in,’ says Jen. ‘He’s probably been giving him food under the table.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say. ‘As if.’

  Dad sits back down and looks at me suspiciously.

  ‘You haven’t been wasting good food on that mongrel, have you?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  I’m not lying, either. Whatever brussel sprouts are, they are definitely NOT good food.

  I eat the rest of my dinner and try to figure out how to get rid of the two remaining sprouts.

  I can’t put any more on Jen’s plate because she’s already finished hers. She’d be sure to notice. And I can’t sneeze again because my handkerchief is already full. And who’s going to help me now that Sooty’s gone?

  I know!

  Action Man.

  My Action Man undies, that is.

  It’s going to take a bit of skill to do it without anybody seeing me, but I think it’s possible.

  I stab the second last sprout with my fork and as I bring it up to my mouth I stretch open the front of my pants with my other hand. Then, just as I’m about to put the sprout into my mouth, I ease it off the end of my fork with my thumb. It drops down, straight into my undies.

  A direct hit!

  Sure, it feels disgusting, but I’d rather have a brussel sprout squishing around in my undies than squishing around in my stomach.

  Four down, one to go.

  But this one’s not going to be a problem.

  There’s a pile of chicken bones on my plate.

  I can just hide it under there.

  Then all I have to do is scrape the sprout off my plate and into the food scraps bin and the nightmare will be over. Here goes.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, grabbing my plate and getting up. ‘That was delicious. I’ll just clear the table.’

  ‘What?’ says Jen. ‘You NEVER clear the table!’

  ‘Not so fast, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘You haven’t quite finished.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘I’ve only got bones left. You can’t expect me to eat bones.’

  ‘It’s not the bones I’m talking about,’ says Mum. ‘It’s the brussel sprout underneath them.’

  ‘What brussel sprout?’ I say.

  ‘That one there,’ says Mum, pointing at it.

  ‘Oh!’ I say, acting surprised. ‘THAT brussel sprout! I didn’t see it there.’

  g, most demanding challenge I have ever faced iebrows. ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’ she says.

  ‘Well, actually,’ I say, ‘you do look very young for someone so old.’

  ‘Nice try, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner.’

  I sit down. I stare at my plate. ‘Do I have to eat it?’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ says Mum.

  ‘But I can’t eat any more,’ I say. ‘You gave me too many brussel sprouts.’

  ‘I gave you the same as everyone else,’ says Mum.

  ‘But everyone else is bigger than me,’ I say. ‘I should get less!’

  ‘No, you should get more,’ says Dad, flexing his biceps. ‘Don’t you want to grow up to be as big and strong as me?’

  ‘I AM big and strong,’ I say.

  They all laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I say.

  ‘Your arms are like toothpicks and your legs are like broomsticks,’ says Jen. ‘If the wind blows too hard you fall over. You’re a WEED!’

  ‘And you’re a pig!’ I say.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Jen. ‘You just called me a P-I-G. That stands for Pretty Intelligent Girl.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say. ‘It stands for Putrid Idiotic Geek!’

  Jen gives me a look. Not a nice look, either. A Putrid Idiotic Geek look.

  ‘Ignore him, Jen,’ says Dad. ‘Andy, just shut up and eat your sprout.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m full.’

  ‘What a pity’ says Mum. ‘You won’t be able to have any dessert.’

  No dessert?

  But I LOVE dessert!

  And when I say I
LOVE dessert, I don’t just mean I LOVE dessert, well ... you know what I mean. And so does Mum. She’s got me over a barrel.

  I get the sprout out from underneath the pile of chicken bones.

  It sits there.

  Taunting me.

  One horrible disgusting mouldy old slimy green putrid brussel sprout. The horribilest, disgustingest, mouldiest, oldest, slimiest, greenest, putridest brussel sprout of them all. And, to make things even worse, it’s cold.

  Mum is watching me like a hawk.

  So is Dad.

  And Jen.

  ‘Come on, Andy,’ pleads Jen. ‘Just hurry up and eat it and then we can have dessert!’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I say.

  There’s only one thing to do.

  I’m going to have to put it in my mouth, go to the toilet and spit it out. And while I’m there I’ll be able to get the other one out of my undies.

  I stab the sprout with my fork and hold it up in front of my face.

  Have you ever looked really closely at a brussel sprout?

  Well, if you haven’t, I sure wouldn’t recommend it.

  It’s horrible.

  A layer of wrinkly green skin wrapped around another layer of wrinkly green skin wrapped around another layer of wrinkly green skin wrapped around another layer of ... you guessed it—wrinkly green skin. And so on. And so on. And so on.

  But nothing is going to stop me from getting to my dessert.

  Not even a brussel sprout.

  I put it in my mouth.

  Yuck.

  It’s the most disgusting brussel sprout I’ve ever tasted.

  The sooner I get it out of my mouth the better!

  I stand up.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ says Dad.

  I push the brussel sprout to one side of my mouth.

  ‘To the toilet,’ I say with difficulty. It’s not easy to talk with a whole brussel sprout in your mouth.

  ‘Don’t let him,’ says Jen. ‘He’s not going to eat it. It’s a trick! He’s going to spit it out!’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say.

  ‘You can go to the toilet AFTER you’ve swallowed the brussel sprout,’ says Mum.

  ‘But I’m BUSTING!’ I say. A bit of spit flies out of my mouth and lands on the table in front of Jen. It’s green.

  ‘You mean you’re DISGUSTING!’ says Jen.

  ‘Swallow the sprout,’ says Dad. ‘THEN you can go to the toilet. That’s the deal.’

  ‘What kind of deal is that?’ I say. ‘I eat a sprout and I’m rewarded with a trip to the toilet? Your deals are getting worse. I’m going to get myself a lawyer.’

  ‘You don’t need a lawyer,’ says Jen. ‘You need a psychiatrist!’

  ‘He’ll need a doctor if he doesn’t sit down and eat that brussel sprout,’ says Dad.

  ‘Was that a threat?’ I say, more green spit flying out of my mouth. ‘I’m going to ring my lawyer!’

  ‘SIT DOWN!’ yell Dad, Mum and Jen all at the same time.

  I sit down.

  All eyes are on me.

  My escape route has been blocked.

  I’ve got the world’s most disgusting brussel sprout in my mouth and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I can’t flush it down the toilet.

  I can’t sneeze it into my handkerchief.

  I can’t feed it to Sooty.

  I can’t slip it onto Jen’s plate.

  I can’t put it down my undies.

  There’s only one thing to do.

  There’s only one thing I CAN do.

  Something I’ve never done before!

  It’s sick!

  It’s twisted!

  It’s desperate!

  But I’m just sick, twisted and desperate enough to try it.

  I’m going to swallow the brussel sprout.

  Yes, I’m actually going to swallow it.

  That’s how much I love dessert. I’m going to EAT the brussel sprout!

  Hmmm.

  It’s not going to be easy.

  In fact it’s the hardest, most frightening, most demanding challenge I have ever faced in my entire life.

  Because I hate brussel sprouts.

  And when I say I hate brussel sprouts, I don’t just mean that I hate brussel sprouts, I mean I REALLY hate brussel sprouts.

  And when I say I REALLY hate brussel sprouts, I don’t just mean I REALLY hate brussel sprouts, I mean I REALLY REALLY hate brussel sprouts.

  And when I say I REALLY REALLY hate brussel sprouts, I don’t just mean I REALLY REALLY hate brussel sprouts, I mean I REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY hate brussel sprouts.

  But I’m going to do it.

  Do it or die.

  I might do it AND die, but that’s how desperate I am.

  Okay, here goes.

  I sit up straight.

  I grip the table with both hands.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  I take another deep breath.

  And another.

  And another.

  I bite down.

  A watery slime oozes into my mouth.

  Don’t think about it.

  Don’t think about it.

  Think about nice things.

  NICE things.

  Like sunny days ...

  and picnics ...

  and ...

  and ...

  flowers ...

  and ...

  and ...

  and ...

  rainbows ...

  I bite down again.

  MORE SLIME!

  MORE OOZE!

  Don’t think about it. Keep thinking NICE things ...

  like kittens ...

  and puppies ...

  and ponies ...

  and ...

  and ...

  GIANT MASHING AND PULVERISING MACHINES mashing and pulverising the kittens and puppies and ponies into blood and guts and ooze and slime ... green slime and ... no ... no that’s not right!

  That’s not NICE!

  It’s probably safer to think about nothing at all ...

  I close my eyes, put my mind in neutral and chew ...

  and chew ...

  and chew ...

  and chew ...

  but I can’t swallow.

  I can’t.

  I can’t.

  I can’t do it!

  But I’ve got to.

  Otherwise I don’t get dessert.

  I might miss out on something amazing ... like Mum’s chocolate sponge cake. Or ... or maybe homemade strawberry ice-cream! You’ve never tasted ice-cream as icy or creamy or strawberry-y as my mum’s homemade strawberry ice-cream! Or it could be a pavlova packed with whipped cream and passionfruit ... or maybe pancakes covered in maple syrup and blueberries! Or homemade chocolate ice-cream! You’ve never tasted ice-cream as icy or creamy or chocolatey as mum’s homemade chocolate ice-cream! Or lemon meringue pie with the little meringue mountains on top! Or maybe it will be cheese cake ... or raspberry tarts ... or banana splits ... or chocolate pudding or jam pudding or steamed golden syrup pudding ...

  HEY!

  Wait ...

  Something’s happened ...

  Something amazing!

  My mouth is no longer full of the horriblest, disgustingest, mouldiest, oldest, slimiest, greenest, putridest stuff in the world ...

  It’s gone ...

  I must have swallowed it ...

  I’ve done it!

  I’ve really done it!

  I’ve eaten the brussel sprout!

  I can’t believe it!

  What an incredible achievement to have actually eaten something SO disgusting!

  ‘Finished!’ I say, opening my mouth up wide to prove that it’s gone.

  ‘Oh, gross!!!’ says Jen.

  ‘About time!’ says Dad, collecting my plate and putting it on the sink with the others.

  ‘Well done, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘That wasn’t so bad now, was it?’

  I smi
le and nod and try not to think about what I just did. After all the trouble it took to get it down I don’t want to risk it coming back up again. I’ll think about dessert instead. I close my eyes. I want it to be a surprise. Perhaps tonight it will be upside down cake ... no, wait ... I’ve got a feeling it might be sticky date pudding. That’s my absolute favourite! No ... banana fritters are my absolute favourite. Apart from apple crumble, of course. Mum makes a mean apple crumble. And an even meaner black forest cake. Then again, maybe Mum will surprise everyone and do her famous cherry ripe slice ... or caramel slice ... or maybe even, if we’re really really lucky, maybe even homemade rainbow ice-cream! You’ve never EVER tasted ice-cream as icy or creamy or rainbowy as mum’s homemade rainbow ice-cream. But maybe I’m completely on the wrong track! Maybe it’s chocolate fudge! Or red jelly! Or chocolate mousse! Or marble cake! Or Swiss roll! Or ...

  I hear Dad get something out of the fridge and put it down on the table.

  ‘Yum!’ says Jen. ‘My favourite!’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Dad. ‘Delicious!’

  ‘I just hope it was worth the wait,’ says Mum.

  I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer.

  I open my eyes.

  I look down at the bowl in front of me.

  Oh no.

  Oh no.

  Oh no.

  I don’t believe it.

  This can’t be happening.

  It’s custard.

  Cold, horrible, disgusting, mouldy, old, slimy, lumpy, yellow, putrid, spewy custard.

  I HATE custard ...

  I’m lying on the couch

  reading a book1

  when Mum comes in

  and gives me THAT look.2

  ‘Andy?’ she says.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?

  Put down that book

  and GO TO BED!’3

  But there’s no way

  I’m going to bed.4

  It’s time to stall.

  It’s time to beg.

  ‘Can’t I stay up for

  just half an hour more?’

  ‘No!’ says Mum,

  and she points at the door.5

  ‘Twenty minutes? Ten minutes?

  Five minutes? One?6