Just shocking, p.7
Just Shocking, page 7
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. If you were looking for a boy genius to play the part, I am available and would LOVE to do it.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And I promise I wouldn’t get sick, no matter how many bowls of Choco-pops you made me eat, because somebody throwing up Choco-pops everywhere would definitely not be the sort of image that would make parents rush out and buy Choco-pops for their children.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m sorry for bringing it up, really.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Get it? ‘Bringing it up.’ That was another joke. Please ignore it if you don’t find it funny.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. S. But if you DO find it funny, well, you know what to do.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.S. Other people might say that they love Choco-pops, but I bet they don’t love them as much as I do. I love them so much that, if I could, I would fill up a WHOLE room with Choco-pops and milk, and take my clothes off and dive right in and just swim around with my mouth open, sucking in Choco-pops and milk. That would be the perfect way to live. Especially if no matter how much you ate more kept appearing so that the room was always full of Choco-pops and milk. I mean, what more could you want? Well, maybe you’d want a toilet, because eventually, of course, you’d need to go and then it wouldn’t be so great any more having to swim around sucking Choco-pops and milk and … I probably don’t have to spell it out, do I? That would pretty much be the worst possible way to spend your life.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.S. That last P.S. might sound a bit weird, but I just thought I’d mention it because I want you to understand how much I love Choco-pops, and that I’m not just saying so to win a prize. Which raises another question: how do you check that these fifty words or less competition entries are true and not just made up by people so that they can win when they don’t even care about Choco-pops the way I do? Do you have spies who go around checking to see that people are writing the truth? You know, sneaking into competition entrants’ houses and reading their secret diaries and that sort of stuff?
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.S. Sometimes I sneak into my sister’s room and read her diary, but I would advise you not to because it’s drenched in perfume and girl germs and you’ll probably DIE!!! Not that you’ll need to read her diary, because she won’t be entering the competition—she doesn’t even LIKE Choco-pops! She prefers Fruit Crispies … WHAT A SAD LOSER!!!!
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.S. Please don’t tell her I said that about reading her diary. She’s sure to tell Mum and then Mum might be so angry that she won’t buy me Choco-pops for the rest of the year as punishment. And that would only hurt you because I’m one of your best customers.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.S. It’s a pity this is not a ‘Who eats the most Choco-pops?’ competition because I’d win that for sure.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Well, that’s pretty much it, now. Thanks for reading.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Just one more thing—all these P.S.’s don’t count as the words, do they, because if they do then I’m already 2675 words over the limit, which would pretty much disqualify me. So if they DO count, just pretend I didn’t write them all and stick with the first fifty.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Please let me win.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Oh yeah, and if I win (please, please let me win), could you just notify me by phone and not print my name in the newspaper, because I don’t want Lisa to find out that I like Choco-pops. I’d kind of rather she thought that I ate something a little more healthy and manly like Enduro-crunch.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P. P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. No offence to Choco-pops.
anny and I are slumped over the kitchen table.
It’s a hot day. Too hot.
Hotter than the hottest day in the history of the universe.
In fact the word ‘hot’ doesn’t even begin to capture just how hot this day is, no matter how many times you write it.
HOT. HOT. HOT.
Not even if you write it this big:
HOT. HOT. HOT.
And not even if you write it THIS big:
HOT. HOT. HOT.
This must be how it’s going to feel in about four billion years when the Sun turns into a red giant and expands and engulfs the Earth and burns it up completely.
No, on second thoughts, even that day won’t be as hot as this one.
‘What have you got to drink?’ croaks Danny.
‘There’s water in the fridge,’ I say, rasping the words out of my cracked and parched throat.
‘Is that all?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘I’ll check.’
I raise my head up off the table and sit up.
My head is spinning.
I stand up and walk slowly across the kitchen.
I open the refrigerator.
Cold air!
That feels better.
MUCH better.
I close my eyes and imagine that I’m standing in the snow.
On a really freezing day.
With no clothes on.
Mmmmmmmm …
Usually Mum or Dad would come along and tell me to shut the door because I’m letting all the cold air out, but they’re not here. They’re playing golf with Mr and Mrs Bainbridge. And this IS an emergency.
If they were here, I bet they’d be standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open as well, imagining that they were standing in the snow on a really freezing day with no clothes on.
Well, actually, I hope that they wouldn’t imagine that they didn’t have any clothes on. I hate it when people imagine that they’re naked when you’re in the room with them.
Oh no! I’m imagining that I’m naked and DANNY’s in the room!
I’ve got to put some imaginary clothes on my imaginary body.
Underpants.
Shorts.
T-shirt.
There. That’s better.
I open my eyes and look for the water jug.
That’s when I see them.
I don’t believe it … one, two, three, four, five, SIX!
Six cans of lemonade!
SIX!
SIX!
SIX!
They must be left over from our New Year’s Eve party.
We’re saved!
Six cans ought to be enough to get us through the next half hour at least.
‘Andy?’ says Danny. ‘Is that six cans of lemonade I can see in your fridge or is it some sort of mirage?’
‘You only have mirages in the desert,’ I say. ‘So these must be real.’ I reach in and grab the ice-cold cans.
I take them back to the table with me.
Danny and I sit and stare at the cans in wonder.
I push one across to Danny and pick up one for me.
‘Cheers!’ I say, raising the can. I’ve got my finger under the ring-pull and am about to open it when Danny stops me.
‘Wait!’ he says. ‘Let’s play lemonade roulette!’
‘Lemonade roulette?’ I say.
‘It’s like Russian roulette, where you have a gun that has six chambers but only one bullet,’ he says. ‘You spin the chamber wheel, put the gun to your head, pull the trigger and hope that the chamber with the bullet in it doesn’t come up.’
‘But why would you want to do that?’ I say. ‘You’ve got a one in six chance of being killed!’
‘Yes,’ says Danny. ‘But you’ve got a five in six chance of NOT being killed.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But if you don’t play it at all you’ve got a nought in six chance of being killed.’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ says Danny. ‘Even if you DON’T play Russian roulette, anything could happen. You could get run over by a bus and then you’d be dead anyway. And you wouldn’t even have had the fun of playing Russian roulette. But I’m not saying we play RUSSIAN roulette. I’m saying we play LEMONADE roulette.’
‘How do you play lemonade roulette?’ I say.
‘We shake one of the cans,’ says Danny, ‘and then we mix them up and we each have to choose one and open it right in front of our face.’
‘What if it’s the one that’s been shaken up?’ I say.
‘Then you get covered in lemonade!’ he chortles. ‘Well?’
‘It sounds really stupid and quite likely to backfire in some horribly unexpected way,’ I say.
‘So you’re in?’ says Danny.
‘Of course!’ I say.
We pick one of the cans and take turns to shake it.
Underarm shakes.
Overarm shakes.
Under-leg shakes.
Overhead shakes.
One-handed shakes.
Double-handed shakes.
No-handed shakes. Just kidding. There’s no such thing.
We shake that can of lemonade more than any can of lemonade has ever been shaken before.
‘All right,’ I say, sweating from the effort. ‘That should do it.’
‘No,’ says Danny, red-faced and puffing. ‘Just one more shake.’
Danny takes the can and gives it a final, ultra-violent shake.
Then he puts it with the other five cans and shuffles them all around. I try to keep my eye on the shaken can, but Danny is too fast. All I can see is a blur of hands and cans. I can’t keep track of the shaken one.
Finally he lines them up neatly on the table.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’re ready.’ He picks a can, holds it in front of his face, closes his eyes and pulls the ring tab.
Pfffssst.
Nothing!
He gives me a big grin and celebrates his victory with a long drink.
Then he puts the can down and wipes his mouth.
‘Your turn,’ he says.
I take a deep breath.
I wish I’d gone first. Danny only had a one in six chance of getting blasted in lemonade. I’ve got one in five!
I pick a can, bring it up in front of my face and pull the top.
Pfffssst.
Relief!
No fountain of lemonade!
I got away with it!
I take a long drink to celebrate.
Danny finishes his can, crumples it in his hand and lets it drop onto the table.
He’s reaching for another one when the door opens. A blast of hot air rushes into the kitchen.
Dad walks in. His face is red and sweaty. Behind him is Mr Bainbridge, whose face is even redder and sweatier.
‘The thing that most people don’t realise about the game of golf,’ says Mr Bainbridge, ‘is that it’s not about your swing—it’s about your mind. I realised that many years ago, which I’m quite certain is the reason for my incredibly low handicap, not to mention my stunning performance out there on the course this morning.’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Dad as he stares open-mouthed at the cans of lemonade on the table.
‘Mark my words, it’s all in the mind,’ says Mr Bainbridge, wiping his brow. ‘In fact …’ He stops mid-sentence and stares at the cans as well.
‘Just what the doctor ordered!’ says Dad. ‘Cold lemonade! That’s very thoughtful of you, boys.’
‘It is very thoughtful,’ says Mr Bainbridge, approvingly. ‘It’s rare to see such thoughtfulness in young people today. They’re all too wrapped up in their Xboxes and mobile phones and eepods to …’
‘You mean iPods,’ says Danny.
‘That’s what I said!’ says Mr Bainbridge, looking shocked. He’s clearly not used to being corrected. Or interrupted.
‘No, you didn’t,’ says Danny. ‘You said “eepod”, which sounds kind of silly.’
Oops. You don’t talk like that to Mr Bainbridge. He fixes Danny with his ‘that’s the trouble with young people’ stare.
He draws a deep breath and is about to tell Danny a few more things about the trouble with young people when Dad cuts him off at the pass.
‘Would you like a lemonade, Mr Bainbridge?’ he says.
‘Why … ah … yes,’ says Mr Bainbridge.
Uh-oh.
One of those cans could be a lethal weapon. I can’t afford to let it fall into the wrong hands. Dad’s hands—and especially Mr Bainbridge’s hands—are DEFINITELY the wrong hands.
Dad reaches for the cans.
‘NO!’ I yell, lurching forward onto the table and wrapping my arms around them.
‘Andy!’ says Dad, crossly. ‘That is very rude. And very greedy.’
‘That’s the trouble with young people today,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘Very rude. And very greedy.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I say, thinking as fast as I can, which in this heat is not very fast at all. ‘I just thought that you might prefer something else. Something a little more suitable for adults. Beer, maybe … it’s very cool and refreshing …’
Mr Bainbridge glares at me.
‘Or so I’ve heard,’ I add quickly, before he can give his opinions on young people drinking beer. (He’s not in favour of it, in case you were wondering.)
‘What a good idea, Andy,’ says Dad, getting two cans of beer out of the fridge. He turns around and offers one to Mr Bainbridge.
Mr Bainbridge holds up his hand. ‘No, thank you,’ he says. ‘I never drink alcohol during the day.’
‘Me neither,’ says Dad, turning back to put the cans in the fridge. ‘Just joking.’
‘Well, it wasn’t very funny,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘I may have to review your position within our company if that’s your idea of a joke.’
‘But …’ says Dad, his face turning from red to white in an instant, ‘but …’
Mr Bainbridge slaps him on the back and lets out a loud guffaw. ‘Relax!’ he says. ‘I was just joking!’
‘Ah, yes,’ says Dad. ‘I knew that! Here,’ he says, snatching two cans from my stash and handing one to Mr Bainbridge. ‘Have a lemonade.’
‘Thanks,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
‘Cheers!’ says Dad, raising his can.
Mr Bainbridge raises his can in response. ‘Cheers!’ he says. ‘Here’s looking forward to a great year!’
A great year? With a can of lemonade blasted into his face? I am in such big trouble!
I look at Danny.
‘What do we do?’ I whisper.
He shrugs. ‘Hope that Mr Bainbridge gets the shaken can,’ he says. ‘I don’t like him very much.’
Danny’s got no idea. I don’t think he realises how serious this is.
Mr Bainbridge and Dad lower their cans.
They both put their fingers under the ring-pull at exactly the same time.
I can see the tips of their fingers …
rising …
up …
up …
up …
when suddenly the door opens again. Another blast of hot air fills the kitchen.
Dad and Mr Bainbridge both stop what they’re doing and look up.
It’s Mum.
Closely followed by Mrs Bainbridge. Mum is looking hot, bothered and bored out of her brain. I don’t blame her. Mrs Bainbridge is banging on about flower arranging.
‘The thing that most people don’t realise about flower arranging,’ says Mrs Bainbridge, ‘is that it’s not about arranging flowers—it’s about arranging your mind. I realised that many years ago, which accounts for the high regard in which my flower arrangements are held, not to mention my stunning victory at the Garden Show this year.’
‘Hello,’ says Dad. ‘We wondered where you’d got to!’
‘We were just out in the garden,’ says Mum, sighing. ‘Mrs Bainbridge was giving me some advice on our roses.’
‘Well, we’re just about to have some lemonade,’ says Dad. ‘Would you care to join us?’
‘How about something stronger?’ says Mum. ‘I could really use a good stiff drink. What about you, Mrs Bainbridge?’
Mrs Bainbridge looks at Mr Bainbridge.
Mr Bainbridge frowns.
‘Oh no,’ says Mrs Bainbridge, quickly, ‘I never drink alcohol during the day.’
‘Me neither,’ says Mum, sighing even louder this time. ‘I was only joking. Lemonade it is.’
‘Lovely!’ says Mrs Bainbridge. ‘Did you know that flowers stay alive longer if you mix a little lemonade in their water?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ says Mum. ‘How fascinating. I’ll be sure to try it.’ She reaches across the table for the two remaining cans.
‘NO!’ I say, trying to snatch the cans away from her.
‘Andy!’ says Dad. ‘I thought we just went through all this.’
‘That’s another thing about young people today,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘They just don’t listen …’
‘Why can’t I have the cans?’ says Mum.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, um, er, ah …’
‘Yes?’ she says.
I’ve got to think quick—
quick,
quick!
quick!
I’ve got it!
‘How about I make you a nice cup of tea instead?’ I say.
‘Tea?’ says Mrs Bainbridge. ‘On a day like this? You’ve got to be joking!’
‘That’s the trouble with young people today,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘Tea, tea, tea … they NEVER stop drinking tea!’
‘Isn’t that OLD people?’ says Danny. ‘My grandma drinks about a thousand cups of tea a day.’
Mr Bainbridge just glares at him again.
‘Thanks for your offer, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘It’s very nice of you, but given how hot it is today we’d both prefer a cold can of lemonade. Could we have them, please?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘but …’ I’ve got no idea what I’m going to say next. I can’t think any more … brain shrivelling up … too hot … All I know is that I can’t let them get their hands on those cans!
