The Toilet Kid Read online

  PAT FLYNN grew up running around an old dairy farm in Queensland, before moving to the Australian Institute of Sport in Canberra on a tennis scholarship. After playing and coaching on the professional circuit he became a teacher, where his observations of young people — their interests and stories — led him to writing a book.

  Now he writes books for a living, in a house near the beach on the Sunshine Coast. He likes to start the day off with a surf and end it walking along the beach with his wife and son.

  His novel, To the Light, was shortlisted for the 2006 CBCA Awards in the Younger Readers category, and The Tuckshop Kid won an Honour Book prize in the 2007 Awards.

  Other books by Pat Flynn

  Alex Jackson: Grommet

  Alex Jackson: SWA

  Alex Jackson: Closing Out

  Alex Jackson: Dropping In

  To the Light

  The Line Formation

  The Tuckshop Kid

  Adventures of Danny 1: Beeware

  Adventures of Danny 2: Treeified

  Adventures of Danny 3: Snowidea

  Thanks to my first readers:

  Annette Rasmussen, Clare Williams, Liz Flynn,

  Catherine Flynn and Christina Pagliaro.

  This book is for those who beat addiction the

  only way possible: one day at a time.

  —P.F.

  For Kate and Oskar.

  —T.J.

  Contents

  Author bio

  Other books by Pat Flynn

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Imprint Page

  Chapter One

  Halfway through the cross-country race, I don’t feel so good.

  It’s hot. There are hills. I’m running.

  It’s a bad combination.

  The only good thing is I didn’t drink any chocolate milk at recess, so at least I don’t feel sick in the stomach.

  I had water instead.

  Actually, a bit too much water.

  Yesterday during PE, Mr Simpson told us it was very important to hydrate before the race. I wish I didn’t listen to him because now I need to make like a fire hose and hydrate all over the nearest tree.

  I take a quick detour into the bush. I’m sure quite a few people will pass me, but I don’t have much of a chance of winning, anyway. Not when my nickname is The Tuckshop Kid.

  Ducking behind a thick grey gum, I sneak a peek for teachers. I wonder if you can get a detention for peeing?

  The coast is clear, until I pull down my pants. Then I hear someone crunching through the bush towards me. Oh, no!

  I hope it’s not Mr Simpson. He’d love nothing more than to punish me with a hundred laps of the oval at lunchtime.

  I yank up my pants and flatten myself against the trunk. Well, try and flatten myself. It’s a bit hard when you’re the shape of a jam doughnut. Luckily for me it’s a big tree and I turn sideways and glance around the smooth wood.

  Hang on, it’s not a teacher – it’s a girl. And not just any girl.

  It’s Kayla – the love of my life! I’d recognise that long brown hair tied up in a ponytail anywhere.

  It doesn’t make any sense. Kayla is a really good runner so why would she be off-course? Maybe all this exercise is making me see things.

  Or maybe it’s fate that Kayla has followed me into the trees during the cross-country. Perhaps she’s looking for me, wanting to kiss my fat lips.

  Just as I’m about to walk out and meet her she bends over.

  Barrfff!

  Aww, that’s disgusting! She’s just chucked up her breakfast.

  ‘Are you right?’ I ask.

  She jolts upright, a hand covering her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Umm. It’s a long story. Do you want me to get a teacher?’

  ‘No. I’m feeling better now. Come on, run with me for a minute.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on! I’ve got a race to win.’

  I can’t believe this. One minute she’s throwing up and the next she’s Cathy Freeman. It looks like my bladder will have to wait.

  We start jogging, too fast for my liking. In fact, I wouldn’t call this jogging, I’d call it running.

  ‘You’re doing well, Matt. Keep this up and you might pass Withers.’

  I don’t answer because I need to save every breath I’ve got to stay beside Kayla, but that piece of information gives me a spurt of energy. You see, Withers is my ex-best friend turned enemy. To beat him in the cross-country would be a dream come true. Actually, to beat anyone in the cross-country would be a dream come true.

  We run up a slight incline but to me it feels like Mt Everest. Last year I walked this bit. Actually, I walked the whole course. Well, not the whole course. I wasn’t feeling too good so I caught a lift up the home straight on the back of Georgie Cantrell’s motorised wheelchair. It was fun.

  This isn’t.

  Still – even if I can’t seem to suck enough oxygen into my burning lungs – I’m pretty proud of myself. It’s amazing how much things have changed. Now I’ve got a girlfriend, I’ve lost ten kilos and I can run a lot further than from the couch to the fridge.

  ‘Let’s go faster,’ says Kayla.

  Faster! Is that possible?

  She puts on a surge and I strain to keep up.

  We catch up to Jasmine Nilon, who responds by speeding away. Kayla leaves me behind and goes with her. One of them will win the girls’ race for sure.

  Now I can slow down and relax, maybe even walk for a while. I deserve some rest. Or, I can duck off and find another tree. I’m still busting.

  But then, up ahead, I see a bouncing head that I’d recognise anywhere.

  Withers.

  I start running faster. One of us will come last for sure and I’d prefer if it wasn’t me.

  His big feet clump against the grass and his breathing is as heavy as an episode of Neighbours. Over the last few months he’s kept pigging out on junk food while I’ve become a health nut and we now pretty much match each other flab for flab. He must have gone out too hard because, at this point, he’s going about as fast as a tortoise. Although I’m no hare, I just might be able to catch him before the finish line.

  At the top of the hill I puff through the gate and onto the school oval. Just one lap around it to go, but it feels like the start of a marathon.

  ‘Go, Matt!’ yells Mrs Spencer, my teacher from last year. ‘You’re nearly finished’

  I’m nearly finished, all right. If Withers wasn’t just a few steps in front of me, I’d crawl to the line. I wonder if you can have a heart attack at thirteen?

  With 100 metres to go I’ve moved up to Withers’ shoulder. I make my move to pass him on the outside but he swerves in front of me. I veer back on the inside but so does he, getting in my way.

  Hey! This isn’t running. It’s human car racing!

  ‘Get out the way, Withers,’ I puff.

  ‘Never, fat boy,’ he blows.

  ‘Who you calling fat?’

  We’re nearly at the finish line and I do the only thing I can. I drop my shoulder and run straight, charging into Withers’ back.

  My shoulder has a lot of weight behind it and Withers falls forward, sprawling onto the grass. I somehow manage not to trip over his flapping arms and legs and run past him.

>   When I cross the finish line, quite a few people cheer. ‘Yayyyy!’

  ‘Protest!’ Withers wheezes. ‘I demand a disqualification!’

  He waddles over and pushes me in the chest. ‘You’re a cheater, Matthew. And I’m not talking about no fast cat.’

  I push him back. ‘Am not. You were blocking my way.’

  ‘Go eat an elephant!’ he says, pushing me harder.

  ‘Go eat yourself!’

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ yell a couple of boys nearby.

  A crowd starts to gather. We put our arms out wide and circle each other, Sumo style. I’m just about to move in and power-slam him when the referee yells, ‘STOP!’

  Actually, it’s not the referee. It’s Mr Simpson. ‘What’s the problem here, boys?’

  ‘He full-on tackled me during the race!’ says Withers. ‘I was going to beat him for sure.’

  ‘Is that true, Matthew?’

  Before I can answer, Mrs O’Neill, the school principal, marches up.

  Oh, no! Just what I need. I’ve spent time in her office and, believe me, it’s no picnic.

  ‘I saw what happened,’ she says. ‘Matthew knocked Craig over before the finish line.’

  Mr Simpson frowns at me.

  Great, I think. Now not only will I finish last in the cross-country race, I’ll get a detention as well.

  ‘But,’ she continues, ‘it was only because Craig wouldn’t let him past. He kept getting in Matthew’s way’

  Mr Simpson nods. ‘Well, it sounds like both boys did the wrong thing, but Craig broke the rules first so I have no choice but to disqualify him.’ He turns to me. ‘Matthew, you’ve finished second last.’

  Yes! Second last! How awesome!

  Withers kicks the ground.

  ‘Enough of that, Craig,’ says Mrs O’Neill. ‘Else you’ll be visiting the detention room.’

  Withers gives me the evil eye and skulks off. Normally he’d go complain to his best friend, the new kid, but he can’t. The new kid left school last week. He’s now the old kid.

  Kayla comes over. ‘Well done!’ She pats me on the back.

  ‘Thanks.’ My face turns red, probably from all the running. ‘Did you win?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I did really badly.’

  ‘Where’d you come?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘That’s not bad. That’s great!’

  She bites her lip and gives me a smile, but I can see she’s disappointed. When she puts her mind to something, Kayla usually comes first.

  ‘I know how to cheer you up,’ I say.

  ‘How?’

  I pull out a fresh ten-dollar note from my back pocket. ‘Tuckshop.’

  Chapter Two

  When I make it out of the toilet and to the covered area, kids swirl around me. Lunchtime is the one time I’m as popular as junk food.

  ‘I’ve got two dollars forty and I need something with low chuck-up value,’ says Andy Reynolds. ‘I’m not feeling that great after all that running.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ I say, rubbing my tummy. ‘If I were you I’d go for a plain ham sandwich and a fruit salad yoghurt.’

  ‘A yo-what?’

  He’s surprised because I’ve never recommended yoghurt before, but there’s a first time for everything.

  ‘Yoghurt. The natural bacteria will line your stomach, making you feel better, and they’re half price this week.’

  ‘Okay. Cool.’

  A grade three girl holds out her hand and I have to count her money and tell her what to buy for lunch. But it’s not much of a challenge. ‘Five chicken nuggets and an orange popper. Don’t forget to say thanks.’

  She sticks her tongue out and runs off. Kids these days.

  I finally make it to the front of the line where I’m greeted by one of my favourite smiles in the whole world. ‘Hello, Matthew,’ says Jan, the tuckshop lady. ‘How’d the race go?’

  ‘Really good. I ran the whole way and didn’t come last.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ She beams a beauty at me. ‘Now, what would you like?’

  With a tenner at my disposal, I need to find the perfect food and drink combination to cheer up Kayla.

  A turkey and salad sub is one option. She’s been on a real health kick lately – not that she needs it – but it’s been good for me. It’s not easy eating a salad roll when your girlfriend is chomping down on a sausage roll.

  But junk food has its time and place and I reckon it’s here and now. ‘A Hawaiian pizza, a chocolate chip cookie and two large chocolate milks, thanks, Jan.’

  Her smile fades a little. Last year I’d easily eat this much, usually more. Jan’s probably worried I’ve slipped back into old habits.

  ‘It’s for Kayla,’ I say quietly. ‘She’s feeling down because she didn’t win.’

  ‘Ohhh. Okay.’ She gives me a wink and the goods. ‘Bye, sweetie.’

  ‘Bye, Jan.’

  To prevent any spillage I walk slowly, but soon I can’t walk at all because Tash prances up and blocks my way. She’s a friend of Kayla’s although I don’t know what Kayla sees in her. She’s certainly no friend of mine.

  ‘That was, like, so funny watching you and Craig race,’ she says. ‘It looked like a competition to see who could wobble the fastest.’

  I can’t let her get away with that. ‘Well, you should go in a comp to see who can be the most annoying, wannabee princess. You’d win for sure.’

  She flicks back her hair. ‘At least I don’t get invited to be on The Biggest Loser.’

  ‘At least I’m not the school’s biggest loser.’

  She opens her mouth and puts her hands on her hips, pretending to be shocked.

  It used to be fun trading insults with Tash, but now I don’t need the aggravation. I’ve got a girlfriend waiting for me and her pizza’s getting cold.

  I try to step around Tash but she gets in the way. ‘Hang on a sec, chubby cheeks,’ she says. ‘I might have something for you.’ She starts thumbing through a bunch of envelopes.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘Kayla’s party, of course. I volunteered to hand out the invitations for her.’ Tash glances up and smirks. ‘Haven’t you heard about it?’

  ‘Course I have.’ Actually, I had no idea Kayla was having a party, but I’m not going to tell Tash that.

  When she gets to the last envelope, Tash squints at it for a few moments like there’s something wrong. Then her face breaks into an evil grin. ‘Sorry, big butt. Looks like you’re not invited to your girlfriend’s party.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘It does seem rather strange. Unless,’ she raises her pointer finger, ‘she’s trying to tell you something.’

  Tash throws back her head and struts off.

  I feel like telling her something but if a teacher heard it I’d probably get expelled.

  Finally, I make it back to Kayla. She’s saved me a space at our favourite picnic table. Doing my best French waiter impersonation, I place the food in front of her. ‘Madam. Your lunch is served.’

  ‘Merci. Where’s yours?’

  I nod at my bag. ‘Mum made me lunch today.’

  Kayla shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s turning into a real mother.’

  It’s not just me who’s changed a lot in the last year. Mum has, too. She’s gone from being a workaholic to a healthy cookaholic.

  ‘She still needs some work,’ I say. ‘The other day she baked muffins and forgot all about them.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I smelt something, opened the oven and so much smoke poured out the alarm went off. Mum came in and started yelling at me.’

  Kayla chuckles.

  I pull a chicken and avocado sandwich out of my lunchbox and wonder how I can bring up Kayla’s party in a not-so-obvious way. There must be an explanation. Then I notice that, although Kayla is sipping on her choccy milk, she hasn’t touched her pizza.

  Uh, oh. S
omething is definitely wrong. Kayla loves pizza. Maybe this is the end for us?

  ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ I ask.

  ‘Just … not hungry.’

  ‘Not hungry?’ I’ve never heard Kayla utter those words before. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Well, not really. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Uh, oh. I think I’m about to be rejected with a capital R.

  ‘You see …’

  She pauses and I wonder how I could not have seen this coming. A girl like Kayla does not go out with a boy like me. At least not for very long.

  ‘Mum and Dad have been fighting a lot lately,’ she says. ‘It’s really starting to get to me.’

  Air escapes from my throat. ‘That’s good. I mean … no good. What do they fight about?’

  ‘What Dad eats, mostly. He’s put on even more weight and Mum’s thinner than ever. They look like fatty and skinny.’

  ‘Have they been racing up the pillowcase?’

  This makes Kayla smile.

  ‘You know,’ I say, ‘when you said something was wrong, I thought you were going to break up with me.’

  She leans forward. ‘Why would I do that? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  My face is turning red again. It’s probably from all the pepper Mum put on my sandwich.

  Kayla reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. ‘I wanted to give you this myself. Yours is the only one that’s handwritten.’

  I open it and the first thing I see is a drawing of a boy and a girl holding hands. Above them is a floating love heart and below is an invitation to a party. Kayla’s birthday party.

  Life is sweet.

  Chapter Three

  It took me a long time to choose Kayla’s present. Mum and I power-walked around the mall for so long it felt like the cross-shopping-mall race. After an hour I was ready to crash in the food court but Mum wasn’t tired at all – she’s a lot more shopping fit than I am – and eventually she led me into the only jewellery store that wasn’t having a sale. That’s the only type of jewellery store you can trust, she said.

  I wish it wasn’t, because I walked in with a pocketful of pocket money and came out with something small enough to fit into the palm of my hand.