Snot Chocolate

by Morris Gleitzman

  Vic leant forward and lowered his head.

  He found himself looking at his bag on the floor between his feet. It was half open and he could see his phone.

  There was a message on the screen from Mr Pappadopoulis.

  The bus was moving again now and Vic was still a bit dizzy, so the words in the message were blurry and hard to make out.

  Monty must be finished, thought Vic. Trimmed and ready to be picked up. Gee, that was quick.

  He blinked a few times and suddenly he could read the message clearly.

  Have you thought of slowing down?

  Winning isn’t the only thing in life.

  Take time to decide what’s important to you.

  Silly boy.

  Vic stared at the message. There was something about the first letter of each sentence . . .

  Then he remembered what Mr Pappadopoulis had stammered in the pet shop.

  H – h – h – h – h –

  W – w – w – w – w –

  T – t – t – t – t –

  S – s – s – s – s –

  Vic had thought in the shop he’d known what Mr Pappadopoulis was trying to say, but he hadn’t.

  He did now.

  It was here, in the message.

  Vic read the message again. And again.

  He kept on reading it until Mr Callaghan started booming in his ear.

  ‘How are you feeling, lad? Back to your senses?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Callaghan,’ said Vic quietly. ‘I am.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘Because in the light of your performance today, you’re back in the team.’

  Vic looked around the bus. All the kids were nodding. Except one.

  Garth Watson.

  Garth must be his replacement.

  ‘What about Garth?’ said Vic to Mr Callaghan.

  ‘Garth won’t mind stepping down,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘In the circumstances.’

  Vic could see that Garth did mind.

  A lot.

  Vic zipped up his sports bag.

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ he said to Mr Callaghan. ‘But I’ve decided not to be in the team any more.’

  Mr Callaghan stared at him.

  ‘Can I get off the bus please?’ said Vic.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘You can’t.’

  Vic could see from Mr Callaghan’s face that Mr Callaghan was going to try to make him stay in the team. Vic didn’t want to have to sit through that. He had more important things to do.

  He stood up and smashed the emergency glass panel with his phone and pulled the emergency lever.

  An alarm went off and the driver swore loudly and pulled over to the side of the road. The bus door opened with a hiss. Even as the driver was turning round to see what the trouble was, Vic was stepping past him and out the door.

  ‘Sorry about the glass panel,’ said Vic.

  ‘Make sure you haven’t left anything on the bus,’ muttered the driver.

  Vic didn’t reply.

  He had left some things on the bus. Not his sports bag or phone. A couple of things he didn’t need any more.

  Years later he would tell his own kids how much better his life had been after he’d left those things on the bus. After he’d left behind the dopey idea that if you run fast enough, you can get away from sadness. And after he’d ditched the desperate hope that if you run even faster, you can catch up with what you’ve lost and get it back.

  Get them back.

  Vic walked slowly away from the bus.

  He ignored Mr Callaghan’s angry shouts, which stopped eventually when the bus engine started up again.

  There was no hurry.

  Vic had the whole day ahead of him. With not a lot planned.

  He fancied some quiet time with Gran. Washing her wig, with a bit of conditioner to add bounce and vitality.

  Then a stroll with Monty, who’d probably be keen to check out the back garden now his toenails were in working order.

  And this evening, a couple of hours on his own with Gran’s family photo album.

  Just taking it slowly.

  But first, a cup of tea with Mr Pappadopoulis. And a relaxed chat.

  It didn’t have to be a long one.

  Vic didn’t need to say much. He didn’t need to say please don’t stutter or please don’t gossip or please don’t be gone.

  Just two words.

  Thank you.

  When I ask for fifty dollars worth of chips, the man behind the counter in the fish and chip shop gives me a funny look.

  ‘No salt, thanks,’ I say.

  Ernie isn’t meant to eat salt. He’s not meant to eat chips either, but they won’t kill him. They won’t be able to. Something else is doing that.

  ‘Fifty dollars?’ says the man. ‘Are you sure?’

  He’s looking at me very suspiciously. I don’t know why. There’s no law against kids buying chips.

  I’m tempted to tell him about Ernie. How much Ernie loves chips. How Ernie has said more than once that in his opinion, chips are magic.

  I decide not to say anything in case he thinks Ernie is a silly old man.

  Instead I show him my fifty-dollar note. It’s the first fifty-dollar note I’ve ever had. I wait to see if it works like I always imagined it would.

  It does.

  The fish and chip man grunts and shovels chips into a big wire basket.

  I hope this won’t take long. If anyone sees me here, such as Mum or Dad or Uncle Mal or Auntie Liz, I’m history. And poor Ernie will die disappointed.

  ‘Bags or box?’ says the fish and chip man.

  ‘Can you wrap them in newspaper?’ I ask.

  I think Ernie will enjoy them more that way. They might remind him of his childhood. When he was happy. Before everything happened.

  ‘We don’t do newspaper,’ says the man.

  I don’t believe him. He looks almost as old as Ernie. He’s got nose hairs, plus elastic straps over his shirt holding up his very baggy trousers. I don’t think he’s modern enough to get his news online.

  A woman who’s battering fish behind the counter glares at him.

  ‘Stop being a grump,’ she says. ‘There’s some in the kitchen.’

  She must be the man’s wife because he doesn’t start an argument, just rolls his eyes and goes out the back.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to the woman.

  The woman gives me a look.

  ‘Your mum needs to do some cooking classes, young man,’ she says.

  Which is a cheek because she doesn’t even know Mum.

  I’m tempted to tell her that Mum doesn’t need to cook because she’s got all Ernie’s money and she and Dad can afford home delivery every night.

  But I don’t. It’s bad enough that Ernie is poor and sick, without all his personal financial details being made public in a fish and chip shop.

  A girl is standing near the shop.

  ‘Do you want a chip?’ she says.

  She’s holding out a small bag of them.

  It’s nice of her, offering one to a complete stranger. But a bit surprising. Can’t she see I’ve just come out of the same shop that she must have been in? And that I’m holding a huge parcel that smells very strongly of exactly what she’s offering.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  The girl’s shoulders sag.

  She looks so disappointed I’m tempted to take one. But my parcel is heavy and droopy and I need both hands to hold it.

  Plus I’ve got to get these chips to Ernie before it’s too late.

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone want one?’ mutters the girl.

  She doesn’t look disappointed any more, just angry. Which makes me feel nervous. She’s about my age, but bigger and I’m pretty sure she’d be stronger.

  My life savings are invested in these chips. If she starts any rough stuff, this newspaper could easily split open.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I would have one of your chips normally. Probably a few. But I’ve a
lready got some and I’m in a hurry. Thanks anyway. Bye.’

  I walk away.

  After a couple of moments I realise the girl is walking next to me, staring at my parcel.

  ‘You must have a seriously big family,’ she says. ‘And pets that like chips.’

  She doesn’t sound angry now, just sort of wistful.

  ‘These aren’t for my family,’ I say. ‘They’re for someone else.’

  The girl frowns as if she doesn’t believe me.

  She might have a point. Ernie is Mum’s ex-husband, so in a way we’re related. Even though he and Mum got divorced before Mum and Dad had me.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Ernie is sort of my family. Well, he feels like he is.’

  Why am I telling her all this?

  ‘Why are you giving him so many chips?’ says the girl.

  She’s very nosy for a complete stranger. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me. Like she really wants to know.

  I blurt it out.

  ‘People have been very mean to Ernie,’ I say. ‘And now he’s very sick. Before he dies I want him to see that at least one person really likes him.’

  Now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds sort of dumb.

  If Mum and Dad heard me say it, that’s the word they’d use. Dumb. And stupid. And feeble brained.

  The girl gives a soft whistle. She doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s dumb.

  ‘You must really like him,’ she says. ‘To give him that many chips.’

  I look at her. For a person who’s a complete stranger she’s extremely understanding.

  I want to ask her why she was giving away chips. And why she was so disappointed and angry that people wouldn’t take them. But I don’t know how to put the question into words. I’m not very good at asking girls personal things.

  All I can think of is what Mum and Dad would say if they were here.

  ‘That’s not how the world works, Jackson,’ they’d say. ‘Only imbeciles and con artists give things away. Ditch that little twerp now.’

  I hope the girl can’t tell from my face what I’m thinking.

  Probably not. She isn’t looking hurt or cross. She’s staring at the ground, her hands in her coat pockets, frowning thoughtfully.

  Then suddenly, as if by magic, the words come out of my mouth.

  ‘Why were you doing that?’ I say. ‘Being so generous with your chips?’

  The girl looks at me for a few moments. As if she’s not sure whether to answer me.

  ‘I’m trying to learn a hard thing,’ she says softly.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘To forgive potatoes,’ she says.

  I try not to stare at her. From the tone of her voice I can tell it isn’t a joke. It sounds like it’s some­thing very important to her. I try not to let her see that I haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about.

  This always happens when I talk to girls, me ending up feeling awkward and embarrassed.

  The girl is looking like she doesn’t know what to say now either. She’s staring at the ground again.

  Suddenly I’m feeling even more awkward and embarrassed at the idea that she might be feeling awkward and embarrassed. I wish we could just say goodbye and leave it at that.

  It’ll have to be me who says it, to get both of us out of this.

  I rehearse it in my mind.

  ‘Very nice meeting you. I have to go now. Bye.’

  I try to say it.

  I can’t.

  The girl turns to me.

  ‘Can I come with you?’ she says. ‘To see Ernie?’

  As we head towards the hospital, I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing.

  What if Ernie doesn’t want a stranger seeing what’s happened to him and where his life has ended up?

  And what if I get even more embarrassed and stressed from being with this girl and I have to be hospitalised?

  In a different ward to Ernie?

  ‘What sort of very mean?’ says the girl.

  I look at her, not sure what she’s asking.

  ‘You said people have been very mean to Ernie,’ she says.

  I open my mouth, then close it again.

  It’s a hard thing to explain, that a person can take another person’s pet-grooming salon away from them out of anger and greed and unkindness and out of having a brother who’s a very experienced lawyer and a new husband who’s a member of the local council so they know how to do it.

  Actually it’s not that hard to explain.

  It’s just hard to say out loud that your mum is greedy and unkind.

  ‘What sort of mean?’ says the girl again.

  ‘Just mean,’ I say.

  The hospital entrance is crowded, but the security guard still sees us.

  ‘What have you got there?’ he says.

  ‘A present for a patient in Ward Six,’ I say.

  The security guard steps towards us, takes the parcel, and sniffs it.

  ‘No hot food in the wards,’ he says.

  ‘It’s just chips,’ says the girl. ‘For a family member. Take a look if you don’t believe us. Taste them for identification purposes if you need to.’

  I look at the girl.

  The security guard looks at us both.

  ‘Come this way,’ he says sternly.

  We follow him to a small room full of floor-cleaning machines. Two other security guards are sitting at a table drinking mugs of tea.

  ‘You’re not gunna believe this,’ says the first security guard to the others. ‘This pair want to bribe us to let them take hot chips into a ward.’

  The other two security guards look at me and the girl as if we’re criminals.

  The first security guard plonks the parcel onto the table and rips it open. All three of them stare at the mountain of chips inside.

  ‘Jeez,’ says one. ‘It’d need to be some bribe to get this lot in.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ says the girl.

  I give her another look. She just can’t resist giving chips away. What is this weird thing with her and potatoes?

  The security guards look at each other. They reach forward and take one chip each. Then the first security guard bundles the parcel back up and puts it in my arms.

  ‘Ward Six is on the tenth floor,’ he says. ‘Don’t get grease on the furniture.’

  In the lift, two doctors get in.

  They don’t need their stethoscopes to tell what’s in my parcel because it’s hanging open and I’m only just managing to stop chips falling onto the floor.

  The doctors look at me and the girl.

  ‘Where are you going with those?’ says one.

  ‘Ward Six,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a present for a family member,’ says the girl.

  The doctors think about this.

  ‘I used to live on chips when I was at med school,’ says one.

  ‘Same here,’ says the other.

  I know what the girl will say next. So I say it first.

  ‘Help yourselves.’

  The girl gives me a grin. I don’t grin back. Uncle Mal has got a friend who’s a doctor, and when he comes to dinner he always has multiple helpings of everything.

  The doctors take two chips each and eat them.

  They don’t take more, which is a relief.

  ‘Nice,’ says one. ‘Not from the canteen here, eh?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘From a real chip shop,’ says the girl. ‘Where they use real potatoes.’

  The other doctor nods thoughtfully.

  ‘All that erythromycin and metronidazole we pump into patients,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I think they’d be better off with chips.’

  Ward Six must be having a quiet night because the nurses are standing around chatting.

  ‘Hello, Jackson,’ says one of the younger nurses. ‘You here to see Ernie?’

  I nod.

  The nurse gives me and the girl a sympathetic look.

  An older nurse is sta
ring at the chips.

  ‘You do know,’ she says, ‘you’re not meant to bring hot food into the ward.’

  ‘It’s a present for Ernie,’ says the girl.

  She must be leaving the rest for me to say.

  I look around at all the nurses.

  ‘And for everyone who’s caring for him,’ I say.

  I glance at the girl. I expect her to give me a look that says good one, we’re a team. But she’s wincing and frowning at me as if I’ve just done something wrong.

  The nurses are all grinning with delight.

  ‘That is so kind,’ says one.

  ‘I wish all our patients’ families were so thoughtful,’ says another.

  ‘You two are our favourite visitors,’ says the older nurse, beaming at me and the girl and taking the parcel of chips from me and putting it on the nurses’ table.

  The nurses all help themselves. Not just one or two chips each.

  Handfuls.

  They all gobble happily and some are already onto their second fistful.

  I’m about to throw myself across the dwindling pile of chips to protect Ernie’s present with my body.

  Before I can, the girl tugs at my arm.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We won’t get them back now. Let’s go and see Ernie.’

  ‘No,’ I want to yell. ‘They’re Ernie’s chips. He’s lost enough in his life already.’

  Before I can get the words out, someone else arrives.

  It’s the head nurse, who can be very strict.

  She stares at the chips and the munching nurses and she doesn’t look happy.

  Then she blinks.

  Now she’s staring at the girl.

  ‘I know you,’ she says. ‘You’re Gabby Fletcher. You poor love. A friend of mine works in the hospital that sent the ambulances for your family.’

  The girl looks at the floor.

  I can see she’d rather not be recognised.

  A buzz is going around the nurses. A muffled buzz because they’re still eating. But I can make out a few words through the mouthfuls of chips.

  ‘She’s been put in a home.’

  ‘Tragic.’

  ‘Both parents and her brother and sister.’

  ‘On the Hume Highway.’

  ‘Out-of-control potato truck.’

  The girl turns to me and grabs my arm hard.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she hisses.

  She drags me away down the ward. I don’t ask anything because some questions are too painful to think about, let alone answer.