by R. A. Spratt
‘The database,’ said Dad. ‘It’s just a list of residents of Currawong. It’s the same information you could get from the Currawong phone directory.’
Now Mum’s jaw dropped open and she turned pale as if she was starting to go into shock. ‘What are you saying?’
Dad laid the printout across his forearm and started flicking through the pages with his other hand. ‘See for yourself,’ said Dad. ‘The database is half the residents of Currawong. The names are wrong but the photos are clear enough. Andrei Blackivic is Mr Popov the kids’ PE teacher. And Marcia Devine is the Cat Lady.’
Mum looked at the pages Dad held open. ‘Harold, I spent seven years building this list. I broke into archives, computer systems and top-secret buildings all across Europe, the Middle East and South America to put together this information. It is not a list of Currawong residents. It was a list of all the top international operatives who have gone missing in the last fifty years.’
‘Why are they all here in Currawong?’ asked Dad.
Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ said Dad. ‘Unless . . .’ He looked up suddenly.
‘What?’ asked Mum.
‘Unless, they really like potatoes,’ said Dad.
Mum would have laughed, except Dad was apparently being sincere. ‘Yeah, I’m guessing it’s something else.’
After school, Fin was well enough to work on the potato again. He had learned from his previous over confidence. This time he invited Neil over to help him. Like Fin, Neil was very good at fixing things. Although Neil’s ability to fix things tended to be more practical. He could build a rain-proof chook feeder out of two buckets and some baling twine. Whereas Fin’s ability to fix things was more creative. He could design a trebuchet that would fire pumpkins all the way to Bilgong.
The first thing the boys did was give up trying to move the potato by hand. Neil brought an old tractor he’d found in the back paddock of his grandmother’s farm. It was so old you couldn’t tell how old it was because all the labelling had long ago rusted over. It had sat disused in the Cat Lady’s field for a decade before Neil decided to get it going again.
The tractor moved very slowly and with a lot of juddering, but it did move. Neil was rather proud of his ‘wheels’. No other thirteen-year-old in Currawong had their own vehicle. Admittedly it wasn’t technically roadworthy or registered. But if Neil ever spotted Constable Pike when he was riding it, he would simply drive the tractor up onto the nature strip and pretend to be mowing the lawn. Neil was so quiet and potato-faced that Constable Pike never thought of suspecting him of doing anything more.
Neil drove the tractor up the driveway and across Mr Peski’s beautiful lawn, causing irreparable damage to the turf in the process by gouging long tyre tracks through the soft grass. Fin directed him into position, getting Neil to draw the tractor up so that the front bumper was right up against the Giant Potato. Even though the potato was huge and the tractor was small, the tractor easily won the encounter. It moved slowly but with great torque, rolling the potato inch by inch into Mr Peski’s massive shed. Fin had got his dad to park the helicopter outside to make room for it.
‘Now what?’ asked Neil, as he shut off the engine and climbed down from the driver’s seat.
‘Now we get to work,’ said Fin.
‘It’s a big repair job,’ observed Neil. There was a huge dent where the potato had been hit by a bus, and a huge hole where the potato had been impaled by a T-Rex.
‘Oh, we’re not going to repair this potato,’ said Fin.
‘We’re not?’ asked Neil.
‘No,’ said Fin, with a gleam in his eye. ‘We are going to improve it.’
‘How?’ asked Neil.
‘You’ll see,’ said Fin. He started to laugh maniacally.
Neil looked at his friend with concern. He hoped it was just the concussion talking, and Fin hadn’t actually gone potty.
Joe could not sleep. It was only 5 am, barely starting to get light outside, but he was lying in bed wide awake. For most people insomnia is a symptom of stress. Anxious thoughts keeping you from drifting into slumber. Joe certainly had a lot to be anxious about. His mother was an incredibly dangerous international super spy hunted by some of the most ruthless regimes in the world. His sister had rage issues. His brother had recently been injured by a giant potato. Any of these things would be a cause for concern. But that is not why Joe lay awake this morning. Joe was awake because he was hungry.
He was very large for a fifteen-year-old, six foot three now, and he got a lot of exercise both through playing sport and evading the amorous attacks of Daisy Odinsdottir. His growing body just burned through food. By 4 o’clock in the morning it was demanding more fuel. At this painfully early hour every morning, Joe was dragged from the depths of slumber by his stomach’s rumbling demands.
Joe felt bad that he ate so much. His Dad was not a wealthy man. And cost aside, Joe sometimes unwittingly ate so much there was little left for everyone else. April could get really angry if the only thing left for her breakfast was lentils. So Joe tried to hold out as long as possible before creeping from bed and sneaking downstairs for a snack. And Joe’s idea of a ‘snack’ meant a meal the size you would usually feed a horse or a pre-hibernation bear. It’s hard to sneak when you’re six foot three and weigh eighty-five kilograms. Especially in an old farm house where every floorboard has its own unique creaky spot.
April usually slept dead to the world. But Pumpkin was a dog and therefore had really good hearing. Plus, Pumpkin rarely slept at all. Joe knew April would never give her dog coffee. She loved animals too much for that. But Pumpkin always acted like he had drunk a whole jug of super-strength espresso. The little dog was permanently wired and ready to explode into action. Joe did not want to wake him. If Pumpkin woke up, he’d wake April up, then April would start yelling at him for eating too much. Food never tasted as good if you had to eat it while being yelled at.
Once he got downstairs Joe felt pretty safe. There was carpet in the hallway. He padded quickly to the kitchen. He was starving. He’d start with a pint of milk and four slices of toast, then take it from there. Joe flicked on the light and . . . he screamed, ‘Waaahhh!’
Loretta was sitting at the kitchen counter, nibbling on a bagel and drinking a cup of coffee.
‘Good morning,’ said Loretta, brightly.
In the distant reaches of the attic, Joe heard the sound of Pumpkin yapping. He slumped. They had about forty-five seconds before April would appear and start abusing them.
‘W-w-w-what are you doing up?’ asked Joe.
‘It’s announcement day!’ said Loretta.
Joe didn’t respond verbally. He just looked back at her bewildered.
‘The nominees for the Potato Princess will be printed in today’s local paper,’ explained Loretta.
‘Oooh,’ said Joe. He thought about this for a moment. ‘I-is there a local p-p-paper?’
‘Of course, silly,’ said Loretta. ‘Every house in Currawong has one delivered to the door once a week.’
‘I’ve n-never seen one,’ said Joe.
‘No,’ agreed Loretta. ‘Well, you may have done, but you wouldn’t have recognised it. Pumpkin has been eating them.’
Now Joe was more confused. ‘But he’s such a tiny dog.’
‘True,’ agreed Loretta. ‘To be strictly accurate Pumpkin runs around the garden savaging the newspaper, generally tearing it to shreds and slobbering all over it.’
‘Oh,’ said Joe. ‘Is that what the confetti on the lawn every Wednesday morning is?’
‘Yes,’ said Loretta. ‘Which is why I’m up early – to make sure I get to it before him this morning. I can’t wait to see who my competition is.’
They could hear the scratchy scrambling of Pumpkin’s toenails as he scampered down the stairs. ‘Uh-oh,’ said Joe. ‘He’s coming.’
‘Now Joe,’ chided Loretta. ‘You shouldn’t be scared of such a sweet lit
tle dog.’
‘You’re the one who got up early to b-beat him to the newspaper,’ Joe pointed out.
‘I admire his enthusiasm,’ said Loretta. ‘So few people are interested in old-fashioned physical newspapers these days.’
Pumpkin burst into the room, yapping.
‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ said Loretta, bending to give the little dog a pat. Pumpkin jumped up, pawing at Loretta’s stool, desperate to have his ears scratched. But then suddenly, Pumpkin’s head spun round and he froze.
‘What is it?’ asked Loretta. ‘Do you hear something?’
Then they could all hear it, the distant sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway.
Pumpkin started barking wildly as he ran for the front door.
‘Quick!’ cried Loretta, rushing after the dog. ‘We can’t let Pumpkin get to him first!’
‘But the front door is shut,’ said Joe.
Loretta didn’t slow. Joe followed her, just in time to see April opening the front door.
‘Do you want to go out for your morning pee-pee?’ April was talking to Pumpkin.
‘No!’ cried Loretta.
But the door had already opened a few inches and that was all Pumpkin needed. He streaked away down the path. Loretta raced after him.
‘What’s going on?’ asked April. ‘What’s Loretta got against a dog peeing?’
‘Explain in a sec,’ said Joe, before bolting down the driveway after Loretta and the dog.
Up ahead a delivery man wearing a hi-vis yellow shirt was reaching into his big shoulder bag for a copy of the paper.
‘Watch out!’ Joe yelled in warning.
The delivery man looked up to see a startlingly beautiful girl hurtling straight for him. It was another second before he noticed the tiny dog speeding ahead of her. That hesitation was costly. He didn’t have enough time to turn and run. Like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck, the panicked paperman froze.
Pumpkin leapt up at him, appearing to go for the jugular (something April had tried training her dog to do) but instead snatching the local paper out of the delivery man’s hand as he raised it up protectively in front of his face.
‘Agh!’ cried the delivery man.
‘Quick, run for it,’ urged Joe. ‘While he’s still busy.’
Pumpkin was gallivanting across the lawn, shaking the newspaper side to side. Loretta chased after him, which Pumpkin thought made everything even more fun. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Give the paper to Auntie Loretta. I’ll buy you a T-bone steak.’
‘My dog won’t be bribed,’ yelled April. She was still standing on the front porch of the house, because she didn’t have any shoes on. ‘He’s got too much integrity.’
‘But I need to read the paper,’ said Loretta, ducking and weaving around the flowerbeds and trying to catch Pumpkin. ‘I need to know how to prepare myself for the psychological warfare at school.’
‘It’s okay,’ called Joe. ‘I’ve got a copy.’
Loretta looked up to see Joe standing further down the driveway over a bright yellow shoulder bag. The delivery man had abandoned it, in his bid to escape unscathed. Joe reached down and grabbed a fresh copy. ‘I hope he doesn’t mind if we take an extra one.’
‘Serves him right for abandoning his job,’ said April. ‘People have no respect for duty any more.’
Joe picked up the rest of the shoulder bag too. ‘I’ll deliver the rest for him. After breakfast.’ It was nice to be helpful, but never at the expense of good nutrition.
It was still fairly dark, so Loretta waited until she was back in the warm well-lit kitchen before she even tried to read the paper. April could not have been less interested in the matter. She was bustling about the kitchen, feeding Pumpkin and putting breakfast together for herself. Joe had gone beyond the idea of making toast, he was too hungry to wait for the toaster. He just grabbed a box of breakfast cereal and a spoon and started eating it dry, straight from the box.
Loretta laid the paper out flat and started flicking through, looking for the announcements page with the list of nominees. Suddenly, she stopped, quickly she read and in the next second she screamed, ‘Aaaaaggghhh!’
April was so startled she dropped a can of dog food on her foot. ‘Ow!’ cried April. ‘What on earth are you caterwauling about?’
Joe didn’t even try talking. He just went to the fridge, got the milk, poured it directly into the box of cereal and kept eating. He was going to need sustenance. If something was so exciting it made Loretta scream, there’s no way it could be good news.
Loretta swivelled on her stool to face April. April wasn’t looking at her. She was down on her hands and knees, trying to clean up the spattered dog food with a kitchen wipe while Pumpkin danced excitedly around her, snatching bites.
‘It’s the list of nominees for Potato Princess,’ said Loretta, still staring at April.
‘List of morons, more like,’ muttered April. ‘They should call it the Potato-Headed Princess. You’d have to have mashed potato between your ears to want to be involved.’
Loretta beamed at April. ‘But this year’s list has a few surprises.’
‘It’s surprising there even is a list in this day and age,’ said April. ‘I’m amazed the government hasn’t shut it down for contravening every principle of feminism.’
Joe was starting to get curious now. His mind was churning. What on that list had made Loretta so excited. ‘Who has been n-n-nominated?’ he asked.
Loretta glanced at him. ‘Well, of course, me . . .’
‘Humpf,’ said April, as she tried to get the last stubborn chunks of dog food out from the edge where the floor meets the kickboard by the sink.
‘And Daisy Odinsdottir . . .’
Joe shuddered. Normally he would never dream of being rude about a girl, but he was so terrified of Daisy that his body reacted involuntarily.
‘As well as the names you would expect, Matilda Voss-Nevers, Alice Pearlman, Vanessa Writtle . . .’ continued Loretta.
‘That lot have barely got two brain cells to rub together between them,’ muttered April.
‘But the last name on the list is . . .’ continued Loretta, ‘. . . April Peski!’
April had just got to her feet. She was holding Pumpkin’s dog bowl in one hand and a wad of filthy kitchen paper in the other.
‘You have been nominated for Potato Princess,’ said Loretta with a huge grin.
April lost her grip on the dog bowl and it smashed to the ground, making another mess. But she didn’t even look down. ‘What did you say?’ asked April.
‘You are a Potato Princess nominee,’ said Loretta. ‘Over the coming days your every move will be watched by the citizens of Currawong as they judge you on your ability to uphold the virtues of the Potato Pageant. Then on Friday they all vote at the polling booth at the CWA.’
April was shaking her head. ‘But I don’t want to be a potato,’ she protested.
‘Too late,’ said Loretta. ‘Someone must think you’re worthy. You must have a secret admirer.’
‘Ew, gross,’ said April. ‘I’m going to pull out of the competition.’
Joe went over to read the article for himself. What Loretta had said was true. But something else caught his eye as well.
‘Hey,’ said Joe. ‘W-w-what’s this here?’ He stabbed his big finger at a different point of the page. ‘That’s my n-name.’
‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Loretta. ‘That is an honour.’
‘What honour?’ asked Joe. He was starting to panic.
Loretta leaned in to read it carefully. ‘You have been named Captain of the Currawong High School Capture the Potato Team.’
‘Huh?’ said Joe.
‘As a prelude to the Potato Princess Pageant,’ said Loretta. ‘The Capture the Potato Game is held in the Daffodil Gardens. Currawong High compete against St Anthony’s to see who can steal the other’s potato sack first.’
‘Why would anyone want to steal potatoes?’ asked April.
‘For the honour of it,’ said Loretta. She grabbed Joe and wrapped him in a big hug. ‘I’m so proud of you both.’ Loretta turned to hug April too, but she was covered in dog food, so thought better of it. ‘This is going to be the best Potato Pageant ever.’
Joe pumped the pedals of his bicycle harder than usual. He was in a hurry to get to school. Normally he dawdled as much as the others. Social interaction was always awkward for him. Apart from his stammer, he was also physically so tall and bulky that some kids stared.
Although the worst bit about school was when teachers asked him questions. He usually knew the answers in his head, but it was getting his tongue to say the words that was the hard part, especially when the other twenty-nine kids in the class had turned to hear what he’d say. That’s why, regardless of what he was asked he always tried to answer with the same thing, ‘I don’t know.’ He was usually pretty confident he could get those words out without stumbling. Sometimes he’d even abbreviate it further and just say, ‘Dunno.’ This was even better because it lowered the teachers’ expectations of his intelligence further, which made them less likely to ask questions in the future.
But today Joe was hurrying so that he could have a conversation – a thing he usually dreaded. This time, things had gone too far. It was unavoidable. He had to talk to Mr Popov. He was sure a teacher couldn’t put him on a sporting team without his permission, or at least warning him that it was about to happen. He had to get out of it.
Luckily, April was in a hurry too. She was just as mad (well, actually a lot madder – April had a great capacity for anger) about being nominated for Potato Princess. She was angry with the unknown person who had nominated her but she was also angry with the whole ridiculous pageant itself. As she cycled down the road a halo of rage orbited her like the rings of Saturn. Pumpkin whizzed alongside her, fuelling her anger with his yappy bark.
April’s first objective was to find the sackful of nominations and destroy it. Perhaps by burning it, or at the very least emptying it into the nearest toilet and flushing all the names away. Then she intended to find out who nominated her and seek retribution. She considered siccing Pumpkin on them, but decided she wanted to save the pleasure for herself.
