Revenge of the Spaghetti Hoops Page 4

  Everyone went mad. Apart from me that is – I felt like someone had sucked out my insides with a vacuum cleaner. Oh, and Rosie Taylor. She glared at Vanya in the same way a crazed penguin might stare at a fish-thief.

  This was shaping up to be an awful lunchtime.

  But, for me, things can always get worse.

  Spaghetti Hoops

  The dinner lady slopped a great big ladleful of spaghetti hoops on top of the creamy chicken sauce.

  ‘What’s for dessert?’ I asked miserably.

  ‘Fruit. Want some?’

  Fruit?

  I didn’t even bother to answer such a ridiculous question. Of course I didn’t want any fruit. She might as well have offered me a plate of boiled rats’ bums or a bowl of dirty old knickers with rotten-egg custard.

  I snatched up my tray and went to find a seat. I wanted to sit with Vanya, but for some reason Trevor the TV guy ushered her to a different table.

  I sat down, and was soon joined by Gamble, who decided he was going to suck his lunch up through a straw.

  Utterly gross.

  I pushed the spaghetti hoops around my plate. They’re pretty disgusting things, when you think about it – all sloppy and gloopy and swimming in thick sauce. I held my nose and forced a forkful into my mouth.

  As I was chewing, Jason sat down next to me. Trevor stood over us, with the camerawoman alongside him.

  ‘You two buzzed about the prom or what?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Definitely!’ exclaimed Gamble. ‘My brother Spud had a prom at his high school, right, and he ended up burning the whole building down. It was well mad!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jason.

  I carried on chewing, the spaghetti hoops swirling round my mouth like worms in a washing machine.

  ‘Psst,’ said Trevor to Jason, from behind the camera. ‘Ask about the you-know-who.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ said Jason.

  Trevor nodded. ‘Yes, you do. Remember Simon Bowel won’t put us on TV if the show isn’t exciting.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Jason, taking a deep breath. ‘Hey, Roman. You know Vanya, don’t you? What’s the deal with her? She got a boyfriend?’

  What?!

  A boyfriend?!!! She’s only eleven!

  Unfortunately, at this exact moment, I just happened to be swallowing. The shock caused me to snort the entire mouthful of half-chewed spaghetti hoops right up my nose.

  It wrecked! My knife and fork clattered to the floor. I clutched my neck and started making weird snorting noises.

  ‘You OK, man?’ asked Jason.

  But I wasn’t OK. My nose and throat were burning. My eyes were watering. I couldn’t breathe. My chest started convulsing. And then …

  AAAAAACCCCCCHHHHHHOOOOOOOO!

  I sneezed.

  Right into Jason’s face.

  Not just a normal sneeze either. This was enormous. A volcanic eruption of half-chewed lumps of spaghetti hoops and tomato sauce that shot out of my nose and mouth and sprayed across his face.

  ‘Interesting reaction …’ said Trevor, looking at me and rubbing his chin.

  Jason stared at me in horror. His whole head was completely splattered.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I said, dabbing at his face with my sleeve. ‘I just …’

  ‘What did you do that for, you disgusting fr–’

  ‘Jason!’ said Trevor. ‘Remember! Be nice to the little jealous kid.’

  The what?! Me? Jealous? Eh? What did he mean by that?

  I didn’t have time to ask him though, because Gamble leaned across and peered really closely at Jason. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘This bit of spaghetti looks just like my uncle Terry.’

  He plucked a lump of mangled pasta off Jason’s cheek and held it up to the light. Funnily enough, he was right. There were two or three bits of hoop all mushed together. And the way they’d been chewed and sneezed out made them look like a big fat head with a nose, a mouth and even an eye.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Gamble grinned, tossing it into his mouth.

  ‘That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,’ Trevor said.

  Gamble swallowed. ‘The snot definitely adds an extra bit of chewiness.’

  ‘Aha! Another thing to mention tomorrow,’ said Miss Clegg, who was hovering around in the background like a giant bug. ‘Darren’s a revolting ape with no manners and normal people shouldn’t have to look at him.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Trevor, who was wiping Jason’s face. ‘What did he just say?’

  ‘About the snot?’ said Gamble. ‘It’s well good – like free chewing gum.’

  ‘No. You said the pasta looked like your uncle.’

  ‘So what?’ said Gamble.

  Trevor pulled Jason to his feet. ‘Quick. We gotta get out of here. I’ve got an idea. I’ll explain on the way. Someone tell Mrs McDingaling we won’t be back till tomorrow.’

  With that, he ran out of the dinner hall with Jason following behind.

  That night I woke up at 3 a.m. from a terrible nightmare:

  It was the night of the BRT final. Straight after the trouser incident, a giant snake with big fluffy hair burst into the hall. It ate Vanya whole. I could see the shape of her as she passed along its body. The whole time, she was doing the drab. Then everyone else turned into Trevor, and they were all filming me and drabbing and opening their snake mouths to eat me and –

  I woke up in a cold sweat and had to go downstairs for an emergency doughnut.

  I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after that for ages. My mind was racing with worry about Jason, Vanya and all those strange threats that Miss Clegg kept making to Gamble.

  Because of all this, I was dazed, confused and late when I got to school on Tuesday. I would’ve had the day off sick if it wasn’t for the possibility of double doughnuts being on the menu.

  I certainly wasn’t ready for what I saw when I finally arrived in class. Darren Gamble was clinging to the leg of his table while Miss Clegg tried to drag him out of the room by his ankles. ‘I AIN’T GOING!’ he yelled. ‘So get off me, you ginormous bum wizard.’

  Miss Clegg prised his fingers off one by one. ‘I’ve told you. You’ve GOT to be there.’

  Gamble started squealing and lashing out with his feet and elbows, until Miss Clegg dropped him with a thud. He lay on the floor, glaring up at her.

  ‘What’s his beef?’ said Jason Grooves, strutting past me into the room and drabbing the class. Trevor and the film crew were behind him.

  ‘She’s making me go to some stupid meeting,’ said Gamble.

  Jason sighed. ‘Sounds rough, bruv. Would it help if I sang you a song?’

  I wasn’t sure how this was going to help, but Jason jumped on to a desk anyway. ‘This track’s off my new album. I wrote it myself. It’s called “My Lady Love”.’

  Trevor tapped the screen of his phone. Tinny music came out of the speaker, then Jason began to sing. Obviously, he’s got a good voice, but the song was HORRIBLE. The words were all soppy, and I think he’d just written anything as long as it rhymed. E.g.

  ‘You’ll be my princess and I’ll be your prince.

  You’ll be my onion and I’ll be your mince.’

  And:

  ‘You make my heart explode,

  Every day since we met, my love for you has growed.’

  And:

  ‘I’ll buy you a packet of Skittles from Spar,

  You make me feel like ooh ooh ah ah ah.’

  You make me feel like ooh ooh ah ah ah?

  What does that even mean? He sounded like a monkey in a hot bath. What next? You love me, I love you. Bah bah oink oink moo moo moo?

  Pathetic.

  But nobody else thought he was pathetic. In fact, when he’d finished warbling, everyone drabbed, clapped and cheered like he’d just saved a rucksack full of kittens from a fire.

  Jason looked directly at the camera and winked. ‘Available soon on CD and download.’

  Trevor gave him the thumbs up. ‘Rule seven of t
his TV show: we’ve got to advertise Jason’s music.’

  Rule seven? How many rules were there? I thought there were only meant to be six.

  ‘I remember all the rules,’ simpered Rosie. ‘Act natural … have a love interest (AKA: me) … make sure people like the hero … rivalry and competition … and have a big finale. Now can I be Jason’s girlfriend? Hashtag: rule eight – marry me.’

  Jason opened his mouth but Trevor spoke over him: ‘Jason hasn’t decided who his girlfriend will be yet.’

  Decided? I thought, Don’t the girls get any say in it?

  ‘I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, Jason,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What’s that song got to do with Gamble?’ I asked, totally confused.

  ‘OMG, Roman,’ said Rosie Taylor, ‘you are soooooo stupid. That song wasn’t about Gamble. It was obviously about me.’ She gave one of her horrible slug’s bum smiles. ‘I love you too, Jason Grooves. We’ll be a celebrity couple, like Melissa Slump and Jeremy Badge. AKA: Sludge.’

  She blew a kiss at Jason, but Trevor actually pushed him out of the way, so it missed and went at me instead. Even though it was invisible, it gave me a grim, cold feeling on my cheek, like I’d been breathed on by a dead person.

  Rosie looked furious. ‘Urgh! Disgustamungtabulous. My air kiss hit Roman. I literally feel like pulling my lips off.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Ah, Jason,’ said Mrs McDonald, folding her arms. ‘Lovely singing. But why weren’t you here yesterday afternoon?’

  Trevor answered for him. ‘Big news. We’ll tell you tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t just walk out whenev–’ began Mrs McDonald.

  Trevor raised a finger. ‘Not cool, Mrs McDillydang. Your job’s to make Jason look good, got it?’

  ‘I thought my job was to teach,’ said Mrs McDonald.

  Trevor shook his head. ‘Just remember how much money the school is getting for this TV show.’

  For a moment, Mrs McDonald stared at Trevor, her face turning redder and redder. In fact, it might even have turned purple, if Miss Clegg hadn’t suddenly screamed, ‘Get down here NOW!’

  While our backs were turned, Gamble had piled four chairs on top of his table, punched a hole in the ceiling tiles, and was now climbing up into the roof space. His legs were dangling out of the hole and a cloud of dust was showering down.

  Miss Clegg made a grab for his ankles and he booted her in the head. ‘I’m moving into the loft to live with the bats.’

  Just a regular morning for Darren Gamble.

  ‘I could write a song about this,’ said Jason.

  ‘No need,’ I said.

  Mrs McDonald was underneath him now. ‘Darren. It’s important that you go to this meeting.’

  ‘I’d rather eat my own brain,’ said Gamble.

  ‘Small meal,’ grunted Miss Clegg.

  ‘Would it help if you took a friend with you?’ asked Mrs McDonald, ignoring her.

  Please not me, I thought. Gamble is terrible in meetings. One time I was in a school council meeting. Halfway through, he ran in holding a bucket and started throwing live crabs at people. He never explained why.

  Gamble dropped on to the table and grinned. ‘Roman. He’s my bestest friend in the whole wide world. And if he doesn’t come I’ll pull off his kneecaps.’

  Great.

  The Sunshine Unit

  Miss Clegg led us to the small group room. The small group room is a small room where small groups can go to work. It’s not a clever name. A pink-faced, bald man was sitting at the table in there with a clipboard in front of him.

  ‘You must be Darren,’ he said to me.

  ‘Wrong one,’ said Miss Clegg. ‘It’s the other weird-looking boy here.’

  The other weird-looking boy? I’m nowhere near as weird-looking as Gamble. The kid’s got a head like a sultana.

  ‘Who are you, Baldy?’ said Gamble to the man. This was a bit rich coming from Gamble – he looks as if he cuts his hair with sandpaper.

  ‘I’m Mr Gibbons, from Broughton College.’

  Gamble stared at him blankly. ‘Where?’

  I looked at Gamble. Unbelievable. ‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘the high school we’re going to in September.’

  How did he not know that?

  ‘Well, make it quick,’ said Gamble. ‘It’s my computer treat time.’

  Mr Gibbons folded his hands together. ‘So Miss Clegg called me, after … what happened with the piranhas.’

  Miss Clegg looked pleased with herself. ‘Told you I had big plans for today.’

  I didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘And,’ continued Mr Gibbons, ‘I’ve come in to find out more about you.’

  ‘Such as why are you such a nasty little goblin?’ smiled Miss Clegg. ‘And can you go to a normal high school, or will you have to go to a zoo instead?’

  ‘It’s not a zoo,’ said Mr Gibbons. ‘It’s a special part of the school where we can look after children with behaviour issues.’

  ‘What’s behaviour issues?’ asked Gamble.

  ‘Behaviour issues,’ said Mr Gibbons, ‘are when children find it hard to do the right thing.’

  ‘In other words, being a right pain in the bum,’ said Miss Clegg.

  ‘We take the students with behaviour issues and …’

  ‘Chain them up?’ asked Miss Clegg hopefully.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Gibbons.

  Miss Clegg tutted. ‘Electrocute them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hang them from the ceiling by their toes and hammer nails into their eyeballs?’

  Mr Gibbons shook his head. ‘No. We teach them in a separate building so that they can get the help they need, and so that everyone else is safe. We call it the Sunshine Unit.’

  ‘Separate?’ said Gamble suspiciously. ‘You mean, I ain’t going to a normal school next year?’

  Miss Clegg smiled at him cruelly. ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it. Once Mr Gibbons sees what you’re like, you’ll be going to his prison instead.’

  ‘The Sunshine Unit isn’t a prison,’ said Mr Gibbons, ‘it’s just a separate building. With a high fence. And really strong doors. And bars on the windows.’

  It sounded a lot like a prison to me.

  ‘But …’ said Gamble, his bottom lip trembling and tears forming in his eyes. ‘If I go there, I won’t be with my bestest mate, Roman.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Miss Clegg, who was really enjoying herself now. ‘You’ll be stuck with all the other horrible little scrutbags like you.’

  ‘Nothing’s been decided yet,’ said Mr Gibbons. ‘And that’s why I’m here – to find out if the Sunshine Unit is right for you.’

  ‘It will be,’ said Miss Clegg. ‘The kid’s a gangster.’

  ‘Ah, shut it, you massive fart-cannon,’ snapped Gamble.

  Mr Gibbons wrote something on his clipboard.

  Miss Clegg looked over at it and clapped her hands together. I hadn’t seen her looking so happy since that time Gamble fell off the PE shed roof after she’d prodded him with a hockey stick.

  Normally I’d never be rude to a member of staff, but there was something about this that made me cross. ‘Why are you doing this to him?’ I asked her.

  ‘Because he’s ruined my life,’ said Miss Clegg, ‘and I think he deserves to spend the next five years being punished for it.’

  ‘The Sunshine Unit isn’t a pun–’ began Mr Gibbons, but he was interrupted by the door being thrown open.

  Interview

  Trevor the TV man burst into the room. ‘Right. Out. I need this room.’

  ‘But I’m trying to get this evil little monster locked up for the next five years,’ moaned Miss Clegg.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Trevor, setting up a small camera on a tripod and pointing it at an empty chair. ‘I think a TV show is a bit more important than some kid’s future.’

  ‘Is it?’ I asked.

  Trevor squinted at me. ‘Yes. We’re doing interviews with e
veryone in the class. Asking them about Jason. Helps the people watching at home realise how brilliant he is. Then they buy his music and his merchandise and … kerching … we all get rich.’

  ‘Can I go first?’ panted Gamble, bouncing up and down like a deranged wallaby.

  Miss Clegg scoffed. ‘The only TV show you’d get on is Britain’s Deadliest Scuzzbuckets.’

  Gamble called her a ‘butt-sniffer’.

  Mr Gibbons wrote something on his clipboard.

  ‘How about you?’ said Trevor to me.

  ‘Me?’ I asked.

  Trevor gave one of his super-fake fixed smiles. ‘Don’t worry. Just you, me and this teeny camera. Won’t hurt at all.’

  So Gamble, Miss Clegg and Mr Gibbons went back to class, while I stayed in the small group room with Trevor. He was right. It didn’t hurt at all. But it was very strange.

  Trevor started off by asking me a bunch of funny questions, to ‘get me warmed up’ before the proper interview. It was all silly stuff, like:

  Can you describe the stinkiest pair of underpants in the world?

  Would you rather have a head like a fish, or be forced to eat a plate of slug brains every morning?

  How do spaghetti hoops make you feel?

  What would you say if a giant potato man stole your pet hamster, then wanted to be your friend?

  And loads more.

  I actually quite enjoyed this part of the interview. It took my mind off all my worries about Vanya, Jason and Gamble. In fact, I got carried away and went into tonnes of detail. Trevor was really encouraging, putting his thumbs up and telling me I was doing great.

  Then the real interview began and the questions suddenly changed.

  He fired them out – rat-a-tat-tat – so fast I could barely answer one before he asked me another.

  Do you like Jason? Do you want Jason to be successful and famous? How does it make you feel when Jason sings? How would you feel if someone went to the prom with your best friend?

  And so on and so on.

  After about twenty of them, I felt all dizzy and spaced out, like on that trip to the Egyptian museum when Gamble hit me over the head with a mummified cat.