Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy by John Michael (good short books .TXT) 📗

the locker room that, if you were lucky enough, you would come face to face with one of the most primeval spectacles known to man − the teenage farting competition.

No such luck at home of course! We certainly had no farting competitions within the walls of our house. Bummer! In fact, we had a strict ‘no farting’ rule when it came to my long-suffering ‘delicate princess’ of a sister but, of course, Deborah had no trouble using her so-called phobia to her advantage. Many a time she would falsely accuse me of blasting the bagpipes when it was her turn to do the dishes, or when she had to do her piano practice and of course, whenever we were arguing about which show to watch on TV.

“Howie! Pancake time!” A voice hollered from downstairs − it was Mum. That could mean only one thing! It was Saturday! Every Saturday we all had a pancake breakfast. I quickly made my way to the bathroom and then ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time and hit the bottom landing with a thud.

“Don’t run on the stairs!” yelled Mum and then proceeded to back up her plea with a list of prepared statistics. “You are four times more likely to die falling down the stairs then in a motorcycle accident... this year alone 850 people broke their neck falling down the stairs Howie. Do you want to be number 851? Do you?!” Mum had been using these statistics since I had been a toddler and I had a feeling that her figures needed some updating. Nevertheless, this wasn’t the time to pick an argument, there were pancakes on the table and Mum was the pancake provider. Never bite the hand that feeds you, especially if it was Mum’s. And especially if that hand was offering you a plate of delicious steaming hot pancakes.

“Morning sleepyhead,” mumbled Dad without raising his head from the newspaper. Deborah was seated next to him, already munching through the pancakes like they were going out of fashion.

“Hi Dad, Mum, Deb,” I replied as I sat down.

Mum brought another fresh batch of pancakes to the table and sat down with us. “Get ’em while they’re hot,” she hollered.

“Mmm, thanks Mum,” I replied as I used my fork to flip a couple of pancakes onto my plate.

“Will you look at that,” exclaimed Dad as he read from the newspaper. “Man bites Dog, Gets Fleas!” Dad would always share the more unusual news stories with us during our breakfast sessions.

“Yes dear... sounds riveting,” responded Mum.

“It says here that it was a big dog too... a Doberman pinscher.”

“Oh that reminds me! Talking about dogs... I’ve got some real news for you!” interrupted Mum.

“Real news? Whatever are you inferring?” asked Dad.

“Nothing dear,” responded Mum as she patted him on the hand. “As you know, I went to the grocery store this morning to get some milk, orange juice and maple syrup. As I was leaving, I bumped into Miss Crawford.”

Crazy Crawford was a kooky old sinewy spinster who was the town gossip. She had nothing better to do than spread rumours about everyone and anything. She even interrogated my sister at the mall once about my toenails, and then informed her that there was a nasty story going around that I had this bad habit where I would bite them... which she herself was spreading! Now there was a time I would occasionally bite my fingernails, but toenails? I was nowhere near flexible enough to reach my feet in that way. Deborah still loves to tease me about being a ‘cheesy toenail eater.’

“And what did ol’ Miss Gasbag have to say?” inquired Dad dryly.

“Well it’s funny that you should ask... Matron Fulton got attacked last night.”

“Attacked?” I spluttered as I choked on my pancake. Suddenly last night came flooding back in a blur of fragmented memories. I took a swig of orange juice to ease my coughing.

“Yes attacked! Apparently, a couple of juvenile delinquents started to howl at her like wild dogs.”

“Wild dogs? Why?” queried Deborah.

“Because they were behaving like animals!” added Mum.

“That’s your ‘real news’ story?” murmured Dad as he buried his head back in his newspaper. “I think I’ll stick to my own sources.”

“Boring,” remarked my sister.

“Well... they then tried to steal her cauldron!”

“Steal her cauldron?!” I yelped as I spat out my orange juice.

“What on earth are you talking about?” inquired Dad who poked his head back out from behind the newspaper.

“That’s right! Cauldron!”

“As in a witch’s cauldron?” asked my sister.

“That would be appropriate,” laughed Dad.

“No... the cauldron she uses to make gruel for the orphans!” answered Mum.

“They still feed them gruel? Isn’t there a law against that?” asked Deborah.

“You’d certainly think so,” added Dad.

“But that’s not even the worst part, she was then pushed into the moat!” continued Mum.

“Pushed? Into the moat?!” queried Deborah.

“Yes, the moat,” repeated Mum.

“But that’s not what happened!” I blurted out without thinking.

“I know! It’s hard to believe,” said Mum.

“Did the alligators get her?” asked my sister.

“There are no alligators in the moat!” I snapped.

“That sure would have been one enormous feast,” interjected Dad

“I know there are no alligators in the moat!” replied my sister.

“Maurice! That’s no way to talk about the matron,” stated Mum.

“It was a joke dumb-dumb,” replied my sister while giving me the hairy eyeball.

“Deborah! Language please,” warned Dad.

“Did she get a look at them?” I asked.

“What? The alligators?” asked Mum.

“No... the um... delinquents,” I stated.

“It was rather dark,” replied Mum.

“So the matron didn’t see them!” I responded.

“Well, Miss Crawford did say there were two teenagers, one was skinny and the other one was quite burly, both with mohawks and that they were covered with tattoos.”

“Oh... well you wouldn’t want to bump into those guys in a dark alley,” I replied, relieved that Miss Crawford’s exaggeration had actually worked in my favour this time.

“No, you most certainly wouldn’t,” stated Mum. “And I don’t want you associating with such hoodlums either!” She then proceeded to pinch my