Spurt Read Online Free
major difference between the girls’ changing room and the boys’ changing room.
The girls’ changing room didn’t have Oliver Sampson.
Oliver Sampson was in 8D, and had the exact opposite problem to Jack – if being rigged like a horse between your legs really qualified as a problem. Like Jack, Sampson had gone to primary school at Upland West. And then, sometime between the end of Grade 6 and the start of Year 7, Sampson had been swept up in the biggest testosterone tsunami in recorded history. Over the course of a single summer holiday he’d tripled in size in every direction. When he’d stripped down in the changing room that first week of high school, the other new Year 7s literally cowered , as if they’d received a visitation from some extraterrestrial superbeing. (‘Who is this god who walks among us?’ someone had whispered.)
But as the months passed, the rest of the boys cowered no more as they inched towards the benchmark Sampson had set. Soon they were no longer boys, but fledgling dudes.
All except Jack. Even Kenny Hodgman – Jack’s last ally in Year 8 pubelessness – seemed to have betrayed him. Just since the end of Term Three, the Hodgemeister’s voice had dropped so far he sounded like Darth Vader to Jack’s Jar Jar Binks.
Jack dumped his backpack on one of the benches furthest from Sampson and the others. He stood looking at it, contemplating how to get his school clothes off and his soccer shorts on before anyone noticed he’d finally become the only minnow in the shark tank.
‘Hey, Jack!’
Jack looked up. It was Philo Dawson, Vivi’s younger cousin. He zoomed towards Jack, shoulders jerking forwards, as though his whole body were being reeled along by the semi-crazed grin that seemed to leap a mile ahead of the rest of his face.
‘Hey, Philo.’
‘Can you believe it’s the last term already, Jack?’ Philo shook his head wistfully. ‘Year 8, almost over.’
Technically, Philo should have been looking forward to the end of Year 7. He was a full year younger than Jack, but his parents had insisted he be pushed up a year level so he could finish school sooner and take on his responsibilities to the family business: Sultana World.
It was wrinkled grapes that had put Upland on the map. Sultanas had become such big business that a previous generation of Dawsons had built a Sultana World amusement park in the middle of Upland. They called it Sultana World World. So when Philo’s parents had demanded that Philo – sole heir to the Sultana World empire – be accelerated to a higher year level, the school council had agreed. Partly because agreeing with Philo’s side of the Dawson family was just what everyone in Upland did. But mostly because the sooner Philo finished school, the less likely he was to accidentally burn it down.
Philo unzipped his long, old-school gym bag and pulled out his soccer gear. ‘So how were your holidays, Jack?’
Jack was about to answer when he heard an unwelcome sound behind him: the many-octaves-too-low voice of Oliver Sampson.
‘Yeah, Sprogless, how were your holidays?’ Sampson loomed behind him, shirt off, chin raised, shoulders absurdly wide. ‘Didn’t see you at the Under 15s sign-on.’ Being spoken at by Sampson was like the verbal equivalent of being jabbed in the ribs. ‘What happened? Finally get booted back to the Under 12s where you belong?’
Jack was pretty sure the only kind of under-15s club Sampson deserved to join was a club for people with 15 IQ points or under, but he didn’t say this. He put on a disappointed face and shrugged. ‘I’ll probably have to give cricket a miss this year. Got a bit of a … groin problem, actually.’
‘Groin problem?’
Jack bowed his legs and made a half-hearted pelvic thrust. In theory, it was meant to suggest a massive weight in the front part of his underpants. In practice, it looked like he’d suffered an accident in the back part.
Sampson snorted. ‘As if. Everyone knows
The girls’ changing room didn’t have Oliver Sampson.
Oliver Sampson was in 8D, and had the exact opposite problem to Jack – if being rigged like a horse between your legs really qualified as a problem. Like Jack, Sampson had gone to primary school at Upland West. And then, sometime between the end of Grade 6 and the start of Year 7, Sampson had been swept up in the biggest testosterone tsunami in recorded history. Over the course of a single summer holiday he’d tripled in size in every direction. When he’d stripped down in the changing room that first week of high school, the other new Year 7s literally cowered , as if they’d received a visitation from some extraterrestrial superbeing. (‘Who is this god who walks among us?’ someone had whispered.)
But as the months passed, the rest of the boys cowered no more as they inched towards the benchmark Sampson had set. Soon they were no longer boys, but fledgling dudes.
All except Jack. Even Kenny Hodgman – Jack’s last ally in Year 8 pubelessness – seemed to have betrayed him. Just since the end of Term Three, the Hodgemeister’s voice had dropped so far he sounded like Darth Vader to Jack’s Jar Jar Binks.
Jack dumped his backpack on one of the benches furthest from Sampson and the others. He stood looking at it, contemplating how to get his school clothes off and his soccer shorts on before anyone noticed he’d finally become the only minnow in the shark tank.
‘Hey, Jack!’
Jack looked up. It was Philo Dawson, Vivi’s younger cousin. He zoomed towards Jack, shoulders jerking forwards, as though his whole body were being reeled along by the semi-crazed grin that seemed to leap a mile ahead of the rest of his face.
‘Hey, Philo.’
‘Can you believe it’s the last term already, Jack?’ Philo shook his head wistfully. ‘Year 8, almost over.’
Technically, Philo should have been looking forward to the end of Year 7. He was a full year younger than Jack, but his parents had insisted he be pushed up a year level so he could finish school sooner and take on his responsibilities to the family business: Sultana World.
It was wrinkled grapes that had put Upland on the map. Sultanas had become such big business that a previous generation of Dawsons had built a Sultana World amusement park in the middle of Upland. They called it Sultana World World. So when Philo’s parents had demanded that Philo – sole heir to the Sultana World empire – be accelerated to a higher year level, the school council had agreed. Partly because agreeing with Philo’s side of the Dawson family was just what everyone in Upland did. But mostly because the sooner Philo finished school, the less likely he was to accidentally burn it down.
Philo unzipped his long, old-school gym bag and pulled out his soccer gear. ‘So how were your holidays, Jack?’
Jack was about to answer when he heard an unwelcome sound behind him: the many-octaves-too-low voice of Oliver Sampson.
‘Yeah, Sprogless, how were your holidays?’ Sampson loomed behind him, shirt off, chin raised, shoulders absurdly wide. ‘Didn’t see you at the Under 15s sign-on.’ Being spoken at by Sampson was like the verbal equivalent of being jabbed in the ribs. ‘What happened? Finally get booted back to the Under 12s where you belong?’
Jack was pretty sure the only kind of under-15s club Sampson deserved to join was a club for people with 15 IQ points or under, but he didn’t say this. He put on a disappointed face and shrugged. ‘I’ll probably have to give cricket a miss this year. Got a bit of a … groin problem, actually.’
‘Groin problem?’
Jack bowed his legs and made a half-hearted pelvic thrust. In theory, it was meant to suggest a massive weight in the front part of his underpants. In practice, it looked like he’d suffered an accident in the back part.
Sampson snorted. ‘As if. Everyone knows
Readers choose
Oscar de Muriel
Jeff Lindsay
Chrystle Fiedler
J.B. McGee
John Hawkes
Jedediah Berry
Julie Moffett
Barbara Colley
Suzanne Brockmann
Linda Kupecek