Don't Kiss Girls and Other Silly Stories by Pat Flynn Page B

drink. ‘That’s for attacking poor old ladies!’ Sherie says.
    I unwrap the burger, open it up, and throw it at Sherie. Mustard and pickles splatter her face. ‘That’s for attacking innocent young boys.’
    Sherie turns away. I’ve beaten her. She’s going to cry.
    Kane and Megan are standing behind me, probably waiting to pick up their free food.
    Then Sherie does a 180 and squirts something at my head. I duck and Megan gets hit in the face with a stream of tomato sauce.
    â€˜Aghhh!’ she squeals.
    Kane grabs a sachet of mayonnaise off the condiment stand and pops it. He gets Sherie in the hair.
    I give him five.
    Then Sherie squeezes the end of her nose and her zit explodes like a volcano. Pus shoots out and sprays my left eye.
    â€˜Aww, that’s sick!’ I say, wiping my eye with a napkin.
    â€˜Code 306!’ she yells.
    Within seconds, uniformed teenagers run out of the kitchen. Reinforcements. There are at least four of them – carrying burgers with the top bun missing, shakes with no lids, handfuls of pickles.
    â€˜Retreat!’ I scream.
    Kane, Megan and I make a run for it. Our backs are being pelted with food that’s probably better for throwing than it is for eating. As I open the door an apple pie bonks me on the back of the head.
    â€˜And good riddance!’ yells Sherie.
    We dart into an alley and collapse beside some industrial bins.
    Megan wipes her face and discovers a large dob of red on her finge r. ‘I’m bleeding!’ she cries.
    Kane holds her finger in his hand, studies it, and then puts it in his mouth. Megan shrieks and we laugh. ‘It’s just tomato sauce,’ Kane says.
    Megan doesn’t see the funny side of it at all. ‘I want to go home!’ she whines.
    Kane helps her up. ‘You still owe us a free meal,’ he says to me.
    â€˜What are you talking about? I got you heaps of free food. I can’t help it if you can’t catch.’
    We laugh again.
    â€˜Kane!’ howls Megan. ‘I want to go home now!’
    â€˜See you, Rossy.’
    â€˜Not if I see you first.’
    â€˜And r emember,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘Compete.’
    I will, I think. I just have to figure out how.

Counciling and My Brush with the Emotional Side
    â€˜Tony, this job can be tough. Real tough. Let me show you the tools you’ll need to survive.’
    It’s work experience week and luckily I found somewhere to go instead of Mr Garrahy’s office. My dad works for the local council as team leader of transport operations and safety management. This means he tells people to paint the faded lines and arrows on the roads, and sometimes he has to paint them himself when he can’t con anyone else into doing it. Anyway, he pulled some strings and got me a gig in the council’s transport division, and now Joe, deputy team leader of transport operations and safety management, is playing show and tell.
    â€˜First, you got your shovel. If you have one of these things in your hand, people don’t ask you ’cause they think you’re doing something. I carry mine pretty much everywhere, even to meetings.’
    Right.
    â€˜Next, you got your Vaseline. Now, except when we’re on smoko or on strike, we’re out ther e in the sun and wind. Standing around, mostly. It’s tough as hell on your lips, but if you spread a nice fat layer of this on, you won’t have to worry about dryness or cracking. Come Friday night, you’re ready to kiss like a movie star.’
    It’s hard to believe anyone would want to kiss Joe. His shorts are pulled up high around his fat belly and his beard makes him look like Ned Kelly.
    â€˜And lastly – but certainly not leastly – you got your most important tool of all. The esky .’ He holds it up. It’s big and blue, just like his regulation council uniform, only the esky doesn’t have a