Puppy Fat by Morris Gleitzman Page A

that he hadn’t been sketching her rude bits, just her face.
    That’s what he did in his mind.
    Before his body could follow along, he realised Aunty Bev was just singing.
    He breathed a sigh of relief as quietly as he could and carried on sketching.
    â€˜Try and hold the torch steadier,’ whispered Keith.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Tracy. ‘It’s this ladder, it’s not designed for two people.’
    Keith sighed to himself.
    Bet the great painters of history didn’t have to do their best work in pitch darkness up Mitch Wilson’s dad’s gardening ladder with only a wobbly torch to see by.
    Bet when Michelangelo made alterations to the mural in the Sistine Chapel he had scaffolding and floodlights.
    Well, big candles anyway.
    Plus he probably had more than the leftover Pond Green and Contemporary Beige from Dad’s flat to work with.
    â€˜How’s the torch now?’ asked Tracy.
    â€˜Perfect, thanks,’ said Keith, mixing up some more grey and brushing it onto the wall.
    Then again, he thought, Michelangelo probably didn’t have his best mate to help him.
    Keith leant back and looked at the expanse of mural in front of him.
    That was Mum and Dad painted over.
    Now to start on Aunty Bev.
    â€˜I still think this suit’s too tight,’ said Dad, pulling at the legs as he stepped off the kerb.
    â€˜No it’s not,’ said Aunty Bev. ‘It’ll be fine once you’ve sculpted your body profile. Plus that fabric’ll stretch with wear. Take bigger steps.’
    Dad took bigger steps as they crossed the road, but Keith could see he wasn’t happy.
    Keith wasn’t happy either.
    He sent Dad an urgent message.
    Don’t worry about the new suit now, please, it’ll distract Aunty Bev from the mural.
    Keith glanced at Tracy and could see from her tense face that she was worried about the same thing.
    Dad pulled at the sleeves of the suit.
    â€˜The mural’s just round this corner,’ said Keith.
    â€˜This is very exciting,’ said Aunty Bev. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before?’
    â€˜Keith’s a bit nervous about his paintings,’ said Tracy. ‘He’s worried that people won’t understand them.’
    Keith and Tracy exchanged a glance and Keith saw that her fingers were crossed as tightly as his.
    He held his breath as they turned the corner.
    â€˜Jeez,’ said Aunty Bev, staring up at the mural. ‘Look at the size of it.’
    For a horrible moment Keith thought she meant the body of the attractive and stylish Contemporary Beige woman with the Pond Green swimsuit and the plump arms and the stocky legs and the round body and the chubby face which, Keith was relieved to see, even in daylight was a pretty good likeness of Aunty Bev.
    But she didn’t.
    â€˜The colours on the houses are fabulous,’ said Aunty Bev.
    â€˜What happened to the weightlifters?’ said Dad with a puzzled frown.
    â€˜I changed it,’ said Keith quietly.
    Please, he begged Aunty Bev silently, please do us all a favour and recognise your real self and feel OK about it.
    Aunty Bev stared at herself on the wall.
    Keith’s heart thumped with excitement.
    Aunty Bev turned to Tracy.
    â€˜That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ she said, pointing up at the woman. ‘Puppy fat can stay with you and ruin your life.’
    Then she turned to Dad.
    â€˜On second thoughts,’ she said, ‘I think that suit is too tight.’
    Keith’s feet hurt.
    Not surprising, he thought gloomily, I must have walked hundreds of miles.
    He walked a bit more, then it hit him that if his feet hurt, Dazzle’s probably did too.
    He picked Dazzle up and tucked the panting dog inside his jacket.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he said.
    Dazzle licked his chin.
    Under the next street light Keith looked at his watch but it had stopped.
    Dad and Aunty Bev were probably home from their visit to