garage. It was gleaming in the sun. He had buffed it especially for Christmas.
‘I’m just off to see if the shops are open.’
‘Dad, nothing’s open on Christmas Day,’ I said.
‘What about churches?’ Dad said.
‘They’re not shops.’
‘Still, it proves some things are open. So maybe I’ll find a shop.’
He roared off in his car. We could hear the big engine all the way down the road.
It was thirty degrees and not even eight o’clock in the morning. And it was still four hours until lunch.
‘It’s so hot my dog’s got a sunburnt tongue,’ I said.
‘We don’t have a dog,’ said Squid.
It’s not the same playing with Squid.
‘It’s just a saying, Squid, like saying, “It’s so hot my grandfather burst into flames.”’
‘Papa? You better tell Mum. He’s coming over for lunch.’
‘No, Squid, it’s a joke. Like, “It’s so hot you could cook an egg on the footpath.”’
‘Can you really?’
I hadn’t thought about that before.
‘Let’s try,’ I said.
Squid went and got some eggs out of Dad’s chicken coop. We cracked one onto the footpath outside the front of our house. But it just sat there. It didn’t even look like it was thinking of cooking.
We got some aluminium foil from the kitchen, folded it up like it was a bowl and put it on the footpath. Then we cracked another egg into it. But still the idea of frying itself didn’t even enter the egg’s stupid brain.
Have I mentioned before that I hate eggs?
I held my magnifying glass over the egg so all the sun’s rays hit the one spot, and slowly an edge started to go white. Really slowly. So slowly I was more likely to cook in the sun before the egg did.
Dad arrived back from the shops and parked in the drive. He was clutching a bunch of really lame-looking flowers, like the ones you get from a petrol station.
‘What have you got there, Dad?’ asked Squid.
‘Just something nice for your mother.’
He raced inside.
A heat haze was coming off the front of the car. I touched the bonnet. It was boiling hot. Then I had an idea that knocked me over like an angry reindeer who’d been towing a fat man around all night.
I cracked an egg straight onto the bonnet.
Squid was clenching his fists really tightly, which is what he does when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble. ‘Won’t that wreck Dad’s car?’
Thin dribbles started spreading out over the bonnet.
‘No, nothing sticks to this paint. It’s high gloss, like a non-stick frying pan.’ I was guessing. I was hoping I was right.
Squid shouted, ‘Look, it’s cooking.’
The thinnest end of the dribble was starting to go white. I touched it and it was sticky. Some of the stuff stuck to my finger but, worst of all, it looked like the paint under it was bubbling.
Dad came rushing outside again.
We were officially dead. I took the only sensible option and ran and hid down the side of the house. Squid was left standing by the car.
‘What’s up?’ Dad asked Squid.
Squid pointed at the bonnet.
Dad went up to it, touched it, and tasted it. ‘It’s an egg,’ he said.
‘A chicken must have laid it on the car,’ Squid said.
‘Wow,’ said Dad. ‘And look, the bonnet is so hot, it’s cooking the egg.’
Squid looked at Dad with his big eyes, as innocent as can be.
‘It’ll stuff the paint,’ Dad told him.
‘Bad chickens,’ said Squid.
‘We should get rid of them,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll clean it off when I get back. I’ve just got to see if I can find a jewellery shop that opens on Christmas Day.’
He jumped into the car and drove off.
I know Squid’s only little, but I reckon he’s got a lot of potential. Though I’m not looking forward to when Dad starts looking for the touch-up paint.
CHAPTER 12
DAY 11: Tuesday, Boxing Day
My skims: 17
Tearley’s skims: 12
Wriggler’s skims: Who cares?
Days to becoming world champion: 28—it’s back on.
Money made for tinnie: $0 ($735 to go, but I’ve got plenty of
‘I’m just off to see if the shops are open.’
‘Dad, nothing’s open on Christmas Day,’ I said.
‘What about churches?’ Dad said.
‘They’re not shops.’
‘Still, it proves some things are open. So maybe I’ll find a shop.’
He roared off in his car. We could hear the big engine all the way down the road.
It was thirty degrees and not even eight o’clock in the morning. And it was still four hours until lunch.
‘It’s so hot my dog’s got a sunburnt tongue,’ I said.
‘We don’t have a dog,’ said Squid.
It’s not the same playing with Squid.
‘It’s just a saying, Squid, like saying, “It’s so hot my grandfather burst into flames.”’
‘Papa? You better tell Mum. He’s coming over for lunch.’
‘No, Squid, it’s a joke. Like, “It’s so hot you could cook an egg on the footpath.”’
‘Can you really?’
I hadn’t thought about that before.
‘Let’s try,’ I said.
Squid went and got some eggs out of Dad’s chicken coop. We cracked one onto the footpath outside the front of our house. But it just sat there. It didn’t even look like it was thinking of cooking.
We got some aluminium foil from the kitchen, folded it up like it was a bowl and put it on the footpath. Then we cracked another egg into it. But still the idea of frying itself didn’t even enter the egg’s stupid brain.
Have I mentioned before that I hate eggs?
I held my magnifying glass over the egg so all the sun’s rays hit the one spot, and slowly an edge started to go white. Really slowly. So slowly I was more likely to cook in the sun before the egg did.
Dad arrived back from the shops and parked in the drive. He was clutching a bunch of really lame-looking flowers, like the ones you get from a petrol station.
‘What have you got there, Dad?’ asked Squid.
‘Just something nice for your mother.’
He raced inside.
A heat haze was coming off the front of the car. I touched the bonnet. It was boiling hot. Then I had an idea that knocked me over like an angry reindeer who’d been towing a fat man around all night.
I cracked an egg straight onto the bonnet.
Squid was clenching his fists really tightly, which is what he does when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble. ‘Won’t that wreck Dad’s car?’
Thin dribbles started spreading out over the bonnet.
‘No, nothing sticks to this paint. It’s high gloss, like a non-stick frying pan.’ I was guessing. I was hoping I was right.
Squid shouted, ‘Look, it’s cooking.’
The thinnest end of the dribble was starting to go white. I touched it and it was sticky. Some of the stuff stuck to my finger but, worst of all, it looked like the paint under it was bubbling.
Dad came rushing outside again.
We were officially dead. I took the only sensible option and ran and hid down the side of the house. Squid was left standing by the car.
‘What’s up?’ Dad asked Squid.
Squid pointed at the bonnet.
Dad went up to it, touched it, and tasted it. ‘It’s an egg,’ he said.
‘A chicken must have laid it on the car,’ Squid said.
‘Wow,’ said Dad. ‘And look, the bonnet is so hot, it’s cooking the egg.’
Squid looked at Dad with his big eyes, as innocent as can be.
‘It’ll stuff the paint,’ Dad told him.
‘Bad chickens,’ said Squid.
‘We should get rid of them,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll clean it off when I get back. I’ve just got to see if I can find a jewellery shop that opens on Christmas Day.’
He jumped into the car and drove off.
I know Squid’s only little, but I reckon he’s got a lot of potential. Though I’m not looking forward to when Dad starts looking for the touch-up paint.
CHAPTER 12
DAY 11: Tuesday, Boxing Day
My skims: 17
Tearley’s skims: 12
Wriggler’s skims: Who cares?
Days to becoming world champion: 28—it’s back on.
Money made for tinnie: $0 ($735 to go, but I’ve got plenty of
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