Spurt by Chris Miles Read Free Book Online Page B

He looked scathingly at Jack. ‘And I do mean a little bit.’
    ‘No …’ Jack pleaded, his voice a hoarse, horrified whisper. He glanced at Vivi in desperation, nodding furiously towards the pocket his hand was still lodged in. ‘Sticky –’
    ‘Oh my god,’ said Vivi, covering her mouth.
    At that point, the woman from the council actually stood up on her chair, as if a mouse had run into the room.
    Jack shook his hand in his pocket again, a pained expression on his face. ‘Sticky –’
    His brain sent his mouth an urgent memo to stop using the word ‘sticky’. But by then it was too late.
    Far, far too late.

‘Ah, Sprigley. I’ve been looking through your file.’
    Mr Trench was Upland Secondary’s vice principal and student counsellor. Before coming to work at the school, he’d been in the army reserve. Jack secretly doubted that Mr Trench was trained in anything even resembling twenty-first century counselling techniques. The only techniques he seemed to be trained in were techniques for exploding things at various distances.
    ‘Close the door and sit down.’
    Jack had never been in this kind of trouble before. He sat down in the chair opposite Mr Trench before his legs turned to soup beneath him.
    ‘Now,’ said Mr Trench, looking up from his desk. ‘I gather you’ve been caught abusing yourself in the student centre.’
    Jack felt his face burn red with embarrassment. ‘No!’
    ‘Well, obviously you were caught, or you wouldn’t be here.’
    ‘But I wasn’t abusing myself!’
    ‘Wasn’t abusing myself, sir ,’ said Mr Trench. ‘The point is, Sprigley, you were doing something – and doing it quite vigorously, as I understand it.’
    Jack felt sick. Vivi. Sampson. Nats . They’d all seen it. ‘No, sir . I definitely wasn’t.’
    ‘Mr Jacobs and Ms Liaw seem pretty certain you were. Mrs Hogarth was so disturbed by the news she’s been forced to relocate her lunchtime Zumba class.’
    Jack couldn’t stand it anymore. ‘Sir, I swear, nothing happened. The truth is … nothing could have happened.’
    Mr Trench fixed his gaze on him. ‘Explain.’
    Jack hesitated, wondering exactly how he was going to communicate his embarrassing private details to a man who was so prehistoric that he probably thought women shouldn’t be allowed to drive cars.
    Jack swallowed. ‘Well, sir … the thing is, physically, I haven’t actually … got that far. You know, down below.’
    Mr Trench seemed genuinely confused. His fuzzy eyebrows bunched together. ‘But you’ve got all the right arsenal, haven’t you?’
    Jack paused. He wasn’t totally on board with the increasingly personal and military-themed direction in which the conversation was headed.
    ‘Now, don’t be coy,’ said Mr Trench. ‘It’s a sign of maturity to talk about these matters openly and honestly.’
    Or at least in army metaphors , thought Jack. He struggled to think of something to say, some answer that wouldn’t be horribly embarrassing – but Mr Trench had already picked up the phone.
    ‘Bear with me, Sprigley, I’m going to have to call in reinforcements on this one.’
    Reinforcements? thought Jack.
    ‘Hello? Yes, it’s Rodney Trench here. I’ve got Jack Sprigley from 8C with me. Have I come through to Ms Porter?’
    Jack buried his head in his hands. Ms Porter had started at the school at the beginning of the year. Unlike the previous Health Ed teacher, she was young enough to potentially remember what sex was actually like. Which meant there was at least one desperate attempt each class from one or another of the Year 8 boys to get her to supply anecdotes from her own personal history.
    ‘Right,’ said Mr Trench, speaking into the phone. ‘Well, I wonder if you might help me clarify something. It’s concerning the physical development of the typical adolescent male.’
    Jack barely registered what Mr Trench was saying as he discussed the ins and outs (mostly outs) of what was normal for a fourteen-year-old