The Toilet Kid
By Pat Flynn
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About this ebook
Pat Flynn
Pat Flynn is a generalist: Great at many things, not the best at any one. A writer, entrepreneur, musician, and fitness and meditation try-hard, Pat runs multiple six- and seven-figure businesses around his various interests and skills.
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The Toilet Kid - Pat Flynn
Page
Chapter One
Halfway through the cross-country race, I don’t feel so good.
It’s hot. There are hills. I’m running.
It’s a bad combination.
The only good thing is I didn’t drink any chocolate milk at recess, so at least I don’t feel sick in the stomach.
I had water instead.
Actually, a bit too much water.
Yesterday during PE, Mr Simpson told us it was very important to hydrate before the race. I wish I didn’t listen to him because now I need to make like a fire hose and hydrate all over the nearest tree.
I take a quick detour into the bush. I’m sure quite a few people will pass me, but I don’t have much of a chance of winning, anyway. Not when my nickname is The Tuckshop Kid.
Ducking behind a thick grey gum, I sneak a peek for teachers. I wonder if you can get a detention for peeing?
The coast is clear, until I pull down my pants. Then I hear someone crunching through the bush towards me. Oh, no!
I hope it’s not Mr Simpson. He’d love nothing more than to punish me with a hundred laps of the oval at lunchtime.
I yank up my pants and flatten myself against the trunk. Well, try and flatten myself. It’s a bit hard when you’re the shape of a jam doughnut. Luckily for me it’s a big tree and I turn sideways and glance around the smooth wood.
Hang on, it’s not a teacher – it’s a girl. And not just any girl.
It’s Kayla – the love of my life! I’d recognise that long brown hair tied up in a ponytail anywhere.
It doesn’t make any sense. Kayla is a really good runner so why would she be off-course? Maybe all this exercise is making me see things.
Or maybe it’s fate that Kayla has followed me into the trees during the cross-country. Perhaps she’s looking for me, wanting to kiss my fat lips.
Just as I’m about to walk out and meet her she bends over.
Barrfff!
Aww, that’s disgusting! She’s just chucked up her breakfast.
‘Are you right?’ I ask.
She jolts upright, a hand covering her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Umm. It’s a long story. Do you want me to get a teacher?’
‘No. I’m feeling better now. Come on, run with me for a minute.’
‘What?’
‘Come on! I’ve got a race to win.’
I can’t believe this. One minute she’s throwing up and the next she’s Cathy Freeman. It looks like my bladder will have to wait.
We start jogging, too fast for my liking. In fact, I wouldn’t call this jogging, I’d call it running.
‘You’re doing well, Matt. Keep this up and you might pass Withers.’
I don’t answer because I need to save every breath I’ve got to stay beside Kayla, but that piece of information gives me a spurt of energy. You see, Withers is my ex-best friend turned enemy. To beat him in the cross-country would be a dream come true. Actually, to beat anyone in the cross-country would be a dream come true.
We run up a slight incline but to me it feels like Mt Everest. Last year I walked this bit. Actually, I walked the whole course. Well, not the whole course. I wasn’t feeling too good so I caught a lift up the home straight on the back of Georgie Cantrell’s motorised wheelchair. It was fun.
This isn’t.
Still – even if I can’t seem to suck enough oxygen into my burning lungs – I’m pretty proud of myself. It’s amazing how much things have changed. Now I’ve got a girlfriend, I’ve lost ten kilos and I can run a lot further than from the couch to the fridge.
‘Let’s go faster,’ says Kayla.
Faster! Is that possible?
She puts on a surge and I strain to keep up.
We catch up to Jasmine Nilon, who responds by speeding away. Kayla leaves me behind and goes with her. One of them will win the girls’ race for sure.
Now I can slow down and relax, maybe even walk for a while. I deserve some rest. Or, I can duck off and find another tree. I’m still busting.
But then, up ahead, I see a bouncing head that I’d recognise anywhere.
Withers.
I start running faster. One of us will come last for sure and I’d prefer if it wasn’t me.
His big feet clump against the grass and his breathing is as heavy as an episode of Neighbours. Over the last few months he’s kept pigging out on junk food while I’ve become a health nut and we now pretty much match each other flab for flab. He must have gone out too hard because, at this point, he’s going about as fast as a tortoise. Although I’m no hare, I just might be able to catch him before the finish line.
At the top of the hill I puff through the gate and onto the school oval. Just one lap around it to go,