Puppy Fat Read Online Free PDF

put your mum and dad’s phone numbers on the stomachs of two bodybuilders?’
    Keith opened his mouth to explain, but he felt too weary.
    â€˜Don’t take offence,’ said Mr Kristos. ‘If it’s art, just say so.’
    â€˜It’s art,’ said Keith, wondering if a person’s eyesight could be damaged by eating too much liver.
    What other explanation could there be for Mr Kristos not recognising Dad in the mural, a man he saw every day at least once and sometimes up to eight times if the stove was playing up?
    Unless . . .
    Keith stared at Mr Kristos.
    Suddenly it all made sense.
    Of course.
    That’s why the mural wasn’t working.
    Mr Kristos and everyone else in the district were so used to Mum and Dad being wobbly and saggy they couldn’t recognise Mum and Dad’s real selves either. To them Dad was just the quiet bloke with the unfortunate bottom who cooked their bacon rolls and Mum was just the poor soul with the tragic legs who gave their cars parking tickets.
    But not for much longer, thought Keith happily.
    It’ll all change once Tracy arrives.
    Once she starts perking Mum and Dad up and they get a grip on themselves and suck their tummies in and pull their shoulders back and start smiling, people will start recognising them in the mural and the invitations will come flooding in.
    â€˜No offence?’ said Mr Kristos anxiously.
    â€˜None taken,’ said Keith with a grin.
    He bit hungrily into his sandwich.
    â€˜Oops,’ said Dad from behind the counter, ‘just remembered. There was another call this morning. Mrs Smith from the newsagents. She’s got a fax for you from Tracy.’
    Keith stood in the newsagents and read the fax for the third time.
    Perhaps he’d got it wrong the first two times.
    Perhaps he’d missed out some words.
    Perhaps it wasn’t terrible news after all and the brick he could feel in his guts would vanish.
    Dear Keith , he read.
    Something real crook’s happened. A squall hit Dad’s boat and turned it over and Dad tore half his ligaments. They sewed him up but now he’s in bed and Mum doesn’t want to leave him cause he’s already hurt himself once reaching for the comfort bucket.
    So we can’t come next week.
    Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop.
    Life can be a real mongrel, eh? First German measles, now this. Mum reckons we can come at Chrissie. That’s another four months! I’ll go mental. At this rate we’ll be fifty before I get there. You’ll be fat and bald and I won’t recognise you.
    Write soon, love Tracy.
    PS. The prognosis for Dad is a complete recovery except for the boat.
    There should be a law, thought Keith bitterly, to stop people taking small fishing boats out into North Queensland waters when the weather was changeable and their daughters were about to make important overseas trips to see best friends who were counting on them.
    Keith realised Mrs Smith and Rami were staring at him from behind the counter.
    â€˜Are you alright, Keith?’ asked Mrs Smith, concerned, twisting her sari anxiously in her fingers.
    Keith nodded and tried to smile.
    No point in upsetting her.
    Rami held out Keith’s change.
    Keith took it.
    â€˜What does prognosis mean?’ asked Rami.
    Mrs Smith gave him a clip round the ear.
    â€˜It’s when doctors tell you you’re going to be OK,’ said Keith. ‘Or dead in a couple of months.’
    He hurried out of the shop before Mrs Smith could ask him how Mum and Dad were.
    Keith peered into the darkness.
    The street lamp he was standing under was broken and the moon was behind a cloud and he couldn’t see for sure if it was the right place or not.
    He sent an urgent message to his eyes.
    Please.
    Try harder.
    I don’t want to break into the wrong house.
    Keith took a couple of steps closer to the dark windows looming in front of him and suddenly a pain shot through his right