Potato Cake by Sam Smith

It was a game we played as children. Honestly, we weren’t the coolest bunch of kids, but we had our own little group and we had fun, so it wasn’t that bad at all. There were seven of us in total, more than enough to play.

Sometimes the other groups would pick on us or make us the butt of their jokes; we were frequently called “The Butt of the School”. Kids can be mean. That’s just what they were to us. Mean. But we were mean too, which is where the game comes into play.

Let me set the scene. We would just be sitting on our table, eating lunch or working or something, and one of the other groups would say something stupid to us. It was normally either they sporty group of the group that wore sunglasses during P.E., because no matter how obvious and cliché it is, that shit actually did happen.

Anyway, yeah, they would say some little remark and we would immediately start to play the game. Whoever said the first word to us would be the focus. We knew most of the pupil’s names and where they lived because it wasn’t that big of a school. A little glace would go around the table and we would have our focus.

The next day, we would all take the day off school. We weren’t smart and didn’t really care about grade or anything stupid, so it wasn’t a big deal. The meeting place would be behind the focus’ back garden at five in the morning. Everyone knew what to bring. A mask, a hammer, some E-Z Bake cake mix and a bag full of potatoes.

The focus would leave their house around eight or so, which was when we would go to work. Hopefully no one else would be home to hear us break the door down with our hammers. Sure, there were probably easier, less destructive ways to get into a house, but that’s not really the point. In the kitchen, some of us would get to work on making as much cake as we could. It was usually chocolate cake. The rest of us would start filling every nook and cranny with smashed up potato. Cupboards filled to the brim, under the beds, in the toaster, shoes overflowing, behind the radiators, between the pages of books and magazines, in VCRs, atop the mantelpiece, stuffed into trouser pockets, down drains. It was kind of awesome how much we could get done in an hour.

When the cake was cooked, we would sit at a dinner table or something communal and eat the cake. It was like a little present to ourselves for taking the mean comment so well. We would leave afterwards.

No one is sure how this game got started, but we damn well finished it.