Untitled Adam Baron 2. Adam Baron

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      It began on a Wednesday. Though not any old Wednesday. A Wednesday when someone did something.

      And it was BAD.

      And they did it to Mrs Martin.

      I am going to repeat that.

      They did it to Mrs Martin, who is, in my opinion, the best teacher ever to exist apart perhaps from Socrates, who our teacher, Miss Phillips, told us about last week. Socrates was really clever and taught this other guy, Plato, in ancient Greece. He’s a teacher legend, though Miss Phillips also told us that he drank poison and died, which must really have upset Plato’s learning pathway. Plato would also have got a supply teacher, wouldn’t he, and if he was an old horror like Mr Gorton (who we get) Plato would have been IN for it.

      It happened after PE. We were up on the heath doing athletics (even though it was fr-e-e-e-e-zing). Mrs Martin does it with us because long before she was an AMAZING teacher she ran for Botswana. She even went to the Olympics, which Lance did too when they were in London (though he was only five). His dad took him but he got so excited he wet himself. By the time they got back from the loos, Usain Bolt had already finished.

      ‘Two hundred pounds,’ his dad says, nearly every time I go round. ‘Each, Cymbeline. To see a man jogging round a track with a flag round his shoulders.’

      I’d laugh but I can’t talk, actually, because when my Uncle Bill took me to the fair once I wet myself on the Ferris wheel. It went down on the man below, who shouted up that he was going to punch Uncle Bill’s lights out. When we got off, we had to leg it (as fast as Usain Bolt, actually).

      Anyway, our class was up on the heath doing running trials with Mrs Martin to pick who would be on the athletics team. I came third, after Billy Lee and Daisy Blake, though she’s so tall I really don’t think it’s fair. Each one of her legs contains about five of mine. Afterwards, we came back down to school and followed Mrs Martin towards our classroom.

      We were just approaching the stairs, and Marcus Breen was doing these incredibly realistic sounds with his armpits (you know what I mean). Mrs Martin wasn’t telling Marcus off – she was trying to do even better ones. THAT’s how cool she is. She was still trying when we all got to the stairs, where she’d left her normal shoes next to one of the drip buckets which catch leaks. Our school’s really old and these buckets are dotted about here and there, and now every class has a Drip Monitor who rushes out when it starts raining and makes sure the buckets are in place. There used only to be one or two leaks, but it’s been getting worse and there are about ten buckets now.

      Anyway, Mrs Martin’s shoes were open-top ones, with no straps. We all stopped as she did this little hop thing to get out of her trainers. We watched as she reached out her big toe, using it to slide her right shoe towards her. And it happened, something I need to prepare you for in case you faint, or scream, or simply drop down DEAD when you find out what someone had done.

      So here goes—

      Brace yourself …

      I’m going to say it.

      No, I really am this time …

      Actually, I don’t think I can say it.

      Okay, here goes, really—

      They’d put jelly in her shoes.