How to Write Really Badly. Anne Fine

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СКАЧАТЬ excitement – choosing the blackboard monitor.

      ‘So that’s agreed, then, is it?’ Miss Tate was saying. ‘Flora this week, and Ben the week after.’

      I suppose, when something of world-shattering importance like this is decided, it’s always best to check things one last time.

      ‘Everyone happy with that?’

      I’d have put money on the fact that no dill-brain in the world could give a flying crumpet who was blackboard monitor, this week or next. But – whoa there! I was wrong. Quite wrong.

      This hand beside me shoots up in the air. ‘Miss Tate?’

      ‘Yes, dear?’

      ‘I think it would be nice if Howard –’

      ‘Chester,’ I couldn’t help correcting.

      But he wasn’t listening. He was busy fixing my life.

      ‘If Howard was made blackboard monitor. Because he’s new. And I don’t think he’s very sure he’s going to like it here. Because he’s already worked out that it’s six whole hours –’

      See my eyes pop? But what was staggering me most was that this bozo meant well! He was trying to be kind!

      ‘– till he gets home.’

      I flicked on all exterminator rays, but nothing could stop him. He was being nice.

      ‘So I think it would be a really good idea if we made him blackboard monitor.’

      Joe sat back, satisfied.

      Miss Tate spread her hands like someone glowing in a holy painting.

      ‘Flora? Ben? Would you mind?’

      Surprise, surprise! Ben didn’t burst into tears, and Flora didn’t gnash her teeth at not being blackboard monitor for one more week.

      So, that’s it. Ten minutes in, and I’m Head Wiperoony. What Great Luck!

      ‘Well!’ Miss Tate said brightly, giving me a meaningful smile. ‘My blackboard looks as if it could do with a thorough good wiping, just to start the day.’

      I sighed. I stood up. What else could I do? I took the little furry wooden block from Flora’s outstretched hand, and smiled back sweetly when she smiled at me. I wiped the board, then set the little furry thing carefully on its ledge.

      ‘Very good,’ Miss Tate said. ‘Excellent. A lovely job.’

      You’d have thought that I’d balanced the budget, or something.

      Modestly, I wiped the chalk dust from my fingertips.

      ‘And now let’s give Howard a nice big round of applause as he goes back to his desk.’

      I didn’t put up any further fight. Chester. Howard. What’s in a name? I was a broken reed, ready to slip my head in a noose, or walk the plank, or do anything I was asked. Don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I am no wimp. I’ve smacked heads in my time. Young Chester Howard here has stuck up for himself in schools where the pudding plates go flying, and schools where, if you don’t watch yourself, someone’s infected teeth are in your leg, and schools where the staff need cattle prods.

      But Walbottle Manor (Mixed)! Their sheer bloodcurdling niceness had defeated me, and I ran up the white flag.

      Howard it was.

       2

      All goody-goody and old-fashioned

      You wouldn’t believe the playground. Half of these goofballs were wandering round offering their last crisp to anyone who looked in the slightest bit peaky, and the rest were all skipping.

      No kidding. They were skipping. Two rosy-cheeked milkmaids in pigtails were swinging this great long rope, and everyone else was jumping up and down, all thrilled to bits, waiting their turn.

      Then, each time someone rushed in under the rope, everyone burst into song.

      I stood on the steps and listened. First I heard:

      Miss Tate bent down to pick a rose.

      A rose so sweet and tender.

      Alas! Alack! She bent too far,

      And bang! went her suspender.

      And then I heard:

       Mandy Frost was a very good girl;

       She went to church on Sunday

       To pray to God to give her strength

      To kiss the boys on Monday.

      I turned to Joe. ‘Is this some kind of special day?’

      He trotted out his puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’

      I didn’t quite know how to put it. ‘What I mean is, are you all pretending to be sweet little orphans, or something? Is this some sort of History Day?’

      I wasn’t ringing his doorbell, you could tell.

      ‘History Day?’

      ‘You know. Like when all the girls dress up in pinafores, and everyone sits with their arms folded neatly on their desks, and the teacher pretends that it’s a hundred years ago.’

      A light came on in his attic at last.

      ‘Oh! Like when we did our Victorian School Day?’

      I shrugged.

      ‘Whatever. Something all goody-goody and old-fashioned, anyhow.’

      He stared round the playground. In one corner, two of the bigger boys were putting their arms round a sobbing toddler who’d lost his pet marble, or something. By the porch, boys and girls were practising a hornpipe. (I am serious.) Next to the gates, a gaggle of merrymakers were doing a complicated clapping game. And all the rest were ambling around, smiling and waving to one another, or loyally waiting for friends outside the lavatories.

      ‘What I mean is,’ I said, ‘where are we? On the planet Zog?’

      Joe’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, yes! That would be fun. Let’s both be visitors to the planet Zog, and you –’

      I gave him my hardest killer stare. Who did this blintz-brain think I was? Some bedwetter, keen to play his Betsy-wetsy games?

      ‘Listen,’ СКАЧАТЬ