Cool School (7 page)

ou take a deep breath.

‘Well, yes,' you say.

The Principal freezes over, like chocolate Ice Magic does when you pour it on ice cream.

‘This is my son,' she says.

‘Aaaghh,' you say.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘My son. His hobbies are collecting wildflowers, cooking quiches, and helping at the old people's home.'

‘Gulp,' you say.

‘So do you still persist in this ridiculous story that dear Cedric is bullying you?'

You open your mouth.

‘Think before you speak,' she warns. ‘Think very carefully. I can make life extremely difficult for students who get on my bad side. So be warned.'

ou decide to play it safe.

‘Never seen him before in my life,' you mutter.

‘Are you sure?' the Principal asks.

‘Yes, I'm sure.'

‘All right, Cedric' she says to the boy. ‘You can go.'

‘Go?' he says. ‘Go? I've got something to say first.'

‘Yes?'

The boy points straight at you and says: ‘Never seen me before, that's a good one! This kid's been making my life hell. Just because I wouldn't join some drug-selling, blackmailing, illegal gambling and car-stealing racket that they're running. I tried to do the right thing and I've been victimised for it ever since.'

The Principal looks shocked

‘This can't be true!' she cries. ‘Not in my school!'

‘It is true, you bet your bottom dollar,' Cedric says. ‘They call themselves the Mini-Mafia. I saw them in the holidays at the child care centre snapping kids' crayons. Last week they stuck a 150 k speed limit on a zebra crossing. And at Christmas they put a plate of Ratsak out for the reindeer.'

The Principal turns on you. ‘Well,' she says, ‘never in my wildest dreams . . .'

‘It's a lie!' you shout. ‘A vicious, horrible, twisted, nasty, ugly, deformed, disgusting, sleazy, obnoxious, foul, repulsive, evil lie. Or, to put it another way, it's not true!'

‘Well,' the Principal says. . .

hy, er, sure I trust you,' you say. ‘Yes, yes, sure I do. Why wouldn't I?'

‘Oh good,' she says. She hands you a cup of a foul-smelling hot brown liquid. ‘Drink that down now dearie—you'll find it . . . unforgettable.'

You pretend to take a mouthful, but when she turns her back to put her knitting on a desk you quickly pour the tea on a pot plant. To your horror the plant shrivels up, turns black and makes a little hissing noise. All of its leaves immediately drop off. The Principal turns around to face you again, and you give her a nervous little smile.

‘Did you drink that all up?' she says. ‘Oh goodie.' She picks up a silver locket from a table beside her. ‘Would you like to see a photo of my grandchildren?' she asks.

‘Oh yes, sure,' you say nervously.

‘Isn't this a beautiful locket?' she says. She waves it slowly backwards and forwards in front of your eyes.

‘Beautiful,' she says. ‘Look at the intricate design. Look at the little flower in the middle.' Her voice has become very soft, and it makes you feel tired and sleepy. ‘Look at the lovely silver,' she whispers. ‘Keep your eyes on it. Your poor tired eyes, that feel so heavy. Feel your eyes slowly closing . . .'

You know, somewhere in your brain, that she's gradually getting you under her power. You've got to fight her, you tell yourself. But can you?

'm not so sure that I do,' you say slowly, backing away. Three steps later you're against the bookcase with no escape available. The old lady is still pointing the knitting needle at you, at your throat it seems. Suddenly she's snarling in your face.

‘Suppose you tell me what this is all about?'

‘Uh, what do you mean?'

‘You're a spy, aren't you? A spy!'

‘No! No!' you say feebly.

‘You've been sent here by the Education Department, haven't you?'

‘No! No!'

‘They're trying to get rid of me,' she screams. ‘It's a plot. They're all against me.' Little white bubbles of spit are frothing out of her mouth. She lunges at you with the knitting needle. You twist to one side and luckily the needle misses you. But it's driven with such force that it goes through three volumes of her
World Book Encyclopedia
.

She tugs at it with all her strength, trying to pull it out. You scuttle round to the other side of her desk and grab a big heavy jar of jelly beans. You pick it up and hold it in your hand, aiming it at her and wondering: should you or shouldn't you?

ell OK, why not, you think. Everybody has to have a holiday some time. The fact that you've all just finished six weeks holiday doesn't worry you too much.

‘If I let you have the rest of this period off, will you promise to work very hard tomorrow?' you ask them.

They don't even bother to answer, just stampede for the door. They knock over everything that's in their way: desks, chairs, schoolbags and you. You're lying on your back as an assortment of Adidas, Reeboks, Nikes and Doc Martins leave their impression on you.

‘I wonder if this was such a smart move,' you think as you lie there.

When they've gone you pick yourself up and follow them, moving carefully so that your broken bones don't stick out through your skin. That would be messy, and you don't like mess. But it doesn't take long to start finding members of the class. The first group is racing around the corridors, one of them in a wheelbarrow with three others pushing him. Two kids are trying to break into the soft drink machine. Three more are making flour bombs. ‘Ah, don't you think it might be a good idea to go back to class?' you murmur to them. They ignore you. You see a large group of kids heading down the road to the shops. You decide the shops might be a safer place than the school for you right now, so you follow the kids. They wait for you at the traffic lights and, as you approach them, you call out, ‘All right, very good for waiting. You may cross now.'

But you understand the real reason they're waiting when one of them says, ‘Hey teacher, those people over there want to see you.'

‘Who are they?' you ask, looking across at the man and woman they're pointing to. They're on the other side of the road, and they look pretty stern. They're beckoning to you.

‘Don't you know who they are?' the kids ask.

Then one of them says: ‘They're Mr and Mrs Pigly.'

‘He's a teacher,' another one says.

‘You'd better go and talk to them,' the first one says. ‘They're losing their patience.'