The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne

Write a description of a place, person or thing in such a way that you demonstrate an understanding of the use of similes.

Kiffo's hair is like a glowing sunset. However, unlike a sunset, it lasts for a long time and doesn't suddenly turn black and become studded with stars. It is as wild as a dingo on drugs and sticks up like ears of corn after a cyclone. Maybe like a field of corn that is the color of sunset and has been trampled by a whole load of drug-crazed dingoes during a cyclone.

Kiffo's nose is like butter on toast. It was put on hot and it spread. His nostrils gape like two huge caves, but it would be difficult to camp in them or even light a fire in them.
Though it might be worth trying, I suppose. They drip like your bathing suit when you hang it over the pool railing to dry. His eyes are as brown as diarrhea, which only goes to prove that he is full of crap. Kiffo's teeth are like stars because they come out at night. No, that's just an old joke. His teeth are as white as sheets that were once white but have now become stained by unmentionable things. Kiffo's neck is short and dirty, like life. His arms are as thin as pencils, but if you try to sharpen them he'll probably bash you. His legs are bent like parentheses ( ), but unlike parentheses there is not much of interest between them. When he stands he is like a cowboy who hasn't realized that the horse he was riding has gone for a smoko break. He smells like a fish that you forgot was in the fridge.

His mind is as shallow as a gob of spit in a drained swimming pool. Kiffo is as intellectually challenging as a meeting of English teachers.

So. What do you think? Be honest. I mean, it's not as if we know each other, so you can say what you like and I'm not going to be offended. It would be different, I suppose, if we hung out together at the local mall, or invited each other for sleepovers, or you had my name tattooed on your left buttock. Your judgment would be clouded. There was a study done. I can't remember where, but I think it might have been in America. A psychologist compared students’ classwork with their appearance and a direct correlation was found between physical attractiveness and grades. In other words,
if you look like Brad Pitt or J.Lo then you are more likely to get an A than someone who looks like the rear end of a lower primate. Interesting, huh? I think there are three possible judgments, based on this research, we can make about teachers:

1. Teachers are, like the rest of humanity, flawed, and we should understand that they are subject to the same frailties as everyone else.
   

2. Teachers are superficial idiots.
   

3. Teachers are both of the above.
   

But if I've learned one thing over the last month or so, it's that judgments are very dangerous things.

Anyway, have you made your objective assessment of the simile exercise? Good. Hold that thought.

Calma is an exceptionally talented student of English. Unfortunately, she seems determined to waste her considerable ability. She needs to understand that assignments must be taken seriously and are not merely an opportunity to display her quirky and, at times, immature sense of humor. I expect a marked improvement in her attitude next semester.

Ms. Brinkin has a considerable talent for mediocrity and she seems determined to reach her full potential in this area. Her assignments are of an antiquity that would fascinate educational historians and she is justifiably proud of never having entertained an original idea. Her lessons are delivered in a whining monotone that only occasionally threatens to disturb the class's established sleeping patterns. An enormous improvement on last semester. Well done!

Imagine the scene. There is a new English teacher in the school, replacing the unlamented Ms. Brinkin, who has disappeared interstate. Rumor has it that “Stinkin’ Brinkin” left in pursuit of her personal goal to stunt the educational development of as many young Australians as she can find. A woman with a mission and, if past experience is anything to go by, every chance of succeeding.

The new teacher is young and inexperienced. She thinks that she can get through to the kids, bless her. That she can make a difference, mold minds, instill a love of literature into the lumpy heads of Kiffo and the other dazzlingly dysfunctional dumbbells that make up my Year 10 English class.
She is frighteningly cheerful, smiling at everyone all the time and generally spooking us out. She overprepares her lessons. You can tell that she spends hours and hours at home developing materials that she thinks are interesting. In short, she's a disaster waiting to happen.

I love it when we get a teacher like that. What will happen? When will she decide that it's too much effort, that those hours are a waste, that she could have spent the time more profitably getting drunk, or sleeping, or watching TV? When will she come in with defeat stamped on her face and give us an exercise taken from a book that is twenty years old? When will she stop marking our assignments with detailed comments and just put big checks at the bottom of every unread page? How long will she struggle against the inevitable?

Miss Leanyer. She was great while she lasted. Of course, most of the class didn't really give a stuff. Generally speaking, we did what we were told to do, because… well, that's just the way it was. We didn't have the energy or the interest to keep up a battle. That's not to say that we were saints. Oh, no. We did all the normal stuff: doodling on each other's legs in black pen, dismantling the furniture with nail files, talking while Miss Leanyer was trying to explain the mating habits of apostrophes. That kind of thing.

But Kiffo … mad, magnificent Kiffo… well, he saw matters differently. For him, teachers, particularly new teachers, had no rights at all. They weren't human, really. For Kiffo, it was nothing less than his solemn duty to give them a hard time.

So there he was, sitting at the back of the class, idly tossing a football in the air. Feet up on the desk. No books out, of course. Miss Leanyer was trying to get us to read a short story about teenage love written by someone who was, quite clearly, 120 years old. To be fair to her, she knew enough not to ask Kiffo to read out loud. He didn't do that. Ever. And he had made it plain that no one should ever ask him to. Nonetheless, the football was really distracting, which is just what Kiffo intended. After ten minutes, Miss Leanyer couldn't ignore it anymore.

“Jaryd,” she said. The infinite patience in her voice made you want to poke her in the eye with a sharpened stick. “Put the ball away, please.”

“In a minute, Miss,” replied Kiffo, throwing the ball from one hand to the other.

“Not in a minute, Jaryd. Now, please.”

Kiffo's mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but I knew the signs. He had her hooked. It was just a question of reeling her in now, enjoying the battle. He tossed the ball into the air again. I looked from one to the other, like I was the ball girl in a tennis match. You know, when the ball is whipping across the net and you risk whiplash to keep it in vision. Kiffo seeded number one; Miss Leanyer a wild card. Outgunned. Wow, I'm mixing my metaphors, but you know what I mean.

So there's this silence for about ten seconds. A challenge thrown down. It was much better than the short story we were reading. Miss Leanyer moved slightly, her eyes darting down to her desk. I knew what was going through her mind. She'd issued
an order. Probably regretted it now, but it was too late. She had to see it through to its conclusion. She cleared her throat.

“If you don't put the ball away now, Jaryd, I'll confiscate it.”

“You can't do that, Miss. It's my property and you don't have no right to take what belongs to me.”

Standard stuff, so far. We all knew the “it's my property” routine. Not that we had any idea if it was true or not. But it seemed to work most times. That's the thing with people like Kiffo. He knew his rights. Or thought he did. Classroom lawyers, one and all. I looked again at Miss Leanyer. “Your move,” I thought.

“Get your feet off the desk,” she said. “Now!”

No “please” this time. I love that about teachers. They all have this built-in politeness even when they are dealing with vermin. “I would like you to take that knife away from the principal's throat and stop setting the school on fire, please.” Always the “please.” Maybe they think that it will somehow seep into the student's unconscious mind. Role models of politeness. But this was getting interesting. She had covered his bet and upped the ante by sticking another five hundred dollars on top. I could see them in an old Western, facing each other across a cheap table in the local saloon. There'd be a tired honky-tonk pianist in the background, and a bartender with rolled-up sleeves skimming slugs of whisky across a polished surface to dusty cowboys.

“I think you're bluffing, mister, and I'm prepared to put my money on it.” The piano would pause and painted women would stop toying with their frilly garters.

I was riveted.

Kiffo slowly moved one foot off the table. He sat there, one hairy leg stuck on the side of the desk, tilting back in his chair. If you looked carefully, you could see up his shorts. Enough to make a girl gag. The ball spun slowly on Kiffo's hand.

“Both feet off the desk and stop leaning back on your chair. This instant!”

What? Two things to do at the same time? Doesn't compute. Neurons burning out, smoke coming from the ears. Fantastic. I hadn't had such fun in ages. Miss Leanyer was really going for it. The whole class was absorbed, praying that the bell wouldn't ring until this little drama had been played out to its conclusion. Comedy or tragedy? It could go either way.

“Unless you do as you're told now, you will leave this classroom.”

As you have probably gathered, I'm something of an expert in these matters. An acute observer of classroom relationships. And you're probably wondering about my reaction to this last statement. Well, there's a couple of things to be said about it. Firstly, Miss Leanyer had done well by not threatening detention. Kiffo would have laughed in her face. He didn't do detention. He knew well enough that the school needed a parent's written permission to keep you behind after normal school hours. He also knew that his parent would never give permission. So detention was a completely idle threat. But the notion of sending him out of the room was fatally flawed as well. She'd left herself with no room to
back out. No path of retreat. They should teach that in whatever places teach teachers how to be teachers. Sorry, bit clumsy. But you get my point. If Kiffo said, “Get stuffed,” then how was she to force him? She couldn't touch him. We all knew
those
rights! Mind you, I doubt she would have wanted to touch him.

Secondly, what kind of a threat was it? “I'll send you out.” Oh, horrors. Unthinkable. Do you really mean, Miss, that I'll have to forgo the rest of this really crappy short story? Enough to make the strongest man blanch. I don't think so.