Class Act (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

FAIL

Mrs Loretta Florris hated one thing. That may not sound like much, but believe me it covered a huge area, like a single umbrella over Ireland. Because that one thing was failure.

The principal of Tullybun Primary hated pens that failed to work. She hated ties that failed to be straight and toilets that failed to flush. Light bulbs that blew, flowers that died, rubber bands that broke: she loathed them all.

Which meant, of course, that she hated Brian O'Bunion. She hated him with an extra-special, super-size, double choc-chip hatred because he was the biggest failure in her class. You name it, he failed it: geography tests, running races, knowing when the Vikings invaded or how to spell ‘exceptional'. Worst of all, he failed to pay attention.

Or that's what she thought. In fact he paid fantastic attention – just not to her. Why would he, when there were so many more interesting things to focus on?

Like the fly that was bombing the window on his left. Compare that to the Maths sheet that lay in front of him. One was a matter of life and death, the other of mumbo and jumbo.

He looked at Question 4:

If Barry walks at 5 km an hour, how long will it take to reach his friend Zebulun's house, which is 6.3459287367298419373584928725645238373 km away? Give your answer to 14 decimal places.

Brian rubbed his forehead.
How do I know?
There wasn't enough information. What if Barry stopped at the Spar to buy a Yorkie? What if his Aunt Lettice drove past on her way to the chemist for a corn plaster and gave him a lift? What if it started to rain and he took shelter at a bus stop that turned into a flying saucer and took him to Jupiter where he spent five years digging for space turnips before returning to Earth to find that no time had passed at all? And what sort of name was Zebulun anyway?

The fly froze on the window pane.
Poor thing, it's exhausted
. Brian lifted the Maths sheet and held it horizontally against the glass. He eased the creature up and out through the little open window at the top. ‘See ya.' He tickled the glass as the fly bounced away through the bright morning air.

‘Brian O'Bunion.' Mrs Florris looked up from the front desk.

Twenty-four pens went still. Twenty-four heads turned. Forty-eight eyes fixed on Brian.

‘May I ask
whhhat
,' the word whooshed out between tight lips, as if she was blowing dust off a teapot, ‘you are doing?'

What he didn't say:

‘Of course you may. And while you're at it, why not ask what my favourite pudding is, and why I hate Tuesdays, and where I keep my socks, and how many times I've seen you pick your nose when you think no one's looking? And it's very kind of you but you really don't need my permission because you're the teacher, aka God, so you can do whatever you like.'

What he did say:

‘Um.'

You'd probably have said that too, for Brian's teacher was an alarming woman. I say ‘woman' and I almost completely mean it because, looking at her, you couldn't help wondering if one of her ancestors had been a cauliflower. I say alarming and I
completely
completely mean it. Her hair was a helmet of solid white curls. She had a bristly chin, a thick pale neck and light green eyes like the streaky bits in marbles.

‘Um,' echoed the teacher. ‘Ummm. What an
interesting
word. I wonder what it means. Alec Hunratty, get the dictionary.'

Oh no.
Brian lowered his head and waited for the kill.

A plump, shiny boy with a brain the size of Canada got up from his desk. He fetched the dictionary from a bookshelf at the back of the classroom.

‘Please look up the word “
Um
” for us, Alec.'

He thumbed through. ‘Not here, Miss.' He grinned and glowed like a toad.

‘What a coincidence.' Mrs Florris licked her teeth. Chipped and yellow, they reminded Brian of cheese triangles. ‘Because neither is your brain, Brian O'Bunion. People with
brains
do not wave at flies. People with
brains
do not score a year average of
twelve per cent
in Maths.'

A hiss went round, as if the room had turned into a huge slithering snake.

‘How dare you downgrade my class? How dare you lower my scores with your dozy daydreaming, your dim distraction and your dense … your dense …' She looked round for help.

‘Dullness?' suggested Alec.

‘Thank you, Alec. Brian O'Brainless.' She smacked the desk. ‘Get,'
smack
‘back,'
smack smack
‘to WORK!'

Brian hunched over his desk. Words and numbers danced in front of him.
I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not.

And he didn't. Eight minutes, thirty-four sniffs and not a glint of a tear later, the bell rang for lunch.

The playground was buzzing. Literally. As Brian crossed the yard he heard a low hum. It was coming from the corner where the girls were huddled round Tracy Bricket.

‘Umm.' The humming got louder. ‘Ummm.' Tracy's head turned. ‘Oh
hi
, Brian. We were just
ummmm
ing and aahing about the prize-giving.'

Skinny Ginny Mulhinney made a sound like a balloon losing air.

Tracy smiled. ‘Doesn't sound like
you'll
be winning the Maths prize.' Her eyes were so blue you could dip your toes in them.

Shoving his hands into his pockets and his chin into his neck, Brian crossed the yard. He went over the lawn to the rockery and sat down against the high-backed rock that hid him from the yard.

Worms of self-pity crawled into his mind.
Why does Florrie pick on me? Why do I care? Why can't I be tough like Kevin Catwind?
The top of his nose fizzed dangerously. He pressed his eyelids with his fingertips.
Don't even think of it
, he warned the gathering tears.

Opening his lunch box, he let out a long breath. Alone at last – or as good as. There was only the gardener pruning roses by the fence. Brian ate his banana. Checking that Mr Pottigrew's back was turned, he wrapped the skin round a garden gnome that stood by the rockery. ‘Have a scarf.' There was no danger of the gardener hearing. He was stone deaf.

It had caused quite a stir when he'd started at the school. Children had crept up behind him, burping and fake farting until Gary Budget had dared Kevin Catwind to say a rude word to his face. It turned out that Mr Pottigrew could lip-read. When he'd complained to Mrs Florris, in a low drawl that sounded as if he were speaking underwater, she'd yelled at Kevin and made the whole class write out fifty times, ‘I must only be rude behind people's backs.'

Brian watched the gardener bend over the bushes in search of dead flowers. He loved the clean snap of the secateurs and the way the old man laid the dead blooms in the barrow like priceless pieces of porcelain.

Mr Pottigrew straightened up and rubbed his back. He turned the barrow and wheeled it to the next flower bed. Every movement was measured and slow, as if he were rationing out his energy. He caught sight of the banana-skinned gnome, then Brian and smiled. Unlike the rest of him, his eyes were quick and bright, taking everything in, doing overtime for his useless ears.

Brian wished he could stay there all day, watching the leaves shiver under the jet as Mr Pottigrew switched on the hose and feeling the warm, furry breeze on his face. But far too soon the bell shrieked, summoning him to the awful afternoon.

C
HAPTER
3

SUR-PRIZE

The hall smelled of wood polish and disapproval. Children thundered in and sat cross-legged on the floor below the stage. Chairs stood along the back for parents. When the pupils had calmed to a fidgeting whisper, the grown-ups filed in.

There were mums and dads. There were mums
or
dads. There were grandmas and/or grandpas. There were fifteen aunts, twelve uncles, eight-and-a-half neighbours (Mrs Mildew Pritt was very short), a reporter from the local paper and Gary Budget's rabbit called Stew who'd been smuggled in inside his mum's handbag and was now nibbling jelly beans on her lap. Anyone with any link to the school was there.

Almost.

Before you run off to ring Brian's dad and give him an earful for staying at home instead of coming to root for his child like any other decent human or pet, you'd better know that his invitation was lying in seventeen pieces in Brian's waste-paper bin. Why would he want Dad to come and watch him non-win?

Brian hugged his knees and stared at the sunbeam pouring through the window on his left. Lowering his lashes, he watched it blur to a shimmering river of dust. Imagined diving in and joining the flow, up through the window, away from the wriggling, giggling hall.

‘Hey look.' There was a loud whisper – or was it a quiet shout? – from Clodna Cloot, a chunky girl built like Duplo, sitting in front of Brian. ‘There's Trace's mum.'

The whole row turned round and waved. ‘Hi, Sharlette.'

‘You were great at six thirty-four last night.'

‘I love your earrings.'

‘Thanks for the sunshine.'

Tracy's mum was the closest Tullybun had to a celebrity. As the weather lady on the local news, she'd changed her name from Sharon Bricket to Sharlette Briquette and her hair from mud-brown to sun-kissed. She sat down at the back, crossed one endless leg over the other and wriggled her cherry fingernails at the girls.

Brian squeezed his knees until his arms hurt. Mum had never worn nail polish or dyed her hair. But if she'd been sitting there she'd have made Sharlette look like an old tin can.

Mrs Florris rose from the row of staff sitting on the stage. ‘Attention, please.' She clapped her hands. ‘Mums and dads, boys and girls, a warm welcome to our annual celebration.'

Warm?
Brian shivered. Her voice was as warm as an ice cap.

‘As you know, sixth class will soon be hopping from our little pond into the mighty lake of secondary school.' Mrs Florris glanced down at her notes. ‘Over the last eight years, our precious little tadpoles have developed legs and arms and membranes …' a dad at the back grunted indignantly, ‘er, fine brains. Their gills are glowing …' another snort, ‘er, their skills are growing, and we are all very proud of our slimy young frogs.' A mum leapt to her feet. ‘Er, shiny young sprogs.' Wheeling round, Florris hissed at the school secretary, ‘Your typing's terrible!'

‘I couldn't read your writing,' whimpered flimsy Miss Mimsy, who looked as if she might break in half.

Throwing the notes down, the principal turned back to the audience. ‘The point is,' she snapped, ‘we're here for prizes. Because we at Tullybun Primary believe in winning. Life is tough out there. If you don't come top, you're a flop. Who remembers the seconds and thirds, the almost-made-its, the
X-Factor
runners-up?'

‘Olly Murs,' shouted Kevin Catwind.

‘One Direction,' added Barry Boreen, better known as Broadbean Barry because of his sticky-out ears.

‘Silence!' Florrie glared at them, then smiled at the parents. It was hard to tell the difference. ‘I am proud to have made this school a training ground for winners. And this year, as always, we have chosen those pupils who have excelled in all walks – or rather runs – of life.' She licked her teeth. ‘The prize for Top Student, the person who has shown sheer, consistent, gobsmacking
clevernessss
…' she lingered on the word as if it tasted of fudge, ‘goes to Alec Hunratty.'

There was faint applause. Alec won every year. Everyone knew he'd grow up to be a brain surgeon or a computer hacker. As he sauntered to the stage, Brian glanced to the back of the hall. Even Alec's parents looked bored. His mum kept typing on her phone and his dad was scribbling something – probably the square root of 7439678.2 – on the back of his hand.

‘Sport.' Florrie smiled like a portcullis. ‘The prize for Fastest Running, Most Goal-Scoring and Least Gasping for Breath goes to … Peter Nimby.'

‘Yess!' A boy in the front row jumped up and punched the air with a skinny arm. His parents at the back did the same. In three strides Pete's long, successful legs took him onto the stage.

When the clapping had faded, Florrie grinned – or was it grimaced? – round the hall. ‘The prize for Popularity, Pleasantness and Charming the Pants off Everyone goes to Tracy Bricket.'

Tracy stood up and waved at her mum. Sharlette unleashed her super-white smile.

Everyone clapped while Mrs Florris shook the winners' hands and hung gold medals round their necks.

Then came the lesser prizes. Loads of them. By the time Florrie got to the Smallest Pupil award, Brian's palms stung from clapping. And when Clonsilla Prisk won Neatest Parting, his bottom went numb.

‘Refreshments,' said Florrie at last, ‘will be served in a moment.' She waved towards the tables at the side where the gardener and school cleaning lady were laying out cups and saucers.

As children turned to whisper not entirely kind things about the winners, Brian put his chin on his knees.
That's it then. Not a single prize in eight years. You'd think they could have drummed up something. Even the Best at Winning Nothing award would be better than this. If I melted into the floor right now, I wouldn't leave a stain.

‘But first,' said Florrie, ‘I have one more prize to present. A new award, most dear to my heart. Brian O'Bunion, please come up.'

Brian raised his head. Had he heard right?

‘Brian?' The principal frowned round the hall. Brian blinked at the window to check that another Brian O'Bunion hadn't pole-vaulted through. He stumbled to his feet.

‘Watch it!' said Gary Budget, just in case Brian stepped on his foot, which he didn't. How could he when he wasn't walking but floating onto the stage?

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said Florrie, ‘boys and girls. During his time at Tullybun, Brian has not found work easy.' She put her arm round him. ‘But his efforts at studying have not gone unnoticed.'

Brian's chest filled up. At last: recognition that, although he hadn't succeeded, he had at least tried.

‘They have, however,' the principal dropped her arm, ‘gone unsuccessfully. Which is why, Brian, I'm awarding you
this
.' She whipped something out of her jacket pocket and held it horizontally between her forefingers. Bright and yellow, it was really rather beautiful, pitted with tiny holes and giving off a crisp, clean smell. ‘Brian O'Bunion. It gives me
pleasure
and
satisfaction
to present you with the Lemon …' she grabbed his arm, ‘for Lazy …' she opened his hand, ‘Losers.' She closed his fingers round the cool, glowing fruit.

Brian had a book at home called
The Amazing Amazon
. On page seventy-three was a photo of a glass frog whose skin was completely transparent. He'd often wondered how it must feel to have your insides on show. Now he knew. Every eye in the hall could see his stomach shrinking and his guts sinking. Every ear could hear the thump of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears.

He dropped his head. A spider was edging across the stage. It raised a front leg, exploring the air.
Where's it going?
thought Brian.
What's its plan? How does the floor feel beneath its feet? Does it even
have
feet or just tiny hooks at the end of its–

His elbow shot forward. Mrs Florris was shoving him aside. ‘And now,' she told the silent hall, ‘please join us for tea and cakes. Mr Ptolemy Pilps from the
Tully Tattle
is here to interview and photograph the prize-winners.' As the audience shuffled to its feet, she turned to the top trio. ‘You first, dears. We'll have the faces of success on the front page.' She pinched Brian's shoulder like a crab. ‘And the face of failure,' she hissed, ‘on the back.'

She ushered the four children to the side tables, where Mr Pottigrew was putting cakes on a tray and the cleaner, Mrs Muttock, was pouring tea for Mr Pilps. I say pouring – more like slopping. You got the feeling Mrs Muttock didn't enjoy her job, unlike her predecessor who'd retired last summer. Miss Padder had reminded Brian of a currant bun. Soft and crumbly, with brown, merry eyes, she'd trailed the smell of melting butter through the corridors. Mrs Muttock smelled of cigarettes and disappointment, which made Brian think of her as an
un
cleaning lady.

Her eyes glittered as he approached. ‘Cuppa tea – with
lemon
?' She made a rasping, gurgling sound, a mixture of cough and snigger.

Mr Pilps put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don't worry,' he murmured. The edges of his kind eyes crinkled. ‘I'll take your photo to keep Mrs F. happy. But I'll make sure it doesn't go in the paper.'

Brian blinked his gratitude. He didn't trust his mouth. People were moving away from him as if he were a virus.

He waited while Alec, Tracy and Pete posed for photos, shoving their medals and grins at the camera.

Pete insisted on a picture of his bare feet. ‘Unbeatable,' he bragged, waving his smelly socks in Brian's face. Smart Alec wanted a close-up of his forehead – ‘so it fills the whole shot' – and Tracy's pout was like two blushing slugs.

‘Now Brian,' said Mr Pilps loudly. ‘Your turn.' He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Then I'd get out of here if I were you.'

You bet
. Parents were staring at Brian when they thought he wasn't looking and turning away when he was, their faces muddled with pity and scorn.

Florrie glanced across from her conversation with Alec's parents. ‘Make sure you get the lemon in the shot,' she barked at Mr Pilps.

While the photographer focused, Brian did the opposite, letting his eyelids droop and the crowd fade to a murmuring blur that, just for a moment, numbed the needles tattooing his chest.

A tinkling crash brought him back to the hall.

‘Idiot!' For once Florrie wasn't shouting at him. Mr Pottigrew was standing over a mess of smashed plates and crumbs.

The gardener had come up with a tray of refreshments for Alec, Tracy and Pete. Grabbing a scone each, they must have jostled him so that he dropped the tray. Now they stood and sniggered.

‘Go and get a brush!' shrieked Florrie while the old man bent down to gather the shards and crumbs, sticky with honey. When he ignored her, she pushed through the crowd, crouched down and shoved her face into his. ‘I said go … and get … a brush … you clumsy … old …
fool.
'

Even someone without any ears at all would have heard that. Blinking and nodding, he got to his feet and shuffled out of the hall.

Brian made the most of the distraction. While the principal shooed everyone away from the sticky rubble, he followed the gardener out into the corridor.

Mr Pottigrew stopped at the door of the storeroom and turned round. Brian froze. He'd held it together until now. But the kindness in the old man's eyes made his chest boil and his cheeks catch fire. He rushed on: through the entrance hall with its plaques listing past prize-winners, out the front door, across the yard and through the school gates.

He leaned against the railings. Now what? He couldn't go home, not yet. Dad would be as comforting as cardboard. ‘Oh dear,' he'd probably say, glancing up from his work, or, ‘Pardon?'

Brian hurled the lemon into a bush. He had to go and talk to the only three people who'd listen.