“What?” I said, managing to keep my voice to a whisper. “Wayne? You don’t know about Wayne?”
Jodie shook her head. “No.”
“Wayne Lawson,” I said, stressing each word as if it would somehow make her understand. “Wayne pretend-to-be-nice-but-actually-I’m-a-violent-psychopath-who-wants-to-kick-your-head-in Lawson? You’ve never heard of him?”
“No, why would I have?” Jodie said. “He’s in your year. Why would I care who he is? I barely care who you are.”
“Well, he’s not nice,” I whispered. “Like, at all.”
Wayne walked past us, practically dragging the much smaller Duncan along the corridor. “Come on, Duncan, let’s start by checking out the toilets,” he said, squeezing the boy’s shoulders so hard I thought his head might go pop. “Head first,” he added, in a voice too quiet for his dad to hear.
Mr Lawson smiled proudly as he watched his son and the new boy head off along the corridor. When he looked down at us, though, his smile fell away completely. “You two. My office,” he barked, stepping inside. “Now.”
Jodie led the way and I trudged behind her, preparing myself for whatever fate had in store. Whatever it was, it was probably better than poor Duncan’s. Just before I entered the office, I glanced along the corridor in time to see Wayne violently shoving the smaller boy through the double swing doors.
“Leave the talking to me,” Jodie whispered as we lowered ourselves into the two seats already positioned in front of Mr Lawson’s desk.
The head eyed us suspiciously. “What did you say, Jodie?” he asked.
“She said I should leave the talking to her. In case I say something that gets us into even more trouble,” I replied. “By the way, your son is really horrible.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr Lawson said, his eyes narrowing to slits.
Jodie tried to laugh it off. “He doesn’t mean that. I’m sure Wayne’s…”
“Psychotic?” I guessed, filling in for her. “Dangerously unhinged? A two-faced big—”
“Great!” Jodie said. “I was going to say I’m sure he’s great.”
“He definitely isn’t,” I corrected. “Didn’t you listen to what I said outside? He’s a monster.”
“Shut up, Beaky,” Jodie said, keeping her smile fixed in place.
Mr Lawson looked irritated. “Leaving all that aside … Mrs Dodds has told me about this forgery thing, and – frankly – I’m very angry at you both.”
He looked at us in turn. “Beaky … I mean, Dylan,” he said, correcting himself quickly. “I expected this of you. From what Mrs Dodds tells me, lies, fantasy and make-believe are the norm where you’re concerned. I mean … the dog ate your homework?”
“It’s true!” I protested. I gestured up at the books lining the office wall. “I’ll bring him in. He’ll munch through all this lot given half a chance.”
“Enough, Dylan,” Mr Lawson said.
“He’d probably have the computer as well, if you left him long enough,” I continued.
Mr Lawson slapped the flat of his hand against the desk, making both Jodie and me jump. “I said that’s enough!”
I swallowed nervously. “You can be dead scary when you want to be,” I muttered.
The head just glared at me, his hand still pressed flat against the desktop. A vein pulsed at the side of his head, as if his whole skull was getting ready to explode. I bit my lip, trying to stop anything else coming out of my mouth, but I was fighting a losing battle.
“You’ve got one eye bigger than the other,” I croaked.
Mr Lawson’s face went red with rage. For a moment, I thought he was going to leap across the desk and make a grab for me, but he took a few deep breaths and seemed to bring his temper back under control. He shook his head at me, then turned to my sister.
“I expected more of you, Jodie. This isn’t like you at all,” he said.
“Are you kidding?” I snorted. “She’s way worse than me!”
“Beaky, shut up,” Jodie hissed.
“That flood in the downstairs girls’ toilets last year? That was her,” I said. “That time someone dropped an egg from the third floor on to Miss Wilkins? That was her, too.”
It was Jodie’s turn to be on the receiving end of Mr Lawson’s squint-eyed stare. “Is this true, Jodie?”
Jodie frowned and shook her head. “Erm … absolutely not,” she said, doing a sort of puzzled smile that tried to suggest I was a raving madman. “I don’t know what he’s on about. Eggs? No idea.”
The head sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Lies upon lies upon lies,” he said. “Do you realize how dangerous what you did is?”
“What, dropping eggs on Miss Wilkins? I know,” I said. “Shocking.”
“Forgery,” said Mr Lawson. “Pretending you had permission to go on the trip. What if your parents don’t want you to go? Hmm? We can’t take you out of school without their permission. They could sue! And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“No,” said Jodie.
“Yes,” I said. “Then we’d be rich.”
Mr Lawson shook his head as he leaned forwards again. “You’ve both let me down, you’ve let the school down and –” he held up his hands – “you know what? I’m going to say it. You’ve let yourselves down.”
He gave us a moment for that to sink in. “Do you know who George Washington is?” he asked, once he’d given us enough time to feel ashamed, or whatever else he was hoping we’d feel.
“Is he the guy who runs the carwash near the hospital?” I asked. “With the stoop and the wooden leg?”
Mr Lawson looked confused. “No.”
“Oh. What’s his name, then?” I asked.
“What? How should I know?”
“Well, you’re the one who started talking about him,” I pointed out.
Mr Lawson frowned. “About who?”
“George Washington,” I reminded him.
The head looked completely lost now. “Yes, but… I mean… What’s that got to do with a carwash?”
I shrugged. “You tell me.”
“He was an American president,” Jodie said.
Mr Lawson half-smiled with relief as Jodie steered him back on to more familiar ground. “Yes. That’s right. He was the first president of the United States. And do you know what he’s most famous for?”
“Being the first president of the United States?” I guessed.
The head opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Well, yes. That. But he’s famous for something else, too. He’s famous because – unlike you, Dylan – he couldn’t tell a lie.”
Jodie and I exchanged a glance, then both leaned forwards in our seats. “Seriously?” I said.
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Jodie asked.
“Couldn’t. So the story goes, anyway,” said Mr Lawson. “He was unable to utter a single untruth. I want you to imagine that, Dylan, just for a moment. Difficult for you as it may be.”
“Trust me,” I said. “It’s not that difficult.”
The head clasped his hands in front of him and shot me a smile. “And then, when you’ve contemplated the importance of telling the truth, I want you to write a three-thousand-word report on George Washington by this time next week.”
“Ha!” said Jodie.
Mr Lawson shifted his gaze to her. “Both of you.”
Jodie spluttered. “What! But…” She glared at me and snarled.
I raised my hand. “Yes, Beaky?” Mr Lawson grimaced. “Dylan. Yes, Dylan?”
“Can I copy hers?” I asked, pointing to my sister.
“You can, but you’ll be expelled,” replied the head. “Any other questions?”
I raised my hand again. Mr Lawson sighed. “What now?”
“In the story about George Washington…” I began.
“Yes?”
I shot Jodie a sideways glance. “Was there ever any mention of an old woman with a big metal box?”
Jodie and I sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, with me doing my
best to avoid meeting her eye. Every time I looked up from my lasagna I caught her glaring at me and gripping a spoon in a worrying way. Luckily Mum and Dad were sitting between us, so if push came to shove I could use them as human shields to buy myself time to escape.
“This is good,” said Mum, shoving a forkful of lasagna into her mouth. She’d been visiting a friend all afternoon, which had meant Dad had been left in charge of dinner duty. “Did you make it yourself?”
Dad nodded proudly. “I did. I followed the recipe to the letter.”
Mum looked impressed. “Looks like I’ve got my very own Masterchef!”
“It was nothing,” said Dad. He cleared his throat grandly. “Peel back film lid. Place in microwave. Heat on high for six minutes. Try not to burn your mouth off.”
“Oh,” said Mum, looking slightly deflated. “It’s a ready meal?”
Dad nodded. “It’s the one I wrote the jingle for a few months back, remember? They sent me a box of them.”
“Was that the racist jingle?” I asked.
Dad scowled. “It wasn’t racist. Those were funny Italian accents.” He waved a hand above his head like a flamenco dancer and began to sing: “If you-a like-a pasta quick, and a-cheese don’t make you sick—”
“You’re right, they were funny,” I said, interrupting him. “If you’re a massive racist.”
“Can we stop saying your dad’s jingle was racist?” said Mum. “Italians do actually wave their arms about and shout ‘Mama Mia!’ a lot. That’s not racist, that’s a fact.”
“You know who wasn’t racist? Former US president, George Washington,” I said. I looked at my parents hopefully. “Or was he?” I asked. “Any ideas? It’d be really helpful and would save me having to do any research.”
“Nice try, Beaky,” Jodie growled.
Mum tutted. “Stop calling your brother ‘Beaky’,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you? Just because his nose is a little on the large side…”
“It’s a lot on the large side,” Jodie said. “It’s like the rest of his face is attached to it, instead of the other way round.”
Mum shook her head, annoyed. “Why do you want to know about George Washington?” she asked me.
“We have to do a project on him this week,” Jodie said, before I could jump in.
“Both of you?” asked Dad. “But you’re in different years. How have you got the same homework?”
“It’s not really homework, it’s a punishment. Jodie forged your signature at school today,” I explained, despite trying very hard not to.
Mum gasped and glared at Jodie. “You did?”
“He made me do it!” Jodie replied.
“That is true,” I agreed.
“Well, you couldn’t have made a very good job of it, if you got caught,” Dad said.
“Actually, the teacher fell for it,” I said. “But I owned up.”
“Well, good for you, Dylan,” said Mum.
“What?” Jodie spluttered. “It was all his idea!”
“Again, that’s true,” I said.
“She fell for it?” said Dad. He nodded approvingly. “Impressive. Can you do mine, too?”
“A two-year-old could do yours,” I pointed out. “It’s literally just a line.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Dad defensively. “It’s got a blip at the start.”
Mum cleared her throat noisily, catching Dad’s attention. “I think we might be getting sidetracked, don’t you?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Dad gave a half-hearted wag of his finger. “Don’t do it again.”
Mum rolled her eyes. “Well, that showed them,” she said. She shook her head at Jodie and me. “I don’t know what you were thinking. Still, we’ll find out tonight.”
“Tonight? Why, what’s tonight?” I asked, sipping my glass of milk.
Mum reached for the bowl of garlic bread and helped herself to a piece. “Parents’ evening.”
I spluttered, spraying the drink all the way across the table. For a fleeting moment I saw Jodie’s expression twist into one of horror, then the milk splattered across her face. She sat there, the liquid dripping off her nose and chin, breathing heavily.
“That was an accident. I did not mean that,” I said. “I mean, it was hilarious, obviously, but it was completely unintentional.”
Jodie made a dive for me, scattering the plates. At the sound of the rattling crockery, Destructo leaped to his feet. Unfortunately he was under the table at the time and as his massive head slammed into it, the whole thing lurched to the left. Mum and Dad made grabs for their drinks glasses, catching them just as the lasagna, garlic bread and a good half a litre of milk toppled on to the floor.
Everyone stopped and stared at the carnage on the carpet. Everyone, that is, except Jodie, whose hands were suddenly round my throat, squeezing hard, and Destructo, who immediately started to tuck into the lasagna.
“First you make Anka and Dawn start fighting, then you get me into trouble, then you refuse to do my stupid report—”
“N-not my fault. Couldn’t do it,” I wheezed. Under protest, I’d tried to do Jodie’s report for her, but just like with the permission slip, my hand refused to write. Doing her work for her would have been a sort of lie which, thanks to Madame Shirley’s machine, was now out of the question.
“And then you spit milk in my face!” Jodie snarled. “I’m going to kill you!”
“That’s enough!” snapped Mum, dragging Jodie off me.
“It’s completely my fault! I started it!” I cried. I played the words over in my head again, then clenched my fists in frustration. “That’s not what I meant to say. At all.”
“Dylan, get your jacket, you’re coming to parents’ evening with me and your dad.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
Mum tapped her foot. “No. No, you can stay here with your sister, if you like. Alone.”
I glanced into the dark slits of Jodie’s eyes. If looks could kill, I’d have been dead and buried. In an unmarked grave. With a stake through my heart.
“Uh, no thanks,” I said, a little more high-pitched than I’d intended. “I’d rather go to parents’ evening than be on my own with Jodie!”
Mum jabbed a finger at the mess on the carpet. “I want all this cleared up before we get back,” she told Jodie.
“At least the dog’s eaten most of the food,” I said, watching Destructo wolf it all down. There was a loud crunch. “And one of the plates.”
Dad patted Jodie on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said, then he picked up his car keys, grabbed his coat, and the three of us headed to school.
I sat at the back of the class as Mum and Dad huddled down the front with Mrs Dodds. From the way she was keeping her voice down, it was clear she didn’t want me to hear what she was saying. However, the acoustics in the room meant I could hear every word. Not that I really wanted to. She wasn’t exactly giving a glowing report.
“Do you know what Dylan’s biggest problem is?” Mrs Dodds asked.
Dad looked at Mum and puffed out his cheeks.
“Goodness. Where to start? Laziness?”
“Lack of respect for adults?” Mum guessed.
“Poor attention span?” Dad hazarded.
“Complete lack of motivation?” said Mum.
“Lying,” said Mrs Dodds. “He’s constantly telling lies.”
“That’s not true!” I called from the back. All eyes turned to me for a moment, then Mrs Dodds lowered her voice even further, but still not enough that I couldn’t hear.
“Do you know what he told me today? That the dog ate his homework,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, as if her point had been proven. “I mean, honestly.”
Mum nodded. “The dog probably did eat his homework, to be fair. The dog eats a lot of things. It was halfway through a serving dish when we left.”
“A stainless-steel one,” Dad added.
Mrs Dodds blinked in surprise. “Oh. I see. Really? Well, the point still sta
nds,” she said, rallying quickly. “He’s constantly telling lies and it’s not acceptable.”
Dad shifted in his seat and glanced back at me. He shot me a reassuring smile, then turned back to the teacher. “He’s just got a good imagination, that’s all. They’re not really lies so much as … stories. He’s creative.” Dad pushed back his shoulders, puffing up his chest. “Like me.”
Mrs Dodds peered at him over her glasses. “Oh, yes. You write those little radio jingle things, don’t you?”
“Not just those,” Dad said. “I’m writing a book, too.”
“Right. I see. Very good,” said Mrs Dodds. She turned to Mum and started to say something, but Dad cut her off.
“Yeah, it’s sort of a fantasy adventure, but with kind of romantic science-fiction horror elements,” he began. “But, you know, a western. Drama. A western drama. Comedy.”
Mrs Dodds raised an eyebrow. “Right…”
“Set in the 1970s,” added Dad. “Only not the 1970s. A different 1970s. I’d love your thoughts on it some time.”
To her credit, Mrs Dodds managed to smile. “That would be lovely.”
“Excellent!” said Dad. He reached into the canvas man-bag he’d brought with him, then deposited his manuscript on the desk. All six-hundred pages hit the table with a thunk, making the legs wobble. “No rush,” he said, beaming broadly. “Just send your thoughts home with Beaky at the end of the week or something.”
I could see Mum cringing almost as much as I was. Dad had been writing his novel for what felt like forever and he was always trying to inflict it on some poor unsuspecting test reader.
Worst Ever School Trip Page 2