‘Ibrahim Patel, report to the staffroom at morning break. I saw you, I know it was you!’ one of the teachers shouted out of the broken window.
‘This is too much,’ said Ms Brown, the English teacher. ‘It never ends.’ Everyone agreed.
‘On the contrary, the end is nigh!’ the principal said in a quiet voice that made them all jump. He had entered the room while they were busy with the ball. Mr Foster was not a big man. He was probably the shortest member of staff. His thin grey hair was brushed across the top of his head from left to right and his long wiry grey eyebrows made everyone who saw him ache to pick up a pair of scissors. They stuck out the top of his steel framed glasses and sometimes they even hung in front of them.
He moved to the middle of room. ‘I believe there are some complaints,’ he said, looking around. Something about Mr Foster made his colleagues uncomfortable.
‘I’ve sat on more drawing pins in the past two weeks than I can remember.’ Ms Brown began the complaining. ‘And when I turned on the projector in English yesterday, there was this disgusting picture of Mr Woffinden and me doing, well — ‘
‘We weren’t actually doing anything. It was Photoshopped,’ Mr Woffinden added quickly. ‘I know, because there’s a video of it on YouTube and it’s had 3000 hits!’
‘Quite creative,’ Mr Foster muttered to himself. ‘Shocking!’ he said loudly. ‘Quite shocking.’
Then the complaints really started coming.
‘Mrs Johnson, who lives across the street from the school, has complained again. Her garden keeps disappearing. This time when she was out, her entire front lawn was removed and placed on the road. She drove her car over her own lawn.’
‘I had a fight involving six boys and one girl that lasted throughout my geography class. They only stopped when I threatened to call the police.’
‘My whiteboard fell off the wall because they’d removed the screws.’
‘The First 15 rugby team put a nail on the crossbar of the goalposts and hung me on it by my collar. I was there for two hours!’
‘Someone set a lighted bunsen burner on my trousers as I bent down to pick up a broken test tube,’ Mr Needham complained. ‘I have very uncomfortable burns on my bottom.’
One teacher after another poured out their complaints about the students’ bad behaviour.
‘There’s no discipline!’
Mr Foster listened, rubbing his chin with one hand and nodding. He swallowed hard. If there was one thing he hated, it was whingeing teachers. ‘I hear your concerns,’ he said.
‘But what are you going to do about them?’ someone asked.
‘Bring back corporal punishment!’ someone else suggested. ‘A good caning would sort them out!’
A few teachers agreed.
‘Violence isn’t the answer,’ Ms Brown said. ‘We need to understand why they’re being bad.’
‘Forget the soft approach!’ said the Sports teacher.
Suddenly they were all talking about whether hitting the children would solve the school’s problems. Soon everyone was making suggestions and arguing over the best way to get the students to behave.
‘If I may …’ Mr Foster tried to speak, but no one was listening.
‘Silence!’ Mr Croxall shouted above the din. He hated noise and untidiness in the staffroom as much as in the classroom. If he had his way, the teachers would be standing in a row on chalk circles, lined up in order of their classes’ marks. He held himself upright. His back still hurt, but he was not going to complain. Staff should take responsibility for discipline in their own classrooms and they should show a bit more self-discipline.
The teachers fell silent and turned to face the principal.
‘Thank you, Mr Croxall.’ Mr Foster smiled at him, then continued. ‘I want you to know that steps have been taken to address this situation.’
‘What does that actually mean?’ Mr Woffinden was not impressed.
‘A plan is in place and I am confident of the results,’ Mr Foster replied.
‘What plan? What steps?’ Ms Brown said.
‘What exactly are you going to do?’ several teachers demanded.
Mr Foster smiled so broadly his eyes almost disappeared under his enormous eyebrows. ‘If any student misbehaves, send them straight to my office,’ he said. ‘That is all you have to do.’
‘That’s it? You think we can stop these hoons with a quick go-to-the-principal’s-office?’ Mr Needham scoffed.
‘Believe me,’ said Mr Foster, ‘nothing will be more effective than a few minutes in my office.’
The teachers rolled their eyes, but he seemed quite sure.
‘Send them to me.’ He laughed. ‘Send them all to me.’
CHAPTER 7
BORIS GETS IT
Jonty, Boris and the whole class were waiting for Mr Croxall to arrive for Maths. The staff meeting had run over time and made him late. Everyone checked that their desk legs were within the chalk circles, then they began whispering, talking. Soon everyone was chatting away and getting louder and louder. Even Nathaniel had trouble sitting quietly. The only one who didn’t make any noise was Prune. She had a pack of fortune-telling cards and was using them to predict when Mr Croxall would walk into the room. It wasn’t working very well, because she didn’t know what most of the cards meant.
Jonty looked at his mate Boris. He had that smile on. This was going to be a chance for some fun.
‘I’ll stand guard. You see if you can find anything to get Croxall on The List!’ Jonty said and shot over to the door.
Boris charged up to Mr Croxall’s desk. The drawer was locked, but that didn’t stop him. He pulled out a penknife.
‘No!’ Jonty hissed from the door, as Boris forced the drawer open.
Jonty grew nervous. If Croxall came back now, he would erupt. He glanced down the corridor and then back at Boris. The look of glee on Boris’s face told Jonty that he had struck gold. He pulled two items out of the drawer. One was a pair of grungy men’s underpants. They were big, baggy and grey. The class hooted as Boris tossed them into the air.
The other item was Croxall’s USB stick. It was what he kept their class positions on. Boris plugged it into the teacher’s laptop so he could change everyone’s place for next Monday. When he scanned through the folders he saw something better, much much better. He waved Jonty into the classroom.
‘You’ll get caught!’ Jonty said, but the smile on Boris’s face showed that was exactly what he wanted.
‘Sit down!’ Boris commanded in his best Croxall voice. Jonty took his seat as the rest of the class fell silent.
The projector flicked into life as Boris loaded one of the files he had found on the USB stick. As the words appeared on the screen, Anastasia gasped and leapt for her phone. Nathaniel put his head in his hands, determined not to read it. Prune read and smiled to herself. She thought it was lovely.
The words were a poem. Boris had discovered a folder full of love poetry that Mr Croxall had written to his wife.
‘I thought his wife died!’ Anastasia mouthed at Miranda.
Boris ran round to the front of the desk, picked up the undies and pulled them on over his pants.
‘Pay attention, class.’ He cleared his throat and began to read out the poem in the deepest, sternest voice he could find.
Love endures
My love will live forever
Though we’re not together.
Roses fade and cake goes stale
But my love lives beyond the pale
I feel it stronger every day
Since the time you went away
You won’t come back.
But my heart won’t slack.
Jonty stared straight ahead. Who would have thought Croxall could write such gooey love poetry?
The class was so rapt in Boris’s reading that nobody noticed the door open. Mr Croxall stood there with his hands on his hips and his jaw clenched. He saw his poem on the screen and his underpants on Boris Brockman. The pain
from his fall on Monday shot through his back. He had always prided himself on never needing any help to control a class, but this was too much. He fought to stay in control.
‘Sir, he didn’t mean anything …’ Jonty tried to defend his friend. Now Boris was staring at Croxall and waiting for a tear to roll down the teacher’s cheek. It didn’t.
‘Brockman, I think you better go to the principal’s office,’ Mr Croxall said quietly and slowly. Now would be as good a time as ever to see what sort of punishment the principal had in store.
Boris didn’t take his eyes off him, but stood there, quite still.
‘Now, Brockman,’ Mr Croxall said.
Boris sighed and headed for the door — he’d been foiled again. There weren’t going to be any tears, because Croxall was as tough as old boots.
Mr Croxall closed down the file on the screen. ‘I believe it is time for fractions,’ he said.
As the rest of the class turned to their work, Prune sat there horrified at the card on her desk, convinced that she had caused a disaster. She didn’t like Boris one bit, but she was scared that she had unleashed powerful forces by turning over The Tower. It was the most terrible and most destructive card in the pack.
CHAPTER 8
NO RETURN
Boris didn’t come back to class at all that day. The entire class was itching to find out what had happened to him, but they were stuck in English with Ms Brown.
‘Nothing special has happened,’ Ms Brown said. ‘There’s no need to get excited.’
They ignored her. Anastasia tossed her hair back, thinking how stupid Ms Brown was for not knowing that this was the most exciting thing to have happened in weeks. She decided to risk texting Miranda on the other side of the room, to check whether she could look out the window and see anything happening at the principal’s office. Miranda had forgotten to switch her phone to silent and so a Britney Spears message alert rang out.
Ms Brown glowered at Miranda and then looked straight over to Anastasia.
‘Wasn’t me!’ Anastasia tried to look innocent.
Ms Brown was sure she was the one who had sent a text.
‘Go to the principal’s office!’ she snapped.
‘What?’ the entire class said in shock. There was no way Ms Brown could tell that Anastasia had sent the text.
Jonty couldn’t believe it. ‘You can’t!’ he said out loud. ‘How do you know it was her?’
‘Miranda, your phone please!’
Miranda handed the phone over.
‘There’s nothing from Anastasia since lunchtime, Miss,’ she said. As soon as Ms Brown accused Anastasia she had deleted the text.
‘I don’t care. I know it was you, Anastasia. Now go to the principal’s office!’
‘But that’s so unfair — you’ve got no evidence, Ms Brown,’ she protested. ‘I could sue.’
‘I said go and see the principal!’ Ms Brown stood on her toes as she jabbed her finger in the direction of the door.
Anastasia took a deep breath and made a show of not caring. ‘Whatever!’ she said and began to walk out slowly. Halfway there she burst into a run so no one could see that she was about to cry.
When the bell went for the end of the period, everyone jumped up.
‘The class ends when I say —’ Ms Brown tried to get them to sit down again, but it didn’t work. There was way too much to talk about for them to bother paying attention to her.
On the bus home Jonty texted Boris. ‘U OK wht hapned? Call me.’
He didn’t get an answer all evening. He even tried calling, but the phone was switched off.
‘You can talk to him tomorrow,’ Jonty’s mum said. They had a soccer match the following day.
In the morning Jonty’s dad drove him there and, as usual, started to give him a pep talk in the car. He tried to make out that he was an expert on soccer, but in fact he’d never played. When he was at school he’d played rugby. Mr Townsend looked over at his son. Jonty was so big and strong, playing soccer was such a complete waste! He could demolish a whole forward pack singlehanded.
‘Make sure their flankers don’t come in and cut you off,’ he said.
‘What are flankers?’ said Jonty.
‘Don’t you have them in soccer?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, well then, don’t let Boris get all the best shots. I know he’s your friend, but he never passes the ball. You do call it “passing", don’t you?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ sighed Jonty, ‘we do, and Boris is a really good striker. He scores all the time.’
‘But even I can tell that you set the tries up for him half the time.’
‘They’re goals, Dad. We score goals.’ Jonty shook his head and looked out the car window.
When they finally arrived, the Sports teacher, Mr Gosney approached them straightaway.
‘Right — Boris’s off today,’ he announced.
Jonty frowned. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s — err, well — he’s not playing.’
‘But why? He wasn’t that bad,’ Jonty argued, getting frustrated that no one was telling him what had happened.
‘Jonty!’ his father said. ‘A bit of respect for your teacher, please. Boris is not playing and that’s all we need to know.’ Secretly Mr Townsend was pleased that Boris wasn’t playing. It would give Jonty a chance to shine.
And he was right. Jonty scored two brilliant goals. As he charged down the pitch with the ball, the other players jumped out of the way rather than trying to tackle someone as big as him. It made scoring much easier.
In the car on the way home he talked through several action replays, so his dad understood fully how well he had played. Mr Townsend looked across at him. He would be happy if that best friend of his never turned up to another match.
CHAPTER 9
LEARNING A LESSON
On Monday morning Jonty saw Boris in the playground. ‘Why didn’t you answer any of my texts?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were in real trouble.’
Boris shrugged.
‘Did you get banned from soccer? How long will you be out? What happened in the principal’s office?’ All Jonty’s questions flew out at once.
‘I wasn’t banned from soccer,’ Boris said. ‘I think it’s a waste of time.’ He walked off, leaving Jonty even more puzzled. Boris never thought soccer was a waste of time.
When it was time for Maths, the entire class stood at the back, waiting for Mr Croxall to arrive and tell them where to sit.
‘Have you spoken to Boris?’ Jonty asked Mike.
‘I tried, but he just walked away.’
‘Look at him.’ Jonty pointed. Boris stood still, holding his backpack in his arms and staring ahead. His hair had been cut short. It was combed down with a parting so straight you could draw lines with it. His tie was done up properly. He looked neat — disgustingly neat.
Mr Croxall swept in, looked at Boris and smirked. That would not be the only surprise for the class.
‘Right, Cunningham — chalk!’
One of the boys got down on his hands and knees and drew the chalk circles.
After he was satisfied the desks were all neat, Mr Croxall plugged his USB stick into the laptop and the names began to appear. Nathaniel, as usual, was first.
‘Maria Topou, excellent work, second spot. Hurry up, girl!’ Mr Croxall was eager to continue. ‘Now, here’s a surprise for everyone.’
The name Boris Brockman appeared on the screen. He was in third place.
Jonty’s mouth dropped open. On Friday Boris had been sent to the principal and now he was suddenly the third best student in Maths. What had happened?
The only person who wasn’t surprised was Boris. He walked forward, sat at his desk, then turned to Nathaniel and looked right into his eyes. Nathaniel gulped and decided he better do some extra homework that week.
‘Seems like the trip to the principal’s office was just what Brockman needed,’ Mr Croxall said. ‘He spent the whole of Saturday c
atching up on his work.
‘Next, Anastasia Micklethwaite — also doing very well.’
Anastasia didn’t smile; she just walked forward and took her spot. Normally when her name was called, she was busy texting. But today her phone was nowhere in sight.
All through Maths, Jonty and Mike tried to get Boris’s attention. They were sitting opposite him, but he looked at the teacher the whole time and wrote tonnes of notes.
‘Right, someone tell the class what the hypotenuse of a triangle is.’
Nathaniel’s hand shot up, but before he could say anything, another voice spoke calmly.
It was Boris.
‘It’s the longest side of the triangle, opposite the right angle. I would estimate the one on the screen is around 8.6 centimetres long, based on the Pythagorean theorem, which states that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the two shorter sides. I can only estimate their length, given this is a projected image, but if we assume the horizontal line is 5 centimetres and the vertical 7 centimetres, then the hypotenuse would be 8.6. Do you concur, Nathaniel?’
Nathaniel stared at him. He had absolutely no idea what a Pythagorean theorem was.
‘I — I —’ he stammered and then gave up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Even Mr Croxall was stunned. He checked Boris’s calculation on his laptop. ‘You’re right, Boris. Very good.’
Jonty stared at the boy who looked liked Boris sitting opposite him. There was no way his mate Boris could have given that answer. This had to be an evil robot that looked like him.
Mr Croxall continued with the class.
‘Pssst!’ Mike tried to attract Boris’s attention. Unsuccessfully.
Jonty chewed up a bit of paper and flicked it at Boris with his ruler. He missed completely and hit Nathaniel, who looked up sharply.
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Jonty and pointed at Boris.
Nathaniel shrugged. He was as shocked as anyone at Boris’s answer, but he was determined to work out the answer for himself. He would be looking up ‘Pythagorean theorem’ the minute he got home.
The Trouble with Sauce Page 3