by Nigel Smith
“You always say that,” said Darius, outraged. “You even said it on my first day.”
“Your other school wrote to us,” she replied sweetly. “Enclosing reports.”
“And photographs,” added Miss Eyre.
“And newspaper clippings,” added Miss Austen.
“And don’t forget,” said Miss Eyre, her tone darkening, “that this school has endured your older brother … Oswald,” finished Miss Eyre at last, lowering her voice to a terrified whisper, as if even saying his name might conjure him up.
“Now what’s happening here?” said Miss Hunny, who had in fact appeared instead of Oswald Bagley. “Darius, off to the Head’s office. Nathalia, not you.” She turned to Nathalia. “Your father tells me you’re easily led. Perhaps you should be a little more careful who you hang around with in future.”
Nathalia glared at her dad, who winked at her, chuffed for getting her off a detention. Then she saw poor Darius Bagley being marched off to Mrs Trout’s office. He suddenly looked tiny against the looming new school buildings and then he was swallowed up by the kids milling about in the playground, jostling and shouting.
With all the fuss, Nat had missed lunch, so it was with heavy heart and light stomach that she trooped into her very first lesson that afternoon. It was maths. Of course it would be maths, she thought to herself sourly. Can this day get any worse?
Well yes it can, she answered herself, a microsecond later. As she entered the classroom she could see that all the kids had put dibs on desks way back at the start of the school year. There they all sat, chatting away with their chums. Nat felt very alone – and very stared at – as she walked in. She tried to put a brave face on it, but then she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window and realised her face was covered in grime from the Atomic Dustbin. The tittering had already begun as she looked around for a place to sit.
She knew she had one last chance to rescue the day that Dad had officially ruined. If she could sit next to a popular girl, she might just …
Oh no. There was one empty chair. It was at the back, next to the one kid nobody wanted to sit with. Darius Bagley.
He hadn’t seen her yet because his attention was totally taken up with what was up his left nostril. It looked like he was trying to get his entire finger in.
He worked away squeakily for a minute or two, not noticing Nat, who was desperately looking for another chair to sit on. ANY chair. Get the right friend now and she’d be set for her whole school career. Must – find – the – right – friend. Faces of the children swam before her, strangers but already familiar; the pretty one, the clever one, the sporty one, the silly one, the rude one, any would do, but none of them sat next to an empty chair. Suddenly there was a horrible squelching sound and Darius triumphantly produced a crusty, glistening pen top.
There was no other seat. She sighed and took her place next to him. He put the top back on his pen and stared at her. She stared back.
Darius thought for a minute. When Darius Bagley thought, which was not often, he usually chewed his pen top.
He chewed his bogey-ed pen top. And pulled a face.
Nathalia started to giggle.
This surprised her because Dad never made her laugh and he was officially hilarious, according to Dad.
Darius spat out the pen top at the back of Margaret Mortimer’s head, where it stuck.
Nathalia laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair.
But later on in maths Darius Bagley did something very strange. It wasn’t his handstands – they were just funny. It wasn’t the size of the snot bubbles he could create and pop at the drop of a hat – they were just gross. Nathalia didn’t even find Darius’s farmyard-animal impressions strange. She very quickly realised he was the kind of kid who could be relied upon to snort and cluck and moo at the right moment. For example, whenever the teacher wasn’t looking.
No; what was really, properly strange about Darius was this.
It was towards the end of the lesson and Mr Frantz, the harassed elderly maths teacher, had just dragged the quacking, handstanding, bogey-popping Darius from out of the book cupboard for the second time.
“You are a disgrace to this school, to your parents and to the noble and ancient art of mathematics,” said Mr Frantz, who was German and tended to wave his arms around a lot. Right now he was keeping them busy by waving them around even more than usual, because if left to their own devices his hands would have found themselves round Darius’s throat, enjoying a gentle throttle. Mr Frantz snatched up Darius’s work from his desk, wiped various unidentified unpleasantnesses off it, and read.
“You have not done the sitting still more than five minutes. You have done NO work. When I look at this all I see is …”
There was a pause. The class waited, knowing what was coming next.
“All I see is …”
OK, now you’re milking it, thought Nathalia. Tell him off and get it over with.
“Every single sum is … is correct.”
He read everything again. “Correct?” Mr Frantz looked up and glared at Nathalia, who was still stuck on question six.
“Miss Hunny tells me you are a very clever girl.”
Nathalia’s heart sank as all the other children, who had lost interest in Darius now he wasn’t going to be roasted alive, turned and stared at her instead. Thanks AGAIN, Dad, she thought. Another winner.
“You must not help this chimp of a boy. It will do him no good and the only job he will be getting is in the circus or presenting television programmes.”
Darius wasn’t listening though. He was trying to unscrew the desk lid with a tiny knife. Mr Frantz snatched the knife off him.
“Detention this break,” he said to Darius.
“Already got one.”
“Well, sit twice as still.”
Mr Frantz marched back to his own desk where he pretended to read a maths textbook. He was actually working out if he could afford to retire yet. The answer didn’t please him. Nathalia looked at Darius’s paper in awe.
“How …?” she began. He had literally spent two non-chimp minutes all lesson.
“Dunno,” he said, rolling something green into a ball. Nathalia told herself it could be Plasticine. “It’s just obvious.”
The last lesson of the day was English, and the teacher was the dreaded Miss Hunny. Nat used to quite like English. It was the one lesson where staring out of the window blankly, enjoying a nice daydream, was encouraged. And it was easy too. She once wrote a story about Stingy Eric, a wasp the size of a bus. You didn’t need to know how clouds were formed to know that clouds full of boiling radioactive acid would melt Stingy Eric into a big yellow and black waspy blob.
But now English was ruined, thanks to stupid Dad and Miss flipping Hunny. Her dad – and her teacher – WERE FRIENDS. And all the class knew it. It was only one step away from being related to a teacher, which was social death. And here she was, all sickly sweet at the front of the class, trilling over some poetry about daffodils. She imagined Stingy Eric zooming in, bum end first, right for Miss—
Nat became dimly aware that Miss Hunny was talking to her. Yet again she had no idea what to say. She went with:
“Yes.”
‘Yes’ was usually safe because everyone likes to be agreed with.
“Well go on then,” said Miss Hunny pleasantly, then after a quiet moment or two, “I have it on very good authority that Nathalia is an excellent reader. Borderline genius, I’ve been told.”
More glares from classmates that were in danger of becoming classfoes. Thanks again, Dad, thought Nat, mentally sending stingy Eric on another mission.
“You know where we are, don’t you?”
She didn’t. Darius casually jabbed a dirty finger on the poetry book they were sharing. She wondered if she trusted him. She wasn’t a natural truster. It came from listening to her nan, known to all the family as Bad News Nan. She’d learned not to trust:
Strangers, postmen, Sky News, t
he French, women in make-up, the water abroad, banks, the government, men with beards, men in hats, men with glasses, men in general. Pot noodles, weather girls, Prince Charles, helicopters, the internet, Greeks Bearing Gifts, footballers, vegetarians, soap stars, Radio One, gangsta rappers and boys who work on the fairground rides.
It was a tricky decision; Nan had never met Darius Bagley but she’d probably have put him on the DO NOT TRUST list right next to Snoop Doggy Dogg.
However, Nathalia didn’t seem to have a lot of choice, so she started reading from the mark Darius’s sticky finger had left behind.
It wasn’t just the wrong line, it was the wrong poem. She was wondering what a burning tiger was doing in all the daffodils, but then again Stingy Eric once went to Tesco. Miss Hunny frowned, the class laughed and Nat knew she’d been tricked. She felt a sense of relief along with shame. There had been enough new things for her to get to grips with that day; maybe trusting Darius Bagley would have been one too many. She stamped on his foot and poked him in the eye.
“I’m very disappointed in you,” said Miss Hunny gently. She’d kept Nathalia back for ‘a quiet word’ after class at the end of the day. Nathalia was surprised it actually was quiet. The last time Mum told Dad she wanted a ‘quiet word’, people three doors down complained about the noise.
An acrid petrol smell alerted Nat that the Atomic Dustbin was in the general area. Nat fidgeted, not listening, eager to escape. She should have been paying more attention, but all she heard were Miss Hunny’s final words: “ … but your father says you’re very well behaved at home. I suppose I’ll see for myself on Friday.”
Nathalia was halfway down the corridor before she realised with horror what Miss Hunny must have meant. Thanks to Dad, HER TEACHER WAS COMING TO HER HOUSE.
AT WANTED TO TALK TO HER MUM ABOUT MISS HUNNY coming for tea. Mum would understand it was IMPOSSIBLE to have her teacher round. She just needed to get Mum on her own. She knew that parents always agreed with each other IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN, so the way to get what you wanted was to ask each of them separately, and keep going from one to the other until you got the right answer. Sadly, Nat never got the chance to get Mum on her own. Mum came home early and to celebrate Nat’s first day whisked them all off for a Chinese and a trip to the cinema, ON A SCHOOL NIGHT, GET IN.
Nat loved it when Mum was home because they always did fun things. Mum had a knack of getting whatever she wanted, which was the opposite of Dad, who just got what he got given. And was happy about it. Nat saw that as more proof of how rubbish Dad was.
Also, when Mum said they were going out for a Chinese and to see the new James Bond, they were guaranteed a sweet and sour chicken/action film combo evening. When Nathalia went out with Dad, she never knew what was going to happen. They might end up on a bouncy castle, they might end up in Belgium. It drove her bananas.
Nat was in bed and dropping off to sleep, Mum’s perfume still lingering from her goodnight kiss, before she realised she hadn’t had the chance to talk about her wretched teacher. Oh well, she thought, I’ve got all week. She dreamt Darius Bagley and Dolores Hunny were chasing her around the playground with a pair of killer chopsticks.
She was half-woken by Mum saying goodbye early the next morning, pale spring sunlight filtering weakly through the curtains.
“Go back to sleep,” whispered Mum, kissing her hair.
“Can you write me a note to get me off hockey,” said Nat, remembering she had games today. At least that’s what she thought she said, but her voice was thick with sleep.
“Yes, I love you too,” said Mum. “See you on Saturday.”
Saturday. Saturday???? Suddenly Nat was wide awake. “What?”
“Sorry, forgot to say, I’m staying up this week. I know it’s your first week at school but it’s my first week at my new job too and I have to make a good first impression. You know what that’s like.”
Yes I do, thought Nat. But it’s too late for me. Go, Mum, save yourself.
Mum looked sad and Nat didn’t want to worry her so she didn’t say anything about her own troubles. Mum kissed her again. “There’s a work thing – it’s too boring to talk about. But we’ll do something nice on the weekend, I promise.”
I doubt it, thought Nat, if Dad brings my teacher here, I’ll be on the run for killing him to death.
They were only ten minutes late that morning as the Atomic Dustbin only broke down once. Fortunately it was at a busy set of traffic lights, so there were plenty of people only too willing to push it down the road to get it started again.
“That was handy, attracting that large crowd,” said Dad, as they wheezed along. “Nat? Nat? Where are you?”
Nat came out from under the table once the shouting and swearing had faded away. Now she could only hear the annoying morning DJs. There were three of them – Kerri, Bonehead and Cabbage. They were busy entertaining themselves by making prank phone calls. They were talking to a young woman who worked in an ‘Everything’s a Pound’ shop.
“How much are your disposable barbecues?” asked Bonehead.
“A pound.” Kerri and Cabbage sniggered on air.
“So If I buy TWO disposable barbecues, but then get to the till and decide to put one back, how much will that be?” said Kerri.
“A pound. Everything’s a pound.”
Cabbage and Bonehead chortled. Now it was Cabbage’s turn.
“How about three disposable barbecues? In case I want to buy two as presents? I’m not sure I have enough money. How much will three disposable barbecues cost?”
“Three pounds,” said the shop girl heavily.
“You’ve been PRANKED!” shouted the DJs, laughing hysterically.
“Oh, right,” said the woman from the ‘Everything’s a Pound’ shop. “Does that mean you don’t want any disposable barbecues? Only there’s a big queue now.”
Dad burst out laughing. “Some people,” he said. “You couldn’t make it up.”
Nat hated Kerri, Bonehead and Cabbage because they were idiots and because they didn’t play enough music, but Dad put them on because they’d all gone to college together. Nat thought Dad was a tiny bit jealous, and probably always thought he could have been a DJ too.
“I’ll ring THEM up one day,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll turn the tables on them. You won’t believe it but we got up to some really embarrassing things when we were at college.”
“I believe it, Dad,” said Nat, panicking. “Please don’t ring them.”
She decided to QUICKLY change the subject. She asked Dad if he could write her a note getting her off hockey. She could get a note for anything off the big softie. Especially after she spent five minutes buttering him up and telling him what a great DJ he was.
Now, that WAS a fib. Nat had seen Dad’s DJ’ing. Nan once won first prize at the bingo and took them all to a holiday camp in Wales. On day two, the man who did the disco ran off with the runner-up of the Miss Prestatyn competition and Dad offered to take over for free. He spent a happy week dancing with glow-sticks and shouting about the funky train. People started recognising him around the pool and pointing. Nat hid in her chalet and Mum booked herself into a B&B down the road. Nat had made him promise NEVER to DJ again. So far so good, but she didn’t trust him one bit …
Saying she wasn’t ‘feeling well enough to do hockey’ WASN’T a fib. She wasn’t sure HOW well she’d have to feel to want to do hockey, but it was definitely weller than this. Plus, if it WAS a crime to fib, this fib was a crime without a victim. She didn’t have to play hockey; the school didn’t have to put up with the world’s worst hockey player. Everyone’s a winner.
As they pulled into the school car park, Nat grabbed the note off Dad and ran up the drive just ahead of Darius Bagley, who was being dropped off on A MOTORBIKE. Nathalia stopped, stunned. Part of her thought it was incredibly stupid and dangerous and probably not allowed, but another, jealous part of her thought it was just amazingly cool. It was less cool when she saw Darius picking fl
ies out of his teeth.
The huge thing in black leathers straddling the noisy black bike might have been a human being but Nat doubted it. For a start, it was another Bagley. All she could see under the helmet were thick black sunglasses and thick black hair. The creature roared off, making Dad in the Atomic Dustbin swerve violently to avoid a crash.
“Hello, Bumhole,” said Darius, blowing a traumatised bug from his left nostril, “that’s my brother, Oswald.”
Nat froze. Fortunately, no one had heard Darius say her infamous name. She had to act fast. She grabbed him by his scruffy blazer.
“Don’t EVER call me Bumhole,” she said. “No one knows.” Amazingly, when Miss Hunny had read out her name the day before, she’d said it properly – Bew-mole-ay. No one had seen her last name written down yet either, so only Darius had worked out what it actually looked like.
“What’s it worth?” he said.
“Not being pinched every day until Year Thirteen,” she replied dangerously.
“Might be worth it,” he said, laughing as she chased him into school.
Nat thought she’d better sit next to Darius in class, to make sure he didn’t spill the beans about her name, at least not until she’d made some friends. This wasn’t difficult, as no one else wanted to sit with him.
The class had been set maths homework over the Easter break. Mr Frantz handed it back to them that morning. Nat noticed Darius had got minus five per cent.
“You got nought per cent for not doing it, and minus five per cent for spelling your name wrong,” explained Mister Frantz. He was in a bad mood because he knew he had Darius first thing and he didn’t have a dad to write him a sick note.
“You can do all these in two minutes,” said Nat, puzzled and a little irritated. Darius rolled the final spitty bug into a little ball and flicked it at Mr Frantz’s back.
“Course I can. So I don’t have to,” he said logically.
Nat worked away at her desk for a while, trying to make x equal something less than six million when she knew there wasn’t a right-angled triangle that big anywhere in the known universe, when Darius poked her in the ribs.