Class Act

by Debbie Thomas

  He might as well have hole-punched Brian’s chest. The failure I already am.

  ‘Believe me,’ said Quincy, ‘others will smell your failure like a bee smells pollen. And they’ll run a mile, as if it might rub off on them. So you’ll have to invent your successes, your own glittering past.’ His face went strangely still as if the tiny muscles that worked so hard to disguise and confuse had given up.

  Invent your successes? A shock ran through Brian. Those trophies upstairs – they were all phony. Quincy Queaze had rewritten his life.

  ‘But no matter how you try,’ sighed Quincy, ‘you’ll never undo the damage of her words. Only she can do that.’

  Florrie squawked from her chair. ‘You’re brilliant. A genius. There, I’ve said it. Now let me go.’

  Quincy’s laugh was drier than a boiled-out kettle. ‘If only I believed you. But, oh dear, what a shame, I don’t.’ He wagged a playful finger at her. ‘We’ll have no lying in my class. Or cheating. I’m going to win fair and square. So you’ll see I’m the smartest, most popular and fastest person ever. And you’ll be so impressed – so really and truly and deeply impressed – that you’ll go back to Tullybun and call a school meeting. And in front of the teachers, the parents, the governors, you’ll give me the job that I’ve longed for all these years.’ He whacked her on the shoulder in a chummy kind of way. ‘YOURS!’

  It’s not often that someone’s jaw actually drops. But Brian could feel his chin sag and his mouth fall open like a peg bag. Does he seriously think that’ll work? The minute they get to Tullybun she’ll have him arrested!

  ‘And if you think you’ll have me arrested –’ Quincy wiped his forehead dramatically, ‘well phew for my little Plan B. Now, on with the show.’ He marched over and sat at the desk next to Alec’s. ‘I want you to watch closely, Brian. If I don’t win fairly, it doesn’t count. Ready, Alec?’

  Yawning, Alec handed him a sheet of paper.

  ‘Five questions,’ Quincy snapped at Florrie. ‘And make ’em hard. I’ve been well trained.’

  She gawped at him. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Dear me.’ Quincy rummaged in his pencil case. ‘Such boldness. Some people just don’t learn.’ He brought out a pair of scissors and rose from his chair.

  ‘No!’ squealed Florrie as he came towards her, snipping the air.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ cried Brian, ‘do what he says! Five questions.’

  A tear rolled down her face. Tipp-Ex spread from her nose to her cheeks. ‘What’s the square root of one hundred and sixty-nine?’ she gasped.

  ‘That’s better.’ Quincy returned to his chair.

  Alec scribbled lazily. Quincy wrote carefully.

  ‘What’s the capital of Greenland?’

  Alec wrote. Quincy chewed his pen.

  ‘One-fifth plus two–’

  ‘Wait!’ Quincy scribbled madly.

  ‘One-fifth plus two-eighths.’

  Alec wrote. Quincy wrote and wrote.

  ‘When was the battle of–’

  ‘Hang on!’ Quincy crossed out and wrote again.

  ‘Clontarf?’

  Alec wrote. Quincy scratched his cheek. Alec sat back. Quincy threw his pen at Alec’s foot. Alec bent down to pick it up. Quincy leaned over to Alec’s desk.

  ‘Cheat!’ Dulcie shrieked.

  Quincy spun round. ‘What?

  Brian coughed. ‘You, um, just looked at Alec’s answer.’

  Quincy’s eyes glittered dangerously.

  ‘Sorry,’ Brian mumbled. ‘It’s just that you said no cheating.’

  Quincy took the pen from Alec and wrote his answer. ‘Collect the papers,’ he said coldly.

  As Brian took the sheets to the front desk, Dulcie hissed, ‘He’s madder than a swarm of hornets.’

  Brian put the answers side-by-side on Florrie’s desk.

  ‘Get me out of here!’ she hissed.

  What he didn’t say:

  ‘Sure, Mrs F, no worries. I’ll just push you, handcuffed in your chair, past that nut job armed with lethal stationery, through the door and up the stairs to freedom and a face wash.’

  What he did say:

  ‘Make him win. It’s your only hope.’

  Florrie looked at the sheets in front of her. ‘Quincy, five out of five,’ she said quickly. ‘Alec, nought out of five.’

  Quincy tutted. ‘Oh dear. I do believe you’re lying again. Because I happen to know – though don’t ask me how –’ he looked sharply at Brian, ‘that one of our answers is the same. So Alec must have at least one point, or I must have four points at most.’

  Brian gaped at him. He’d insisted on playing fair, then cheated and refused to admit it, then won and refused to accept it! He was changing the rules by the second. How could you reason with someone who had no reason?

  ‘We’ll move on,’ said Quincy briskly. ‘Tracy?’

  She lifted her head from her desk and moaned, ‘Honey.’

  ‘On its way, I promise. Now, Brian, show these invitations to Teach so she can read them all out. Let’s see who’s the most popular round here.’

  Brian hurried over and took the cards from Tracy’s desk. Returning to Florrie, he held up the first card. She gave a manic giggle.

  ‘Read it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Dear Quincy,’ she said, ‘please come to dinner on Thursday. Love Dave.’ Quincy smiled from his desk. ‘Hey Quincy, hope you can make our barbecue on the twelfth, Rory and Ruth.’

  ‘The twelfth?’ Quincy frowned. ‘I think I’m at a party that night.’

  ‘Dear Mr Queaze, we would be honoured to have your company at our son Humpty’s wedding, from Lord and Lady McDumpty.’ Florrie snorted. ‘Hey Uncle Quince, please come and stay in July, love Biffy, Ribena and … oh for goodness’ sake!’ she spluttered. ‘I know Tracy’s handwriting. These are all made up!’

  Just like on the map upstairs, thought Brian. Imaginary friends.

  ‘Are not!’ Invention must have become second nature to Quincy, judging by the genuine shock on his face. ‘They’re my friends.’

  ‘You? Friends?’ Florrie laughed hysterically. ‘You’ve never had friends and you never will. You said it yourself – people sniff you and run a mile. Why? Because failure’s a disease without a cure. If you’re born with it, you die with it.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Quincy quietly.

  But the dam had burst. ‘All you can do is infect others,’ she yelled, ‘including me! Because a failed pupil is the teacher’s failure too. Or that’s what everyone thinks: the parents, the governors, the school inspect–’

  ‘I said shut UP.’ Quincy snatched the scissors and pencil case from the desk.

  ‘Do what you like!’ she yelled, her moustache wriggling furiously. ‘Snip me or stab me, what difference does it make? You’ll still be a failure.’

  Quincy rose from his chair.

  ‘Cut off my nose,’ she sang as he marched towards her, gripping the pencil case and scissors. ‘Slice my ears. Whatever you do, you’ll never have friends.’

  Oh no. Dropping the invitations on the floor, Brian lunged forward and tried to snatch the scissors. Quincy dodged neatly round the front desk.

  Oh no no no. Brian covered his eyes.

  But instead of screams there was a stuttering, ripping sound. Brian dropped his hands.

  It would have been funny if it wasn’t so unfunny. Quincy had fished out a roll of Sellotape from the pencil case and was wrapping it round Florrie’s head. ‘SHUT UP!’ he roared, dancing round her chair, sealing her mouth again and again. ‘SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!’

  She did.

  When he’d circled her head eight times, he pulled the ring of tape away from her face. She gave a muffled scream as he brandished the scissors. But there was no jab of eyes or stab in the neck, just a clean snip of the tape. Quincy clearly hadn’t finished with her yet.

  Letting out a slow breath, Brian sank down at the desk next to Alec’s.

  ‘There,’ said Quincy pleasantly,
patting Florrie’s wraparound mouth. ‘No more talking in class.’ He put the tape and pencil case on the front desk and smiled at her, calm as cream.

  If someone had said four hours ago that Mrs Florris was going to be Tipp-Exed out, coloured in, whacked by a ruler and wrapped in tape, Brian would have bought popcorn and a front row ticket. But now, as he stared at the polka-dotted, moustachioed, Sellotaped, snivelling prisoner, something dark and treacly rose up his throat and sat in his mouth that tasted astonishingly like pity.

  Quincy grabbed a fistful of her hair. ‘And you’re wrong, dear Teach. I do have friends.’ He snipped off a white clump and sprinkled it over the floor. ‘These lovely children for starters.’ He waved the scissors at Alec, Tracy and Pete. ‘They could have left any time but they chose to stay.’ He snipped and sprinkled another white curl. ‘If that’s not friendship, what is?’ Snip. ‘And Brian here’s my besto.’ Sprinkle. ‘Aren’t you, Brian?’ Snip and sprinkle.

  Brian nodded, clearing his throat to mask the snort from Dulcie. As long as Quincy believed that, there was a chance of persuading him to let them all go. Or forcing him. If I could get hold of those scissors, maybe I could threaten him. At last Quincy laid them on the front desk, though not before prodding the tip of the teacher’s nose.

  ‘Now for our last little game.’ Quincy clapped his hands. ‘Ready, Pete?’

  Pete dragged himself up from the floor. He stood on the outside of the double line he’d drawn round the room.

  Quincy stood level on the inside line. ‘On your marks,’ he cried. ‘Get set–’ He took off round the track. Then he called back over his shoulder, ‘Go!’ He waved at Brian. ‘Ten laps. Start counting.’

  ‘One,’ called Brian, as Quincy legged it round the shorter circuit while Pete ambled slowly and inaccurately along the outer line.

  ‘Two to Quincy.’

  Pete stopped to rub his eyes.

  ‘Three to Quincy.’ Brian rose slowly from his desk. ‘One to Pete.’

  Pete yawned.

  Brian pushed his chair backwards. ‘Five to Quincy.’ He took what he hoped was a casual step towards the front desk. ‘Two to Pete.’ And another. ‘Eight to Quincy.’ A few more. ‘Four to Pete.’ He reached out what he hoped was a relaxed arm. ‘Ten to Quincy.’ His fingers closed round the scissors.

  ‘Thank you thank you,’ panted Quincy, throwing his arms out and continuing to run like an Olympic hero before an adoring crowd. ‘And thank you.’ Trotting past Brian, he snatched the scissors from his hand, then the pencil case and cactus from the front desk. ‘You won’t be needing those.’ He lifted the desk lid, threw all the potential weapons inside and slammed it down. Then, with a twist and a hop, he popped his bottom on top of all hope.

  CHAPTER 22

  NUMS FOR CHUMS

  ‘Oh, Brian.’ Quincy leaned forward on the desk. ‘Why did you want those pointy things? I’m not going to hurt you.’ He winked. ‘We’re pals, remember?’

  Brian nodded madly and made loud ‘Mmm’ and ‘Yesss’ noises, partly so he could think up an excuse for trying to grab the scissors, and partly to drown out the snorts of derision he expected from Dulcie. But none came. Thank goodness; she must have run out of puff. And thank badness, too, because now he was on his own. ‘I was just going to cut the tape from Mrs Florris’s mouth so … she can congratulate you for beating Pete. And if you undo the handcuffs, she can clap too.’

  ‘Ooh, wouldn’t that be nice?’ said Quincy sweetly. ‘But she had her chance.’ He twisted round on the desk to face her. ‘And she blew it.’ He cuffed her on the ear.

  The loathing in her eyes suggested that she wasn’t in the mood for congratulating. Brian would have to do it for her. ‘You were brilliant,’ he told Quincy. ‘You beat the unbeatable. Didn’t he, Pete?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Pete had collapsed into a chair. ‘Where’s my honey?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alec’s head rose from its slump on his chest. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I did indeed.’ Quincy jumped off the front desk. ‘And seeing as Teach hasn’t played ball, it’s time for my little Plan B. A trade-off. In return for some of my delicious, nutritious honey, she’ll be only too glad to give me her job.’ He took the keys from his breast pocket. ‘She’s a lucky woman. I tell you, Brian, it’s irresistible.’ He locked the lid of the desk. ‘In fact, you must try some too. I’d hate you to feel left out.’ He skipped to the door, ran out and slammed it behind him. There was the creakety-squeak of a key.

  Brian’s chest went tight. He’d lost his last weapon against Quincy. Trust.

  Or maybe his last-but-one. He ran over to Florrie. ‘Hold still,’ he muttered, running his fingernail along her taped mouth. He found the end of the tape by her ear. ‘If we’re going to get out of here, you’ve got to flatter him, say what he wants and make him believe it. It’ll only work coming from you.’ He ripped off the sticky bandage. Tears glittered on her cheeks. She squeaked and gasped as the tape plucked white hairs from the back of her head and burned a red line across her face.

  ‘Aoww,’ she moaned, wriggling her moustache back to life. ‘You hurt me.’

  ‘Sorree,’ snapped Brian. ‘Just do it right this time, OK?’

  The door opened. Quincy swept in with a tray. On top was a spoon and a glass jar of something mottled yellow and grey. He locked the door. Lifting the tray above his head, he glided across the room like a waiter, ten days and a world away from the clumsy old klutz in the school hall. ‘Num nums for chum chums!’ he sang, putting the tray on the front desk.

  Brian backed towards the door. Alec, Tracy and Pete rose from their chairs and hurried slowly (it is possible: imagine running through ketchup) towards him.

  ‘Oh no.’ Quincy snatched up the jar. ‘Guests first.’

  You had to hand it to him. For a kidnapping, mind-mangling, stationery-wielding nutcase, he had lovely manners. Either that or he was enjoying the children’s agonised faces as he shoved them away. ‘If you don’t wait nicely, you won’t get any at all. Go and sit down.’ They slunk wretchedly back to their desks. He put the jar down on the front desk. Seeing Florrie’s untaped mouth, he frowned. ‘Now, Brian, why did you go and do that? I thought you’d be glad that I gagged the old hag.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brian dug his fingernails into his palms. ‘But like I said, she wants to congratulate you on beating Pete.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the teacher flatly.

  ‘And tell you how clever you are.’

  ‘Clever,’ she agreed.

  ‘And how wrong she was, and how sorry she is for making you feel so useless at school.’

  ‘Wrong,’ she said dully, ‘and sorry.’

  ‘Gee.’ Quincy’s hands clasped his cheeks. ‘What super, super words.’ He sighed. ‘If only she meant them. It’s kind of you to try, Brian, it really is, but you can’t change her.’ He smiled. ‘Now, you just relax and enjoy a nibble of my finest.’ He took the spoon and plunged it into the jar of ghastly honey. ‘I normally serve it on scones,’ he chirped. ‘You don’t need much; it’s powerful stuff. But for you I’ll spare a whole spoonful, so you can savour the enchanting flavour.’

  ‘NO!’ Brian flattened himself against the door. One taste and he’d be done for. ‘I – I’m allergic to honey.’

  ‘Really?’ Quincy stirred the yellow-grey goo. ‘Even better. It’s been such a hit with the children, you see, I’m thinking of selling it. And I was wondering how it would work on people with allergies.’ He pulled the spoon out. ‘You’ll be my test case, Brian. Oh, it’s all working out so well.’

  With his hands behind his back, Brian pressed pointlessly on the locked door handle. His sweating palms slid off the cold metal. ‘What’s in the honey?’ he whispered.

  ‘Aha!’ Quincy patted the pot. ‘The secret ingredient. How do I know you won’t go and blab it?’

  ‘Because,’ Brian swallowed, ‘like you said, I’m your friend. And friends never blab. They can trust each other.’

  ‘They can?’ Quincy
frowned.

  ‘Yes. They keep each other’s secrets … and they never hurt each other.’

  Quincy’s rusty eyebrows rose. He seemed to be listening at last.

  The other children seized their chance. Rising from their chairs, they rushed sluggishly (it can be done: think of running through mustard) towards Quincy.

  Who snatched the jar and jumped on top of the desk. ‘Iron!’

  ‘Iron?’ echoed Brian. ‘What do you mean? I don’t see–’

  ‘Oh but you do. Seeing’s what you’re good at, Brian, like me. Noticing things that other people miss.’ Quincy held the pot high as the children jostled beneath him. ‘I’ve spent years watching bees in gardens, studying their ways. How they talk, not in words but the language of nature – colours and smells and touch. Did you know,’ he did a jig on the desk, ‘that flowers attract bees through magnetic waves? And if bees can be magnetised, why not us too? Through their honey.’

  ‘Honey!’ moaned Tracy grabbing his trouser leg. He kicked her away.

  ‘But why do you want magnetic honey?’ Brian flattened his hands against the door. ‘I mean, what would you use it for?’

  Quincy grinned. ‘To settle a sticky old score.’ He bent over and banged the pot on Florrie’s head. She shortened in the chair like a hammered nail. ‘One day in the garden it all came together in a single, beautiful word.’

  Kidnap? Torture? Brian’s mouth filled with dust. Murder?

  Quincy kissed the honey pot. ‘Fertiliser! Magnetic soil, magnetic flowers. Magnetic nectar, magnetic pollen. Magnetic bees, magnetic honey. I told you I put nothing in the honey. I just magnetised the iron in the fertiliser and let nature do the rest. And the result has simply captivated these dear, gifted children.’ He stamped on their hands as they clutched at his feet. ‘See? They can’t keep away.’

  Magnetic fertiliser. That was why the soil, the flowers, the bees outside looked so … metallic. But Brian still didn’t get it. ‘Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kidnap the prize-winners and force them to teach you their skills?’

  ‘Kidnap?’ Quincy’s eyes widened. ‘What sort of monster do you think I am? I wasn’t out to use them. I wanted to be friends. So I gave them a present … a little encouragement. And then they chose to come, like friends do.’