Just Stupid! (5 page)

   ‘Quick—get into position,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about the handshake. And don’t forget to take your shoes off.’

   I lean back on my chair. The new teacher is holding an old-fashioned projector and a small yellow slide box.

   ‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘My name is Ms Livingstone. Sorry I’m a little late. I had a bit of trouble finding the room. I flew in very late last night and I didn’t get much sleep. I was supposed to arrive a few weeks ago, but the yacht I was sailing was destroyed by a tsunami in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I was marooned on a tiny island for many days before the rescue helicopters saw my smoke signals. I was beginning to give up hope that they would find me before the school term started. But, as you can see, here I am, safe and sound—just a little tired.’

   Excited murmuring breaks out all around the room.

   I think they actually believe her!

   I look at Danny and roll my eyes.

   ‘As if!’ I say.

   She probably just slept in. Just like I’ll be doing tomorrow morning. In a minute she’ll see the blackboard . . . then she’ll ask who Andy is . . . then she’ll see me and Danny and before we know it we’ll be on a one-way trip to the principal’s office. This is too easy.

   She still hasn’t noticed me—too busy fussing around with the stuff on her desk. She hasn’t seen the blackboard. I have to get her to turn around.

   ‘Would you like me to clean the blackboard for you?’ I say.

   ‘Yes, thank you,’ she says without looking at it—or me.

   ‘Okay,’ I say, stomping up the aisle as loudly as I can and swinging my arms in the stupidest and most attention-getting walk I can manage.

   As I’m walking, I accidentally knock Lisa Mackney’s folder off her table. It goes flying, hits the floor and the pages spill out everywhere. Lisa stares at me. I wish this had happened to anybody’s folder but Lisa’s.

   ‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ I whisper.

   I get down on my knees and start gathering up the paper. I push it all into the folder as neatly as I can.

   ‘That’s really nice of you to help pick all
that up,’ says Ms Livingstone. ‘You must be quite a gentleman.’

   ‘But it was me who knocked it off in the first place,’ I say.

   ‘We all make mistakes,’ she says.

   ‘But I did it on purpose,’ I say.

   She laughs.

   ‘I can’t believe that somebody as helpful as you would do a thing like that,’ she says. ‘And even if you did, I’m sure you had a very good reason for it.’

   ‘No I didn’t,’ I say. ‘I did it because I’m bad and evil and I deserve to be sent straight to the principal’s office.’

   Ms Livingstone laughs again. She thinks I’m joking.

   ‘Look at the board if you don’t believe me,’ I say.

   Ms Livingstone looks at the board.

   ‘That’s very amusing,’ she says. ‘Who is it supposed to be?’

   ‘It’s you!’ I say.

   ‘Me?’ she says. ‘It doesn’t look anything like me.’

   She picks up a piece of chalk and, with just a few quick lines and squiggles, draws a perfect caricature of herself.

   ‘That’s me,’ she says.

   The whole class is laughing. Even me.

   Then she draws another figure with a really crazy face. Boy, is it ugly and stupid-looking. It’s much better than the one I drew.

   ‘And that’s you,’ she says.

   The class laughs even harder. I stop laughing.

   ‘So you’re not angry?’ I say.

   ‘Angry?’ she says. ‘Of course not. I’m flattered that you’ve gone to so much trouble to welcome me.’

   ‘Well,’ I say, ‘aren’t you at least going to tell me off for wearing my cap inside?’

   ‘No,’ she says, I find the fluorescent light very harsh myself. I don’t blame you.’

   I’m thrusting out my chest.

   ‘What about my T-shirt?’ I ask.

   ‘What about it?’ she says.

   ‘It’s got an offensive slogan on it,’ I say.

   Ms Livingstone laughs.

   ‘Who would be offended by that?’ she says.

   ‘Anybody who reads it, I guess,’ I say.

   ‘Well, not necessarily,’ she says. ‘Whether something is offensive is very much in the eye of the beholder. For example, in our

culture burping is considered offensive—but in some cultures not to burp after a meal is a dire insult to the host. Once, when I was travelling in Saudi Arabia I was invited to dine with Sheik Achmed Ben Bala. It was a magnificent feast but afterwards I was almost put to death because I was unable to show my appreciation by burping.’

   The class gasps.

   ‘It wasn’t until he had the scimitar at my throat,’ she continues, ‘that I was able to reach deep within myself and produce the burp that saved my life. After three months in Saudi Arabia I became quite an expert.’

   She gulps some air and lets forth with the most earsplitting burp I’ve ever heard. It’s even louder than one of Danny’s.

   The whole class applauds. But not me. I can fake-burp any time I feel like it. It’s no big deal.

   I stomp back to my desk.

   There must be some way to annoy her. I know—I’ll ask some stupid questions.

   ‘Excuse me, Ms Livingstone,’ I say without putting my hand up.

   ‘Yes?’

   ‘Have you ever been to Germany?’

   ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I have.’