an the sats an orl wil be wel wel wel. In conclooshun woopwoopwoopiness is pringersticks wif strattikipiness coz the ansa iz hidin in the cludderish claminosity wer the clowdiwinkling quakilstrator iz. Luk no wer wer the blippistrakor ov munomintelish plirders iz. Ther. Is dun. Hoy it! Hoy it! Hoy it! Til the coos cum bak acros the flisterin feeld unda the mistrictacular moooooon. Flap! An ther rite now its endid. Pop!
RESULT:
Mrs. Scullery:
Not Pleased. The “Mina Bloody McKee
Bloody Disgrace” Scene.
(see above)
HEAD TEACHER:
Not Pleased. The “Who Do You
Think You Are Madam I Am Calling
Your Mother” Scene.
(see below)
Grade Achieved
Level 0 Well Well Well Below Average.
Mum
Very Sad, Very Kind,
Then Very Determined.
Mina
Created new words
(Glibbertysnark! Oliotoshin!
Claminosity! Blippistrakor!)
Therefore: Very Pleased.
TAKEN OUT OF SCHOOL!
Therefore: VERY VERY
VERY PLEASED.
I thought I had done very well in such a short time. They didn’t even read it right through. Mrs. Scullery held it up like it was a poisonous thing. She did the “bloody” scene. She got to the bit where she said I was an utter bloody disgrace. Then she leaned right down so that her face was nearly right in mine. For a moment I wanted to stroke it. I wanted to give her a cuddle, I really did. She looked O so stressed out. I wanted to say, “O, Mrs. Scullery. Never mind. It’s just some writing, that’s all. It’s not going to harm you. And look, some of it’s lovely. Don’t get yourself worked up, love. Calm down. I’m sure Samantha has done some lovely level 5ish work.”
But I couldn’t get any words out. I just stared back into her eyes.
“You,” she whispered hard into my face. “You, madam.”
“Me?” I whispered back.
“Are as hard as iron.”
And she led me to THE HEAD TEACHER and gave the writing to him. He looked at it like it was another ghost come back to haunt him. He held it up and twisted his face like it was a very very dangerous stinking poisonous thing.
“What,” he said, “is this?”
“Writing,” I said.
“Writing what?”
“Writing, sir.”
“And what kind of writing do you think it is?”
He glared. He fumed. He gritted his teeth. Did he really want to know?
“It’s nonsense, sir,” I said.
“EXACTLY, MADAM. IT. IS. NONSENSE! IT. IS. A PAGE. OF ABSOLUTE. AND TOTAL. UTTER. IDIOTIC. NONSENSE!”
I could see he wanted to swear, just like Mrs. Scullery had. I wanted to tell him it was OK to tell me I was an utter bloody disgrace, if he wanted to[9]. I wanted to tell him he could use even worse words if it would help him feel better. I wouldn’t mind at all. But I thought it was probably best not to say that.
“I know that, sir,” I simply said.
“Oh, you know that, do you? So who do you think you are? And what right do you have to … ”
“I don’t know, sir. Sometimes I wonder, Who am I? What am I doing … ”
Mrs. Scullery groaned. She gripped the edge of THE HEAD TEACHER’s desk.
“Are you taking the mick, young lady?” said THE HEAD TEACHER.
“No, sir.”
Mrs. Scullery groaned again.
“Doreen!” yelled THE HEAD TEACHER.
Doreen came in from the room next door.
Doreen was THE HEAD TEACHER’s secretary.
“Yes, Headmaster?” said Doreen.
“I need this young lady’s telephone number, please, Doreen.”
I started to say that I knew it but he stopped me with a glare.
Doreen went out and came back again with the number.
“Thank you, Doreen,” said THE HEAD TEACHER. “That will be all for now.”
He lifted the telephone. He dialed the number. He spoke to Mrs. McKee about her daughter. He said he would like to see her, now, if at all possible.
“No,” he said. “She has not had an accident, Mrs. McKee, but I should like to see you in person if I may.”
He put the phone down.
“She is on her way,” he said.
“She won’t be long,” I started. “We just live—”
“We KNOW where you live!” said THE HEAD TEACHER. “We need no further contributions from you, thank you very much! Mrs. Scullery, would you like a glass of water? You look a little … ”
“Oh yes, please, Headmaster. Thank you, Headmaster,” said Mrs. Scullery.
“And do take a seat, Mrs. Scullery. Doreen! A glass of water for Mrs. Scullery, please.”
Doreen brought the water in. They sat. I stood. We waited in silence. I stared at a painting on the wall. It showed a delicious-looking bowl of fruit. I imagined that on bad days (like today, perhaps) THE HEAD TEACHER gazed at this fruit and dreamed of what he could have been instead of A HEAD TEACHER. A banana, for instance. Or a plum. Or a bunch of grapes. I tried to imagine THE HEAD TEACHER as a bunch of grapes. He might be much happier that way.
Minutes passed. Mrs. McKee arrived and was brought into the room by Doreen.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. McKee,” said THE HEAD TEACHER.
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. McKee. She looked at her daughter. “But what on earth … ”
“Madam,” said THE HEAD TEACHER. “We have called you in on a matter of great importance.” He held up the page of writing. “May I ask you to read … this?”
The lovely Mrs. McKee took it from his hand. She read it through. She breathed out the sounds of the nicest words. She sighed. She smiled. She shook her head. She held the page like it was something rather precious.
“This,” said THE HEAD TEACHER, “is possibly the most important piece of writing that this young lady will be asked to do all year. It may well be the most important piece of writing that she will do during her time as a student at this school. And she presents us with this!”
Mrs. McKee sighed.
“Oh, Mina,” she said. “What are we going to do with you?”
