Neil rubbed his head. “I can’t, Miss.”
“Why is that?”
“Lost them, Miss.”
“Your books?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Do you often lose things, Neil?”
“Don’t know, Miss.”
There was more laughter.
Mrs. Pierce walked to the back of the room and pulled a bag out of the corner. “They wouldn’t be in your bag, would they?”
“No, Miss. That’s not my bag.” Neil turned to Lee and grinned.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Well, in that case, I shall keep this bag and its contents until the owner claims it. In the meantime, I will expect you to replace the books and equipment you need by the end of the week.” She threw Neil’s bag into the art cupboard, slammed the door, turned the key, and pocketed it.
Neil said: “Hey!”
“Yes?”
Neil scowled and turned to the front again. He shoved the desk. “I don’t want to sit in this crappy seat!”
“Cheer up, Neil,” Mrs. Pierce said. “This way you can see the blackboard more easily.”
I laughed out loud. I put my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Neil turned round and his eyes flashed. But for some reason, instead of looking away I looked right back.
“Well, now that’s sorted out,” Mrs. Pierce said, “let’s get on with our lessons. We’re going to be reading poetry today.”
“That’s right, Gemma,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Nothing wakes you up like a good poem. That’s because poets never say exactly what they mean—or not the best ones. Instead they find other ways of saying it. They paint a picture or they talk about it as if it were something else. We use pictures in everyday speech too—for instance, we say ‘the leg of a table,’ ‘a sunny disposition,’ ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ ‘an icy stare,’ ‘boiling hot.’”
She wrote the phrases up on the blackboard. “See if you can spot how many pictures this poem uses to describe the sun: It’s by Robert Louis Stevenson and it’s called ‘Winter-Time’:
“So,” said Mrs. Pierce when she had finished reading, “did anyone spot the pictures?”
“Yes,” said Anna. “The sun in bed.”
“Good. And how does that help us understand what the poet is trying to say?”
“Because the sun gets up later in the winter,” said Anna.
“Good,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Yes. There’s less daylight. Anything else?”
“The sun is a blood orange,” said Matthew.
“Great,” said Mrs. Pierce. “And why is that applicable?”
“Because of the color.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Have you noticed how much redder the sun can be in the winter? There are brighter sunsets too. Anything else?”
“The wind like pepper,” said Rhian.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Now, that’s strange. Why do you think the poet wrote that?”
“Because it hurts your nose in the cold?” Rhian said.
“Yes. Excellent,” said Mrs. Pierce. “I can see this class is full of budding poets! The wind also tickles sometimes too, have you noticed that? And I suppose the poet could even be referring to hail. Now do you see how the pictures make the poem richer, more interesting?”
“There’s the picture of his breath like frost,” said Stephen.
“Yes, the patterns his breath makes in the air are like the patterns the frost leaves.” Mrs. Pierce smiled. “There’s one more picture the poet uses to help us see more clearly.”
“The land frosted like a wedding cake,” said Luke.
“Excellent,” said Mrs. Pierce. “And how does that help us see more clearly what the poet is saying?”
“Because the snow is like icing sugar,” said Luke.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Or it could be frost. Sometimes frost is very heavy and as thick as snow.” She turned to the blackboard and wrote up each phrase. “Now”—she turned back to us—“does anyone know what those pictures the poet uses are called?”
She waited, then picked up a piece of chalk and turned back to the words on the board.
“Metaphor,” said Gemma. She looked at me and smiled.
“Well done!” said Mrs. Pierce. “Yes. Metaphor is when we talk about something as if it was something else. Can anyone give me another example of a metaphor?”
“A leap of faith,” I said. I looked at Gemma.
“Excellent!” said Mrs. Pierce. “Though that might be a little bit difficult to explain: Faith is believing in something. To say faith is like a leap is to say it’s like stepping into thin air, to leap from one place to another without getting hurt. Is that how you would describe it, Judith?”
I nodded.
“OK,” she said. “But in fact, going back to our poem, only four of the five ‘pictures’ Robert Louis Stevenson uses are metaphors; the last picture, the one where the poet compares the wintry landscape to an iced cake, is in fact a ‘simile.’” She wrote the word “simile” on the blackboard. “Can anyone see the difference between the metaphors and the simile?” said Mrs. Pierce.
I stared at the poem. I didn’t see what Mrs. Pierce was getting at. And then suddenly I did. I put up my hand.
“Yes, Judith.”
“The land is
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Can you explain that to us, Judith?”
“The sun is in bed; it
I felt Gemma’s eyes on me.
Mrs. Pierce’s cheeks were quite pink. “Did everyone get that?” she said. “A simile says something is ‘like’ something else. But a metaphor says something really ‘is’ the thing you are comparing it to. So, we have similes and metaphors, both pictures, both interesting ways of saying things. But”—and now her voice became quieter —“one is stronger than the other; one is much more powerful. Which one do you think it is?” She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect you to know this.”
Was one more powerful? I wondered. The similes and the metaphors seemed to be the same. But I looked again and there was something about the line that said the sun was a blood orange that was missing from the line that said it was like a wedding cake. And then I knew why: It didn’t sound as good.
Mrs. Pierce beamed when she saw my hand. She said: “Yes, Judith.”
“The metaphor is stronger,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
I flushed. Now I looked stupid, as if I had guessed. I hadn’t; I just couldn’t explain why I knew for certain.
