I hoped Lisa might win one of Mr. Speed's pens but Holly got eighteen spellings completely correct. She was really pleased to win the pen, especially as her little sister, Hannah, had leant too hard on Holly's old pen and made it go all splodgy.
“Maybe you'll win the second pen, Lisa,” I said hopefully.
But Samantha got sixteen spellings absolutely ace-standard correct. She batted her big blue eyes, looking very, very hopeful.
“Now we have the second prizewinner,” said Mr. Speed. Strangely, he wasn't looking at Samantha. He was looking at me!
“This goes to the child who has had the sheer dogged temerity to resist all my persuasive teaching skills and persists in being a truly inventively gargantuan appalling speller.”
I gaped at Mr. Speed. I hadn't understood a word he was saying. But I understood the next bit.
“The second pen is awarded to the child who has the most spelling mistakes. Step forward, William!”
So I got the second prize pen. Some of the children groaned and said it wasn't fair—but most of them clapped. Greg even cheered!
I felt very, very, very pleased.
I didn't feel exactly proud, though. I am a bit thick but I'm not completely stupid. I knew it was just a booby prize. It's not the same getting a prize for being the worst at something. I still wished I could be the best at something so I wouldn't feel quite so useless.
Mr. Speed always makes up a story for us after spelling. He uses every single spelling word within the story. It was one of his When I was a little boy stories. He told us his accommodation was a miniature but pleasant house and his parents paid him every attention even though it was occasionally necessary to discipline him because he was so naughty. He enjoyed eating delicious breakfasts, especially sausages. He ate his substantial sausages with such determined commitment that he invariably made himself physically sick but this was a penalty he bore with relative indifference. His sausage consumption was brilliant training for the daily Enormous Mouthful contest that took place at lunchtime.
Mr. Speed wanted to stop his story then and there because he'd used up all the hard spelling words but we all complained and said, ‘No, Mr. Speed, go on, tell us more,’ because we all wanted to hear about the Enormous Mouthful contest.
“You mean I've never told you about the Enormous Mouthful contest?” said Mr. Speed, looking astonished. “Well, maybe it's just as well. If I tell you about it you'll only start up something similar yourselves.”
“No we won't, Mr. Speed,” we all chorused.
“Oh yes you will!”
“Oh no we won't!”
We went on like this, getting louder, Mr. Speed conducting us with his arms. Then he quickly put his finger to his lips and we all whispered—even me. This is a game we play when Mr. Speed is in a good mood.
Then he told us all about the food they had for school lunches when he was a little boy. You couldn't choose in those long-ago days. You never ever had chips (my favorites). You had disgusting things like smelly stew all glistening with fat and gray ground meat that looked as if someone had chewed it all up. You had cabbage like old seaweed and lumpy mashed potato and tinned peas that smelt like feet.
“But we ate it all up because if you didn't you weren't allowed to have pudding. Puddings were the whole point of school lunches. We had jam roly-poly and bread-and-butter pudding and chocolate sponge with chocolate sauce and apple pie and custard and, absolute best of all, trifle. There were also a lot of boring puddings like rice and semolina and something particularly revolting called tapioca that looked like frog spawn—but even these were palatable because we were given spoonfuls of jam or brown sugar or raisins. Those of us who were particularly greedy wangled two spoonfuls. These were to be savored. However, the milk puddings needed to be golloped down as quickly as possible because they were so horrible. That was the start of the Enormous Mouthful club. Someone got hold of a big serving spoon and we had this ridiculous contest to see who could swallow the largest mouthful.”
“Did you win, Mr. Speed?”
“Do you think I would have been such a rude and ill-mannered and mischievous child as to take part in such an indigestion-inducing eating contest?” said Mr. Speed.
“YES!” we yelled.
Mr. Speed grinned and bowed. ‘You know me well, my children. Yes, I took part. Yes, I choked and spluttered and snorted and got violent hiccups. And yes, I won the Enormous Mouthful contest.’ Mr. Speed paused. ‘But you children are strictly forbidden to take part in any similar contest. Do you all hear me?’
“Yes, Mr. Speed,” we said.
“And to hear—?”
“Is to obey,” we chorused.
We heard, all right. But of course we didn't obey. We had our very own Enormous Mouthful contest at lunchtime. It was not quite as easy for us. We didn't have milk puddings, which are soft and slippy. We have bulky, crunchy, crispy food that won't go with one swallow. We had to experiment and do an awful lot of chewing (and a little choking too).
Chips proved to be the easiest food for the Enormous Mouthful contest. My favorite.
I shoveled up an entire plateful of chips and crammed them all into my mouth and I WON the Enormous Mouthful contest!
I came FIRST.
So I'm not useless. I'm the champion Enormous Mouthful Eater of all time. Whoopee! Whoopee! Whoopee!
Mr. Speed was right. Things have looked up enormously.
SAMANTHA'S WORRY
Type in your worry:
I miss my dad. It's just not the same now he's gone. And my mum is either sad or snappy nowadays. And my little brother is ever so naughty and keeps spoiling all my things. And no one wants to be my boyfriend. And I don't think my teacher likes me anymore either. He always used to pick me to be his special messenger but now he picks Holly. Or Greg. Or Claire. Or even William.
It's so awful. I've always been the girl everyone likes. Everyone always wants to sit next to me or be my partner. Everyone wants to be invited for tea at my house or come to my party.
But now it's all changed.
Dad went last year. He and Mum had lots of rows but everyone's parents have rows. I didn't like it but it didn't really bother me. My little brother, Simon, used to crawl into my bed and sit on my lap and he made me cup my hands over his funny little sticky-out ears so he couldn't hear the shouting.
I didn't have anyone to put their hands over my ears but I didn't mind too much. I wanted to know what was going on. I was always on Dad's side no matter what. I love my mum but she's not Dad. Dad looks like a film star, he really does, with lovely blond hair and deep blue eyes and he's really fit too because he works out and plays a lot of sport. That was what Mum and Dad rowed about. Dad always flirted with all the ladies he met at badminton and tennis and swimming. My mum used to go too but then she had me and couldn't get out so much and then she had Simon and stayed a bit plump so she didn't want to wear tight sporty clothes anyway.
Dad took me sometimes. He got me my own special little tennis racket and threw the ball at me again and again. We went swimming on Sunday mornings and he showed me how to dive and swim right down to the bottom of the deep end and he called me his little dolphin.
But then he met this horrible woman, Sandy, at his gym and Mum found out. Dad didn't stop seeing Sandy. He packed his bag and walked out and stopped seeing us.
He said he wasn't leaving me, he was just leaving Mum. He said he was still my dad and he loved me lots and lots and lots and he'd see me every single week. But that hasn't worked out because he and Sandy have moved away and now that Sandy's going to have a baby, Dad doesn't come over so much. I haven't seen him for weeks now. He was supposed to come last weekend for Simon's birthday, he absolutely promised, but the day before, he rang to say Sandy had got these special tickets for a trip to Paris as a surprise so they were going there instead.
Mum shouted down the phone that he obviously couldn't care less about his own son and his birthday. Dad said that he loved Simon very much but perhaps
it wasn't good for him to see him so often anyway because Simon got very overexcited and silly and the visits were obviously upsetting him.
Simon kicked Sandy hard on the shin the last time we went round to Dad's new place.
I wished I was young enough to kick Sandy too.
Mum said we didn't need Dad at Simon's party, we'd have a much better time by ourselves. But we didn't.
I don't suppose Dad will come to my party now either. No one will come to my party. No one likes me anymore. It was so awful on the bus when we all went to the museum. Greg was horrible to me. I thought he really liked me. But he's nuts on Holly instead. Holly hates me too. She always pulls a face and sighs when I start talking. And Mr. Speed likes Holly best now, I just know he does. He's always chatting to her. He makes a great big fuss of Claire too. And though he's always telling Greg off you can tell he thinks he's really funny. Mr. Speed even likes silly-willy William more than me.
William banged right into me at lunchtime and spilt his orange drink all down my school blouse. I shouted at him. William looked upset in his silly, goofy way.
“I'm sorry, Samantha. I didn't mean to. I was just in a hurry to get seconds.”
“Look at my blouse! It's all orange,” I said, plucking at my dripping blouse.
“It looks like a pretty pattern. Orange is a lovely color,” said William. “Here, let's dry it a bit.”
He picked up the messy old cloth we use to wipe the tables and started dabbing at me, smearing bits of old chip and pizza sauce all over my blouse, making it a hundred times worse.
“Leave off, William. Don't be so stupid,” I shouted.
William burst into tears like a baby. Mr. Speed came dashing up.
“Hey hey hey! Why are two of my favorite pupils abusing each other so bitterly?” he asked. “Don't cry, William.”
“I'm not anyone's favorite,” I said, and I burst into tears too.
Mr. Speed tutted and sighed and mopped us both. He told William he could have extra chips if he stopped crying. William cheered up immediately and went bounding off.
“I think your problems are possibly less easily solved, Samantha,” said Mr. Speed. “But you'll certainly feel a little better if we find you a change of blouse. That one's sopping. How about changing into your PE shirt?”
“I took it home for Mum to wash,” I sniffed.
“Oh dear, oh dear. Never mind. Come with me.”
I trailed after him miserably.
“I might have someone's spare PE top in the classroom cupboard,” said Mr. Speed.
While he was searching high and low among ancient confiscated Pokémon cards and single sneakers and dried-up felt-tips I went and looked to see if I had any replies on the Worry Web Site.
Comments:
My dad is so scary I wish he WASN'T at home with us.
My dad's great but he's always tired because of his new job so I hardly ever get to talk to him either.
My mum gets cross too. AND my dad.
Yeah, and MY little sister can be a right pain too, and as a matter of fact I don't see my mum but I don't go on and on about it. And I can't help it if Mr. Speed sometimes picks me to do stuff now. It doesn't mean he's stopped liking you.
Mr. Speed came and peered over my shoulder.
“Budge over, Samantha.”
He typed:
Of course your teacher likes you. He is a wonderful, kindly man who likes everyone. ESPECIALLY sad little souls going through a bad patch.
“There!” said Mr. Speed. “Do you think this particular sad little soul will be comforted, Samantha?”
“Maybe just a little bit,” I said.
“It's probably surprising to an extremely popular girl like you that someone can feel so lonely,” said Mr. Speed.
“Mmm!” I said.
“I can't find a spare shirt anywhere. Come with me. We'll see if Mrs. Holmes has a hidden cache in her office.”
We went down the corridor to the main entrance. Mr. Speed bobbed into the secretary's office while I hung around, picking at my sticky sodden blouse. There were paintings stuck all over the walls. Some of them had been there a while and were curling at the edges. There were a few My Family paintings our class did last year.
My picture was there. I'd painted my dad and my mum and my little brother and me, all of us standing in a line and smiling. The red paint had run a bit when I did my face, so my lips were huge.
I stared at my stupid gigantic grin and then I punched the paper, bashing my own pinkly-painted face. My little brother was grinning too. It was his fault Dad didn't come anymore, because he behaved so badly. I hit my little brother too. The paper tore a little, so that my mum's head was nearly split in two. I didn't care. If she hadn't shouted so much Dad might have stayed.
I looked at Dad. I'd painted him extra carefully, though I couldn't get the colors quite right. His hair was bright lemon, his eyes ultramarine, his cheeks scarlet. I wasn't really that great at painting. I couldn't make my dad look handsome enough.
I'd printed MY FAMILY underneath. But Dad wasn't really part of our family anymore. He was part of a brand-new family with Sandy. He was going to have this new baby too. I hoped it wouldn't be a little girl. He'd love her much more than he loved me.
My fist clenched and I punched Dad hard, again and again, harder and harder.
“Hey, hey! Stop it! Samantha, you'll hurt your poor hand,” Mr. Speed shouted, rushing out of Mrs. Holmes's office.
“I don't care,” I yelled. I punched my painting again, even though there were beads of blood on my knuckles and my arm throbbed all the way up past my elbow.
“Well, I care,” said Mr. Speed. “Good lord, child, stop it.”
He caught hold of my hand. I burst into tears. Mr. Speed patted me gently on the back and then led me into Mrs. Holmes's office. She found me a box of tissues, a clean blouse, and a big bandage for my fist.
Mr. Speed came back to collect me. “Ah! All mopped up?”
I nodded.
“I'll take you back to the classroom, sweetheart. Dear, oh dear. I'd better have a word with your mum when she comes to collect you.”
“I don't want you to have a word with my mum, Mr. Speed. I want you to have a word with my dad.” I looked up at him. “You're great at fixing things, aren't you? I bet you could sort out all the worries on our Web site. Well, why can't you sort out mine? Can't you make my dad come back?”
Mr. Speed sighed.
“I can't do that, Samantha. I can sometimes solve little tiny problems but I can't do a thing about big sad problems. Not even mine. My own marriage broke up a while ago. I know just how you're feeling, poppet.”
“Did you leave your children, Mr. Speed?”
“I don't have any children,” he said. He gave a funny little grin. “Maybe teaching all you lot put me off having any of my own?”
“But if you did have children would you walk out on them?”
“Oh, Samantha, how can I possibly answer that one?” said Mr. Speed.
“I bet you wouldn't,” I said. I thought about my dad. I saw him walking off, his arm round Sandy. I stood still in the corridor. “I hate my dad,” I whispered. The words tasted bad in my mouth so I spat them out louder. “I hate my dad!”
“Yes. I can understand that,” said Mr. Speed. “Though you still love him lots too. But you're very, very angry with him. That's why you started punching his picture. But that's not really a good idea, is it? You only hurt your poor old hand.” He carefully patted my bandage.
“What do you think I should do then, Mr. Speed? Punch my dad?”
“That's maybe not a good idea either.”
“Our Simon kicked his girlfriend. She got a big bruise on her leg.”
“Oh dear. I shall wear shin pads when your Simon comes up into this grade. He's in Miss Morgan's class, isn't he? She'll channel all his energy into finger painting or digging in the sandpit. Excellent activities! How about a spot of digging, Samantha? How about getting a spade and having a goo
d dig in your garden whenever you feel especially cross or miserable?”
“We live in a flat, Mr. Speed. We haven't even got a window box.”
“Ah. Well — perhaps we could purloin a little patch of the school garden?” Mr. Speed smiled. “Let's go and have a look round, see if we can find the right little corner.”
So Mr. Speed and I went across the playground over to the garden. I'd played on the grass heaps of times but I'd never really looked properly at the garden bit before. I peered at the plants. Mr. Speed started spouting all these long Latin names. I listened politely, not really taking any of it in until Mr. Speed pointed to a patch of earth behind a big bush.
“Aha! This looks the perfect plot. OK, Samantha. This is your patch. I'll find you a spade. You can dig here any playtime or lunchtime, before school, after school, whenever.”
I tried having a little dig there and then. I couldn't do too much because of my sore hand. I wasn't very good at it at first. I was too quick and clumsy and couldn't budge the hard earth. Mr. Speed showed me how to do it slowly and rhythmically, putting my foot on the spade, straightening up so I wouldn't hurt my back.
“That's it! Ah, you've got into the swing of things now. We'll be hiring you out on building sites at this rate. You'll have muscles like Madonna by the end of the month.”
I think digging has made me stronger. Greg was mucking around in the corridor doing a silly dance and showing off in front of Holly. He did a twiddly bit and banged right into me. I pushed him away so hard he nearly fell over! That'll teach him. I can't stick Greg now. I don't envy Holly one bit. I wouldn't want him as a boyfriend if you paid me.
I don't want William as my boyfriend either. But he seems to think he is!
I cheered up a bit after I had my first little dig. I felt mean for making William cry so I went up to him after school. He cowered away as if I was going to hit him. That made me feel worse—so I put my arm round him.
“Sorry I yelled at you, William,” I said, and I gave him a hug.
I thought that was it. It was as far as I was concerned. But now William goes pink whenever I go near him and he follows me around like a little dog. He tries to carry my schoolbag and rushes to get my school lunch for me and whenever I go for a dig William trails after me and wants to dig too.
The Worry Web Site Page 5
