‘Children. Really. Settle down. Children. Really.’ Miss Casey marches in late, clapping her hands. The only way to know Miss Casey is clapping is to actually see her do it, as she has this unfortunate disability where her claps make absolutely no noise. I’m not sure if she has extra-padded palms (she’s generally quite skinny, but maybe all the fat is stored in her hands: is that possible?) but I consider her silent clapping quite a phenomenon of nature. I slip my secret notebook out and add to the list:
Current theories re Miss Casey’s FBDs
Taking time out to practise clapping?
I sometimes wonder if Miss Casey is cut out for teaching. There are some skills that are essential for being a teacher. ‘Must haves’ is what they call them in the job adverts in the paper, but in Miss Casey’s case (Casey’s case – ha ha!) they’d have to call them ‘haven’t gots’. As well as clapping, Miss Casey finds it pretty much impossible to remember names, which is probably important for a teacher. Some days she’s better than others, but on the bad days she’s really bad. She calls Aleesha, Anita; Stacey, Kelly; Lauren, Jessica; and every boy is Colin, which is a whole other mystery as there isn’t a single Colin in the school!
Current theories re. Miss Casey’s FBDs
Could Colin be the key? Who is Colin??
But skills aren’t everything. I like Miss Casey and I think overall, even with the ‘haven’t gots’, she’s a good teacher. She once spent the whole day teaching on roller-blades (despite the fact that she can’t skate and fell over seventeen times) just to raise money for the Christine Aisley fund.
‘Settle down, please, Class 6B!’ she says now, finally giving up on the silent clapping. ‘Today we’re going to be doing something really quite exciting.’ This is another issue Miss Casey has. She always misuses the word ‘exciting’. She only ever uses it to describe things that are in fact the exact opposite of exciting. ‘Today we’re going to be learning a new method of long division. And here’s the fun part – it’s called the Bus Stop Method!’ This is what I’m talking about: sky-diving equals exciting; crime fighting equals exciting; long division equals Miss Casey’s idea of exciting.
‘So, who can remind us: what is the opposite of division? Come on now, class.’ She smiles. ‘This is a question for babies. I expect to see everyone with their hands up.’ A few more raise their arms. ‘Good, better. Now, who’s still hiding? Aha…’ I know what’s coming next. ‘…Maxine. I don’t see your hand.’
Max never puts her hand up. After much up-close surveillance I’ve concluded that Max doesn’t do any of the things that pretty much everyone else in the class does. She doesn’t fidget in her seat, she doesn’t chat during lessons; she doesn’t repeat funny lines from films or practise street dance in the playground or whisper secrets to other girls. Max is definitely a bit odd.
The only thing is, I can’t help noticing that I don’t do too many of those things either, which makes me wonder: am I as weird as Max? I just seem to like different things from everyone else. Take Paperclips Office Supplies for example, which is in my opinion the best shop in the world. But no one else seems to think so. The girls in 6B are always going on instead about Snazzle which basically sells an unbelievable number of things to put in your hair and on your nails. I went there once (Nan made me) and tried some of their nail varnish (ditto) but it wouldn’t dry and everything I touched got stuck to my nails – bits of pencil sharpenings, biscuit crumbs, small flying insects. It was like having ten small, self-adhesive litter traps attached to the ends of my fingers. That’s Snazzle for you – I just can’t see the appeal. Paperclips on the other hand is a ginormous warehouse full of absolutely essential items: rubber bands, ink pads, whiteboards, gel pens, every kind of pencil imaginable. The Paperclips catalogue is one of my very favourite things to read. Is that weird?
One of the reasons Nan’s not so keen on my detective work is that she thinks I should ‘mix more’. They are the exact words she always uses. She thinks if I ‘mix more’ I’ll make more friends or even just one friend. I’m not really sure about that. What exactly is this mixing anyway and how do I do it? Do I just start circling random people in the playground, calling out: ‘Hey, I’m Lori. Let’s mix more!’ Personally, I think that could fall into the ‘quite odd’ category.
But even if I don’t have loads in common with the rest of the class, it doesn’t mean I like the idea of having anything in common with Max. The truth is that I find it pretty stressful sitting next to her. It isn’t that she does anything bad, it’s more that she doesn’t do anything at all: no maths, no spelling and grammar, no comprehension, not even any art, which she’s obviously brilliant at. She just sits very still, like one of Nan’s ceramic angels, looking straight ahead as if Miss Casey, the classroom and everyone in it is like the boring telly they always have on in the doctor’s waiting room with the sound turned down.
Miss Casey has now finished explaining the Bus Stop method of long division. It hasn’t worked for me at all. In fact I’d probably know more about long division right now if I’d spent the morning actually sitting at a bus stop rather than listening to Miss Casey. I’m staring at the long sloping lines of numbers on the whiteboard when Miss Casey calls out, ‘Lisa?’ I wait a moment and then raise my hand.
‘Do you mean me, miss?’ Miss Casey often calls me Lisa.
‘Yes, of course I do. Could you come up for a quiet word, please?’
Alarm bells start ringing. I don’t like the sound of ‘a quiet word’. ‘A quiet word’ is well-known teacher code for a super-serious telling-off. Josh Ryman often has to go for a quiet word, sometimes with Mr Wilson, the head teacher. Aleesha Varley is always being sent for a quiet word with the lunchtime supervisor because of what she does with mashed potato. Once, an actual police officer turned up at school to have a quiet word with Archie Bell and he was never seen again! I’ve never been asked to have a quiet word with anyone. Even Max the ceramic angel seems to register something’s up and turns to look as I get up from the desk and walk slowly to Miss Casey.
‘So, Lisa…’
‘Miss, I’m Lori, remember?’
‘Lori!’ She shouts as if she hasn’t seen me for years. ‘Of course you are! Sorry, Lori!’ Then she laughs at that. It’s not great having a name that rhymes with ‘sorry’. People always start laughing when they apologise to me. ‘Anyway, Lori, listen. I want to ask you a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘Yes, a favour. I actually wanted to talk to you about Maxine Ellington.’
It’s typical that the one name Miss Casey always remembers is Maxine’s, when Maxine is the one person in the class who doesn’t want to be called by their full name.
‘I’ve noticed how well you and Maxine get along. Goodness me! Thick as thieves. Peas in a pod. You’re getting on famously, aren’t you?’
‘Peas? Pod? Max? And me?’
‘Yes. You pair of … big buddies.’ (She makes those weird speech marks in the air again.)
‘Buddies?’
‘Chit-chatting away all day long.’
‘Miss Casey, Max hasn’t spoken a single word to me since she joined the class.’
‘Well, OK, not chit-chatting. She’s a quiet girl. But you rub along well together.’
‘I don’t know, Miss. We don’t know each other at all.’
‘The thing is, Lori, you are a very hard-working girl and Maxine … well, she’s still finding her feet here.’
I’m not sure Max is really looking that hard for her feet but I say nothing.
‘I wondered if you’d be interested in a job?’
I like the idea of a job, ideally one that involves detective work but, failing that, any special role would be quite nice.
‘What, like being a monitor?’
‘Sort of.’
‘It’s not Hamster Monitor, is it? I don’t think I could look after Cuddles; I don’t think he likes me.’
‘I’m not sure Cuddles likes any of us, Lori, with the possible exceptio
n of Josh, which is why he’s Hamster Monitor. No, the role I was thinking of was that of … Learning Mentor.’
‘What is a Learning Mentor?’
‘Well, it would be your job to help other children learn as well as you do.’
‘Other children?’
‘Well, just Maxine, in fact.’
‘But I don’t know how to do that, Miss.’
‘Of course you do! If you just show her how you do things and encourage her to do the same, I think it would really help her.’
‘But…’ I realise I have no idea how to politely say, ‘That’s a terrible idea.’ I trail off.
Miss Casey smiles. ‘You’re a superstar, Lori. I knew you’d have a go.’
I walk slowly back to my seat. I don’t like the idea of telling Max what to do or how to do it. I’m not really someone who enjoys telling other people what to do and I have a pretty good idea that Max isn’t the sort of person who enjoys being told either. I sit down, a bit lost in thought, and then I feel someone tapping my elbow.
‘Let me guess what she just said.’ These are the first words Max Ellington ever speaks to me.
‘Go ahead.’
‘She told you that you had to be my little helper, didn’t she?’
I nod slowly and Max grins. ‘Oh man – they always do that.’
Chapter Eight
Max is having her favourite dream. She has it quite often. She’s inside an enormous sweet factory and her job is product tester. She sits by the side of an orange conveyor belt and helps herself to the endless variety of sweets and chocolates that glide past her. A man with a notebook stands beside her, carefully writing down her every pronouncement.
‘More caramel needed.’
‘Less crunch.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
‘Outstanding.’
‘Not sweet enough.’
She’s reaching for a sour cherry bonbon when the man starts tapping her on the shoulder trying to tell her something. He starts shaking her gently and that’s when she realises she’s not dreaming any more. She wakes up to find her dad standing at the side of her bed. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart.’
It’s still dark. She takes a minute to absorb the words and then she sits up, confused. ‘But … my birthday’s tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow! It’s half three in the morning, your birthday’s started already and what are you doing? Just lazing around.’ He grins. ‘Listen, I know you’ve got school tomorrow. I’m going to let you get back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you, we’re going to celebrate properly this year, yeah? I want you to invite all your friends here after school. I’ll get a takeaway. What do you fancy? What’s your favourite food?’
‘I dunno – Chinese?’
‘Chinese it is then. We’ll get the takeaway banquet. I’ll get some balloons and hats, too – all that stuff. We can play pass the parcel.’
‘Pass the parcel?’ she repeats, still half asleep.
He laughs. ‘OK, OK, I know you’re eleven. Too grown-up and sophisticated for pass the parcel. Whatever you want, though. You bring all your pals and I’ll bring the goodies. Four o’clock sharp. Wear your glad rags.’
She studies his face. His eyes are shiny with excitement. ‘Dad, where have you been? We haven’t seen you for days.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just got caught up with things.’
‘There was no money.’
‘What? I left some on the mantelpiece.’
She shakes her head.
‘Oh, man, I’m sorry. I could have sworn I did. Look, I’ll make it up to you. I told you our luck was changing and I was right. Dad had a big win tonight. It’s all down to you. You’re my lucky charm!’
She says nothing.
‘Well, aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
She looks down at the bed and he taps her again on the arm. ‘Hello, Maxie! Can you hear me?’
She wants to go back to sleep, back to the sweet factory.
‘Speak to me!’
She raises her eyes to his. ‘You said you were turning over a new leaf.’
He sighs. ‘Oh come on, Maxie, don’t be like that. It is a new leaf. Did you hear what I said? I won. Lots of money. That’s good news. That means a fresh start. Now we can get straight.’
Get straight. It’s what he always promises. Max isn’t even sure what it means. She imagines them being lined up against rulers.
‘Oh, Max, you’ve got to trust me sometimes. I’ll show you. This little birthday party will be just the start. Come on, don’t look so down. Man, if you could see your face – you look like a fish finger at the swimming pool.’
Her dad always comes out with expressions like this: ‘like a spider with two gloves’; ‘like a duck with a pacamac’; ‘like a sausage with a penknife’. He attributes them to random, absent family members – ‘just like my old dad used to say’, or ‘in the words of Uncle Ivan’ or ‘like my granny always told me’ – but Max knows he makes them all up. And try as she might to resist, they always make her laugh. The smallest smile escapes on to her lips and her dad beams back at her.
‘That’s my Maxie.’ He hugs her and she breathes in alcohol and aftershave and other people’s cigarettes. She loves the smell. He lets go and looks at her seriously. ‘Now, this is important. What do you want for your birthday? Whatever it is, tell me. I’ll get it while you’re at school.’
She looks at him and shrugs. ‘Just take me to the safari park sometime. They’ve got a baby rhino there.’
‘Maxie, if you want a baby rhino, I’ll buy you one!’
She laughs. Her dad is crazily generous when he has money, but he buys mad things. She thinks of the fluorescent pink teddy the size of a small car she had to leave behind in one of their moves.
‘Don’t buy me a rhino, Dad.’
‘Alright. If you say so. Look, you better get some sleep now. Don’t forget: invite all your little friends.’ He kisses her goodnight and starts to leave the room.
‘Dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It might be a bit short notice for all my friends. I mean, they’d have to ask permission and all that.’
‘Ask them anyway, I bet they’ll come.’
Chapter Nine
Being a learning mentor has been more of a challenge than I thought. This is not because Max doesn’t want my help like I thought. It’s because Max doesn’t need my help. Max doesn’t need anybody’s help. I’m beginning to think that Max might actually be some kind of genius. She can definitely do long division anyway, which makes her a genius in my book. To be honest, maths isn’t my strong point. I find numbers as slippery as ice cubes in a glass of Coke. It’s a real worry, because people who are exceptionally good at maths often go on to become evil criminal geniuses, so it’s not completely out of the question that, one day, I’ll need to be able to multiply fractions to solve a crime. But, then again, a calculator is one of the thirty-six functions on my watch so I’ll have to rely on that.
Anyway, on Monday I was sitting trying to work out 3786 divided by 235, when I had a breakthrough. I suddenly realised that the problem with long division sums is that they are too abstract.
3786 what?
235 what?
Numbers don’t just exist on their own, dividing and multiplying by themselves! They are connected to things!
So I came up with a real-world situation: I imagined an enormous bucket of 3786 ping-pong balls which had to be shared equally among 235 people. (Yes, I know, 235 is an odd number and you can’t have an odd number of people playing table tennis, but I thought maybe there could be a substitute in the event of any ping-pong-related injuries.) Anyway, I pictured myself standing with the enormous bucket, waiting to hand out the 3786 balls to a nice, neat queue of 235 players. But once I had that image in my head things started to go wrong. Surely that was going to be a lot of ping-pong balls for each person to hold, I thought, especially if they were already holding ping-pong bats. In
my imagination, people started dropping the balls all over the floor and scrabbling around after them; people were picking up other people’s balls; people were getting angry and hurling ping-pong balls and table-tennis bats quite violently at one another … and that was when I felt someone tapping at my elbow.
‘Hmm?’ I said.
It was Max: ‘Your page is blank,’ she said, tapping my maths book with her finger.
‘It is, yes.’ Her observation skills are pretty basic.
Lori and Max Page 3
