Billionaire Boy (8 page)

A non-mover at nine… “Are you chewing?”

Up three places to eight… “I can still hear talking.”

A former number one at seven… “It doesn’t need discussion.”

A new entry at six… “How many times do you need to be told?”

Down one place at five… “Spelling!”

Another non-mover at four... “I will not tolerate litter!”

New at three… “Do you want to pass your GCSEs?”

Just missing the top spot at two… “Would you do that at home?”

And still at number one… “It’s not just yourself you’ve let down, but the whole school.”

Taking the History lesson was Miss Spite. Miss Spite smelt of rotten cabbage. That was the nicest thing about her. She was one of the school’s most feared teachers. When she smiled she looked like a crocodile that was about to eat you. Miss Spite loved nothing more than giving out punishments, once suspending a girl for dropping a pea on the floor of the school canteen. “That pea could have had someone’s eye out!” she had yelled.

Kids at the school had fun thinking up nicknames for their teachers. Some were fond, others cruel. Mr Paxton the French teacher was ‘Tomato’, as he had a big round red face like a tomato. The headmaster, Mr Dust, was called, ‘The Tortoise’ as he looked like one. He was very old, extremely wrinkly, and walked impossibly slowly. The deputy head, Mr Underhill, was ‘Mr Underarms’, as he ponged a bit, especially in the summer. And Mrs MacDonald, the biology teacher, was called either ‘The Bearded Lady’ or even ‘Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy’ as she… well, I imagine you can guess why.

But the kids just called Miss Spite ‘The Witch’. It was the only name that really ever fitted and was passed down through generations of pupils at the school.

All the kids she taught passed their exams though. They were too scared not to.

“We still have the small matter of last night’s homework,” Miss Spite announced with an evil relish that suggested she was desperate for someone to have failed to do it.

Joe reached his hand into his bag. Disaster. His exercise book wasn’t there. He had spent all night writing this intensely boring 500-word essay about some old dead queen, but in the rush to get to school on time he must have left it on his bed.

Oh, no,
he thought.
Oh no no no no no…

Joe looked over at Bob, but all his friend could do was grimace sympathetically.

Miss Spite stalked the classroom like a Tyrannosaurus Rex deciding which little creature it was going to eat first. To her evident disappointment, a field of grubby little hands held aloft essay after essay. She gathered them up, before stopping at Spud.

“Miss…?” he stammered.

“Yeeeessss Ssspppuuudddd?” said Miss Spite, drawing out her words as long as possible so she could relish this delicious moment.

“I did do it, but…”

“Oh yes, of course you did it!” The Witch cackled. All the other pupils except Bob sniggered too. There was nothing more pleasurable than seeing someone else get into trouble.

“I left it at home.”

“Litter duty!” the teacher snapped.

“I am not lying, Miss. And my dad will be at home today, I could—”

“I should have known. Your father is clearly penniless and on the dole, sitting at home watching daytime TV – much as you will no doubt be doing in ten years’ time. Yes…?”

Joe and Bob couldn’t help but share a smirk at this.

“Er…” said Joe. “If I called him and asked him to run the essay over here would you believe me?”

Miss Spite smiled broadly. She was going to enjoy this.

“Spud, I will give you fifteen minutes exactly to place said essay in my hand. I hope your father is quick.”

“But—” started Joe.

“No ‘buts’, boy. Fifteen minutes.”

“Well, thank you, Miss,” said Joe sarcastically.

“You’re quite welcome,” said The Witch. “I like to think that everyone gets a fair chance to rectify their errors in my class.”

She turned to the rest of the class. “The rest of you are dismissed,” she said.

Kids started to spill out into the corridor. Miss Spite leaned after them and screamed, “Walk, don’t run!”

Miss Spite couldn’t resist another catchphrase. She was the queen of the catchphrase. And now she couldn’t stop.

“It doesn’t need discussion!” she called after her pupils, randomly. Miss Spite was on a roll now. “Are you chewing?” she howled down the corridor to a passing school inspector.

“Fifteen minutes, Miss?” said Joe.

Miss Spite studied her little antique watch.

“Fourteen minutes, fifty one seconds, in point of fact.”

Joe gulped. Was Dad going to be able to get there that fast?

Chapter 9
“Finger?”

“F
inger?” asked Bob, as he offered half of his Twix to his friend.

“Thank you, mate,” said Joe. They stood in a quiet corner of the playground and contemplated Joe’s bleak fate.

“What are you going to do?”

“I dunno. I texted my dad. But there’s no way he can get here in fifteen minutes. What can I do?”