Head Kid. David Baddiel
“Hm. I can’t make out what it says at all. It seems to be saying …
“Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett wearily, “you’re looking at it in the mirror.”
Mr Barrington looked back at the mirror, even more confused.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett, coming over and standing next to him. “You fell asleep, like you always do, after putting on a dull documentary for Six B to watch. And then Ryan clearly wrote these words on your forehead while you were asleep.”
“On his hand, actually, sir,” said Ryan.
“Pardon?” said Mr Fawcett.
Ryan walked towards Mr Barrington with something of a swagger, a bit like a master criminal explaining to a not-very-clever detective the details of an ingenious bank robbery he’s recently masterminded.
“When Mr B – as you say – falls asleep, he always pushes his glasses up on his forehead. I had to find a way round that. So … I wrote it on his hand and – well, let’s cut a long story short – me and a friend found a way of making him wake up and slap his forehead at the same time.”
Mr Fawcett nodded. “I see. So for that to work … you must have written it on his hand in mirror writing?”
Ryan smiled politely, like a politician who’s being praised but doesn’t want to look too pleased about it.
“Headmaster,” said Mr Barrington, “I have no idea what this boy is talking about. I certainly was NOT asleep and—”
Mr Fawcett grabbed Mr Barrington’s right hand and held the palm up to the mirror.
“EMPTY SPACE: AVAILABLE FOR RENT. It’s written right there. And on your forehead.”
“Oh,” said Mr Barrington.
There was a short pause while both men continued to stare into the mirror, and Ryan looked on with amusement.
“Which is why Six B were laughing. It’s a joke, you see? About you not having a brai—”
“Yes, I understand that, Headmaster. Thank you.” Mr Barrington turned furiously to Ryan. “As for you, Ryan Ward, you can take that supercilious smirk off your face right now!” He moved very close to Ryan – who was, it has to be said, smirking – and waved a finger very close to his nose. “You won’t be smirking when I’m finished with you! Oh no!”
“Thank you, Mr Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett. “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with this.”
Mr Barrington’s finger froze, very near the bridge of Ryan’s nose. So close, in fact, that Ryan made his eyes go cross-eyed to look at the tip.
But Mr Barrington didn’t notice that. Because now it was his turn to smirk, knowing for certain that this meant the boy really was for it.
“So …” said Mr Fawcett, after Mr Barrington had left the room with some air of triumph, despite the fact that he still had a message on his forehead suggesting he lacked a brain, “… good one, Ryan.”
Ryan blinked. He’d been expecting a number of things to come out of Mr Fawcett’s mouth – insults, threats, punishments – but not compliments.
“No, really,” said Mr Fawcett, evidently aware of Ryan’s surprise. “Excellent prank. I mean, maybe not up there with that time you let off the fire extinguisher into the dinner lady’s pudding tray.”
“Only because the stuff that comes out of it looks so much like cream,” said Ryan.
“Yes, yes, it does. Doesn’t taste like it, though, does it? As at least five children who now will never eat puddings again could tell you. Anyway, as I say, top notch. And then there was that time you got the whole school to hum during assembly.”
“Very quietly, so you didn’t notice it at first …”
“Yes. That’s the classic method. What else? That butter you spread on the hallway outside the staff room …”
“Is Mrs Wang’s leg mended now?”
“Not yet. The plague of spiders in the laundry room …
“Letting off the fire alarm while everyone was in tears at last year’s leavers’ assembly …
“Telling every child in Reception that Miss Finch was really the Gruffalo …”
“She does look a bit like—”
“Oh, I know. That’s why it worked so well. And it took two weeks to get them all back to the school without screaming! So. Result. I assume? In your terms …”
Ryan frowned. He wasn’t quite sure how to react. Mr Fawcett – who normally just gave him a detention without even bothering to hear about whatever new naughty thing he’d done – was behaving very strangely.
But then the headmaster turned to Ryan and said, “So. Taking into account all your naughtiness so far – and adding on this latest bit, the branding of Mr Barrington’s forehead – this is what I propose to do.”
Ah, thought Ryan. Here it comes.
He considered shutting his eyes, as it felt like it was going to be a really big punishment, but then he thought that wouldn’t suit his Proud of Being Naughty brand, so he kept them open. To hear Mr Fawcett say …
“Resign.”
Ryan blinked.
“Sorry?”
“RESIGN”.
“Sorry, I’m still not—”
“RESIGN”.
Mr Fawcett said it a bit louder this time. Then he said it again. Well, he didn’t say it. He sang it. To the tune of “Football’s Coming Home”.
“Resign, resign!
Resign, resign!
I’m leaving!
Fawcett’s Going Home!”
Although Mr Fawcett was improvising, Ryan was impressed – his words fitted perfectly. He was singing very loudly, and dancing, raising each foot into the air and sticking his thumbs under his armpits, while leaping around Ryan. He continued …
“Resign, resign!