Читать книгу You Won’t Believe This - Adam Baron - Страница 10

Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

Jelly, in her shoes? Even BLUE jelly?

It was almost funny.

The problem was, this was Mrs Martin, the most totally superb teacher in the WHOLE world, and she didn’t seem to see it as funny – and neither did some of the other kids. Vi Delap gasped. Elizabeth Fisher’s mouth shot open in amazement, though probably just because she’s never done ANYTHING bad in her WHOLE life. Other kids were shocked too – because of WHO this had been done to. You see, it’s not just me who thinks Mrs Martin is AMAZING. On our first day in Year 3 she told us all to line up. We were nervous and didn’t know what she wanted. Vi was first, all shy and worried, until Mrs Martin grinned at her.

‘What’s your favourite hobby?’ she asked, her voice all soft.

‘Football,’ Vi said, because she’s really good (and no, not just for a girl – sexist!).

Without even thinking, Mrs Martin sang:

When you’re in goal and the ball flies by,

Who d’you think kicked it? Must be Vi!

Then she did a double high-five with Vi followed by a toe touch and then another toe touch. Vi went bright red and beamed, and then it was Lance’s turn. He said cycling, of course (that’s his thing), and in a flash Mrs Martin sang:

In front of me is my main man Lance.

He’s going to win the Tour de France –

Legally.

She gave Lance a low-five followed by a high-five and then they both pretended they were cycling really fast. Lance grinned like a two-year-old in Santa’s grotto, and then it was Marcus Breen. He said sleeping, because, well, he’s Marcus Breen. We all groaned but Mrs Martin laughed.

Think you’re good at snoozing, meet Mr Breen.

This boy’s gonna show you how to dream.

She gave Marcus a double cross high-ten and then pretended to sleep. And she did this with everyone. EVERY person in our class got their own instant song and their own greeting, though some were harder than others.

‘Cymbeline Igloo,’ I said.

Mrs Martin drew her hand across her forehead. ‘Phew.’

‘And I like football but I also like art.’

‘DOUBLE phew. But here goes.’ And she sang:

If you need to get a penalty, don’t throw in the towel –

Cymbeline Igloo can draw a foul.

I got a double high fist bump after which I got a double toe touch like Vi, but with Mrs Martin and me both doing air drawing at the same time. And I felt this warmth beginning to grow in the middle of my chest, like there was a radiator in there, until it had reached all the way to my ears. It made me feel special, it made us all feel special – and every single morning began like that! This sunny sort of warmth came to us from Mrs Martin and stayed for the whole day. She gave us our own individual greeting with our own rhyme and she NEVER got anyone’s wrong. It was amazing, and I can tell you this: nowhere on the entire Internet does it say that Socrates did the same thing.

And he only had Plato.

So, to see someone play any kind of trick on Mrs Martin was probably too much for some of us. Everyone stopped as Mrs Martin gasped and looked down. We all did the same. The jelly (the BLUE jelly) oozed up between her toes like something you might see on Doctor Who, though I wouldn’t know because my mum says I’m too young to watch it (even if Lance does and he’s THREE DAYS younger than me).

Mrs Martin looked confused at first, not quite able to understand what she was seeing. Then her expression changed. And I expected her to be angry. Miss Phillips would have set her face, hands flying out to her hips. Mr Gorton would have gone VESUVIUS. But what Mrs Martin did was worse somehow.

This brilliant teacher we all love did not frown. Or shout. Or get mad. Instead, she just went still and said, ‘Oh …’, like you might if someone you REALLY like was saying you weren’t invited to their birthday party, and you’d already bought their present.

And that’s when I did something I couldn’t quite believe. Mrs Martin stepped back a little. She looked down at us, a sort of not-quite-able-to-believe-it look on her open, worn-in face. Everyone looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze – except for me. When her eyes fell on mine I was suddenly nervous, and unable even to move, because the weirdness of it had crept up on me. Someone putting jelly in her shoes? WHAT? It suddenly seemed so bizarre that instead of a radiator in me there were these weird, frothy bubbles.

And I giggled.

I don’t know why – honestly! It just came out. A stupid, childish, RIDICULOUS giggle that was SO loud! It stopped Mrs Martin. It stopped me. Mrs Martin looked even more upset – and surprised – and I could see her mind ticking over, and the completely WRONG conclusion about to make itself inside her head.

‘No,’ I said, as fast as I possibly could. ‘That doesn’t mean—’

But before I could go on I was interrupted. It was Mr Baker (our new head teacher). He was showing some men round our school, but he turned to Mrs Martin, a curiosity on his face that seemed to snap her away from me. And she turned, bent down and picked up her shoe, along with the other one, which had also been filled with jelly. Then she edged through us all, glancing quickly at me with my face burning, before hurrying off towards the staff room, one hand dangling her shoes, the other held up to her face.

Halfway there she broke into a run.