2

English

After registration it was double English. I hate English. And I double hate double English.

Mum tells me to think of English as ‘a challenge I can overcome with my fabulous ability to tackle any obstacle’. Now, I would happily think of English as ‘a challenge I can overcome with my fabulous ability to tackle any obstacle’ if I didn’t have a dorkbrain for a teacher. Mr Y seems to think English lessons should be slow death by humiliation.

He always picks one of the dyslexic kids to read out loud to the rest of the class. And it’s usually me. Why?! WHY?! I’m spectacularly dyslexic. And anyhow, there are loads of kids who love reading out loud – all those drama wannabes for a start. (Kara, for one.) So why pick on me?

Or he’ll ask the whole class a question and then choose me to answer it, even when I haven’t got my hand up. Why not ask one of the kids waggling their hands frantically in the air, who obviously do know the answer? What is the point of asking someone who clearly doesn’t?

Seriously, the man’s an idiot.

I sat there, bracing myself for the usual crushing, as Mr Y handed back our homework. I flipped open my book. As usual, it was plastered with bright red crosses, squiggly underlinings and sad faces.

Honestly, there ought to be a law banning teachers from using emojis. It’s sooo embarrassing when they try to be trendy. AND he’d put ‘check your spelling’ in large letters at the bottom. How can I check my spelling if I don’t know how things are spelt in the first place?

Yup, like I said, the man’s an idiot.

Anyhow, I couldn’t give a bouncing banana about spelling, because:

a) all computers have spellcheck

b) the spelling rules in the English language are STUPID. How can ‘road’ be spelt ‘r-o-d-e’ and ‘r-o-w-e-d’ as well?

c) making spelling mistakes can be a good thing. I happen to know that artificial sweeteners were invented when someone wrote ‘taste’ the results instead of ‘test’ the results in a scientific experiment. So if someone hadn’t made a spelling mistake, that brilliant scientific discovery would never have been made and the world wouldn’t have Diet Coke.

By now Mr Y was handing out worksheets. ‘Today we’re working on Persuasive Writing Skills. Any good piece of Persuasive Writing should make at least three good arguments,’ he announced.

Why three? I thought. Why can’t you have just one really good one? And, btw, who says so?

Mr Y was still talking. ‘I want you to come up with three reasons why you should pick your own bedtime, put them down as bullet points, and then write a short summary of your arguments at the bottom.’

I was struggling to follow him. Partly because I’m not great when I’m given lots of instructions all at once, but mostly because I’d zoned out. I was worrying about being mean to Lily earlier. So, as soon as Mr Y’s back was turned, I ripped a bit out of my exercise book and wrote her a note.

I leaned over to hand it to her, but just as she took it Mr Y looked round.

‘Jaz Watson!’ he snapped. ‘Get on with your work! You, of all people in this class, need to work harder in English. And stop distracting other people who …’ He was just about to go off on one about how crucial English is to all of our futures (yawn, yawn) when the classroom door opened and we were saved by Mrs C. She was bringing in a girl wearing our school uniform and a matching blue headscarf.