CHAPTER 2

FAIL

Mrs Loretta Florris hated one thing. That may not sound like much, but believe me it covered a huge area, like a single umbrella over Ireland. Because that one thing was failure.

The principal of Tullybun Primary hated pens that failed to work. She hated ties that failed to be straight and toilets that failed to flush. Light bulbs that blew, flowers that died, rubber bands that broke: she loathed them all.

Which meant, of course, that she hated Brian O’Bunion. She hated him with an extra-special, super-size, double choc-chip hatred because he was the biggest failure in her class. You name it, he failed it: geography tests, running races, knowing when the Vikings invaded or how to spell ‘exceptional’. Worst of all, he failed to pay attention.

Or that’s what she thought. In fact he paid fantastic attention – just not to her. Why would he, when there were so many more interesting things to focus on?

Like the fly that was bombing the window on his left. Compare that to the Maths sheet that lay in front of him. One was a matter of life and death, the other of mumbo and jumbo.

He looked at Question 4:

If Barry walks at 5 km an hour, how long will it take to reach his friend Zebulun’s house, which is 6.3459287367298419373584928725645238373 km away? Give your answer to 14 decimal places.

Brian rubbed his forehead. How do I know? There wasn’t enough information. What if Barry stopped at the Spar to buy a Yorkie? What if his Aunt Lettice drove past on her way to the chemist for a corn plaster and gave him a lift? What if it started to rain and he took shelter at a bus stop that turned into a flying saucer and took him to Jupiter where he spent five years digging for space turnips before returning to Earth to find that no time had passed at all? And what sort of name was Zebulun anyway?

The fly froze on the window pane. Poor thing, it’s exhausted. Brian lifted the Maths sheet and held it horizontally against the glass. He eased the creature up and out through the little open window at the top. ‘See ya.’ He tickled the glass as the fly bounced away through the bright morning air.

‘Brian O’Bunion.’ Mrs Florris looked up from the front desk.

Twenty-four pens went still. Twenty-four heads turned. Forty-eight eyes fixed on Brian.

‘May I ask whhhat,’ the word whooshed out between tight lips, as if she was blowing dust off a teapot, ‘you are doing?’

What he didn’t say:

‘Of course you may. And while you’re at it, why not ask what my favourite pudding is, and why I hate Tuesdays, and where I keep my socks, and how many times I’ve seen you pick your nose when you think no one’s looking? And it’s very kind of you but you really don’t need my permission because you’re the teacher, aka God, so you can do whatever you like.’

What he did say:

‘Um.’

You’d probably have said that too, for Brian’s teacher was an alarming woman. I say ‘woman’ and I almost completely mean it because, looking at her, you couldn’t help wondering if one of her ancestors had been a cauliflower. I say alarming and I completely completely mean it. Her hair was a helmet of solid white curls. She had a bristly chin, a thick pale neck and light green eyes like the streaky bits in marbles.

‘Um,’ echoed the teacher. ‘Ummm. What an interesting word. I wonder what it means. Alec Hunratty, get the dictionary.’

Oh no. Brian lowered his head and waited for the kill.

A plump, shiny boy with a brain the size of Canada got up from his desk. He fetched the dictionary from a bookshelf at the back of the classroom.

‘Please look up the word “Um” for us, Alec.’

He thumbed through. ‘Not here, Miss.’ He grinned and glowed like a toad.

‘What a coincidence.’ Mrs Florris licked her teeth. Chipped and yellow, they reminded Brian of cheese triangles. ‘Because neither is your brain, Brian O’Bunion. People with brains do not wave at flies. People with brains do not score a year average of twelve per cent in Maths.’

A hiss went round, as if the room had turned into a huge slithering snake.

‘How dare you downgrade my class? How dare you lower my scores with your dozy daydreaming, your dim distraction and your dense … your dense …’ She looked round for help.

‘Dullness?’ suggested Alec.

‘Thank you, Alec. Brian O’Brainless.’ She smacked the desk. ‘Get,’ smack ‘back,’ smack smack ‘to WORK!’

Brian hunched over his desk. Words and numbers danced in front of him. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I’m not.

And he didn’t. Eight minutes, thirty-four sniffs and not a glint of a tear later, the bell rang for lunch.

The playground was buzzing. Literally. As Brian crossed the yard he heard a low hum. It was coming from the corner where the girls were huddled round Tracy Bricket.

‘Umm.’ The humming got louder. ‘Ummm.’ Tracy’s head turned. ‘Oh hi, Brian. We were just ummmming and aahing about the prize-giving.’

Skinny Ginny Mulhinney made a sound like a balloon losing air.

Tracy smiled. ‘Doesn’t sound like you’ll be winning the Maths prize.’ Her eyes were so blue you could dip your toes in them.

Shoving his hands into his pockets and his chin into his neck, Brian crossed the yard. He went over the lawn to the rockery and sat down against the high-backed rock that hid him from the yard.

Worms of self-pity crawled into his mind. Why does Florrie pick on me? Why do I care? Why can’t I be tough like Kevin Catwind? The top of his nose fizzed dangerously. He pressed his eyelids with his fingertips. Don’t even think of it, he warned the gathering tears.

Opening his lunch box, he let out a long breath. Alone at last – or as good as. There was only the gardener pruning roses by the fence. Brian ate his banana. Checking that Mr Pottigrew’s back was turned, he wrapped the skin round a garden gnome that stood by the rockery. ‘Have a scarf.’ There was no danger of the gardener hearing. He was stone deaf.

It had caused quite a stir when he’d started at the school. Children had crept up behind him, burping and fake farting until Gary Budget had dared Kevin Catwind to say a rude word to his face. It turned out that Mr Pottigrew could lip-read. When he’d complained to Mrs Florris, in a low drawl that sounded as if he were speaking underwater, she’d yelled at Kevin and made the whole class write out fifty times, ‘I must only be rude behind people’s backs.’

Brian watched the gardener bend over the bushes in search of dead flowers. He loved the clean snap of the secateurs and the way the old man laid the dead blooms in the barrow like priceless pieces of porcelain.

Mr Pottigrew straightened up and rubbed his back. He turned the barrow and wheeled it to the next flower bed. Every movement was measured and slow, as if he were rationing out his energy. He caught sight of the banana-skinned gnome, then Brian and smiled. Unlike the rest of him, his eyes were quick and bright, taking everything in, doing overtime for his useless ears.

Brian wished he could stay there all day, watching the leaves shiver under the jet as Mr Pottigrew switched on the hose and feeling the warm, furry breeze on his face. But far too soon the bell shrieked, summoning him to the awful afternoon.