Head Kid

“No worries,” said Dionna. She went round behind Mr Barrington’s still-sleeping form and flicked her head down, making the front tips of her hair fall on to his forehead. She moved her head from side to side, drawing the strands gently across his ingrained frown lines.

Mr Barrington twitched in his sleep. His nose wiggled. Ryan, watching, understood.

“OK, everyone! Back to your seats! Now!”

Everyone ran, and they all got there in time. In time, that is, to see – in one movement – Mr Barrington open his eyes, let his glasses fall back down on to his nose and slap the palm of his right hand hard across his forehead.

He yawned, stood up and said, “Hmm. Right, class!”

He was about to say, “That was a very interesting documentary. I hope you all enjoyed it.”

But he never got the chance as they were all pointing at him and laughing.

(#ulink_1df8571e-7892-5485-809e-8298b9559ccb)

“Sorry, Mr Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett, “I didn’t quite follow?”

“As I was saying, Headmaster, I was showing Six B a fascinating documentary – I was paying great attention to it myself, of course – when suddenly the whole class started laughing and pointing at me. Well, obviously, I knew straight away who was behind this mockery: Ryan Ward! As usual!”

Mr Barrington was standing in the office of Mr Fawcett, the headmaster of Bracket Wood, in front of his desk. Next to him stood Ryan Ward. There is an expression: as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I have never understood this expression. It means: looking innocent. What that has to do with the temperature of your mouth, I have no idea. And, frankly, if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you should call a doctor or an appliance engineer, because either you’re very ill, or your fridge is far too cold.

But, anyway, Ryan was looking … like that. Although one giveaway that perhaps he wasn’t quite so innocent was his tie, which, as ever, was not done up properly. It hung loosely, two buttons down from his collar. Ryan liked to think of this as an act of rebellion: his way of saying, “Fine, I’m wearing the tie, but I’m not a boy in uniform.”

“Right,” said Mr Fawcett to Mr Barrington. “But what has all that got to do with what you’ve got written on your forehead?”

“Pardon, Headmaster?”

“On your forehead, Barrington, you have some words. In black capitals.”

Mr Barrington, who had been speaking and waving his arms around quite fast, stopped doing both of these things and looked very confused. He glanced angrily at Ryan before going over to the fireplace in the office, which had a mirror above it.

Mr Barrington looked at his face, confused. He took his enormous glasses off and squinted. Then he put them back on again. Eventually, he said:

“Hm. I can’t make out what it says at all. It seems to be saying …

Is it Russian?”

“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.

(#ulink_8ef01bc2-ac75-5bde-8e41-f9b1888234a8)

“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 …”