How to Write Really Badly by Anne Fine Page A

of a sarcasm-free zone.
    ‘I feel that way sometimes myself,’ he said. ‘But wait and see. It’ll come round so fast.’
    His eyes shone as if he were talking about his birthday, or Christmas.
    ‘Singing on Fridays,’ I said. ‘Right. I’ll remember that when things get grim.’ And I looked up to see how we were doing with today’s great excitement – choosing the blackboard monitor.
    ‘So that’s agreed, then, is it?’ Miss Tate was saying. ‘Flora this week, and Ben the week after.’
    I suppose, when something of world-shattering importance like this is decided, it’s always best to check things one last time.
    ‘Everyone happy with that?’
    I’d have put money on the fact that no dill-brain in the world could give a flying crumpet who was blackboard monitor, this week or next. But – whoa there! I was wrong. Quite wrong.
    This hand beside me shoots up in the air. ‘Miss Tate?’
    ‘Yes, dear?’
    ‘I think it would be nice if Howard –’
    ‘
Chester
,’ I couldn’t help correcting.
    But he wasn’t listening. He was busy fixing my life.
    ‘If Howard was made blackboard monitor. Because he’s new. And I don’t think he’s very sure he’s going to like it here. Because he’s already worked out that it’s six whole hours –’
    See my eyes pop? But what was staggering me most was that this bozo meant well! He was trying to be
kind
!
    ‘– till he gets home.’
    I flicked on all exterminator rays, but nothing could stop him. He was being
nice
.
    ‘So I think it would be a really good idea if we made him blackboard monitor.’
    Joe sat back, satisfied.
    Miss Tate spread her hands like someone glowing in a holy painting.
    ‘Flora? Ben? Would you mind?’
    Surprise, surprise! Ben didn’t burst into tears, and Flora didn’t gnash her teeth at not being blackboard monitor for one more week.

    So, that’s it. Ten minutes in, and I’m Head Wiperoony. What Great Luck!
    ‘Well!’ Miss Tate said brightly, giving me a meaningful smile. ‘My blackboard looks as if it could do with a thorough good wiping, just to start the day.’
    I sighed. I stood up. What else could I do? I took the little furry wooden block from Flora’s outstretched hand, and smiled back sweetly when she smiled at me. I wiped the board, then set the little furry thing carefully on its ledge.
    ‘Very good,’ Miss Tate said. ‘Excellent. A lovely job.’
    You’d have thought that I’d balanced the budget, or something.
    Modestly, I wiped the chalk dust from my fingertips.
    ‘And now let’s give Howard a nice big round of applause as he goes back to his desk.’
    I didn’t put up any further fight. Chester. Howard. What’s in a name? I was a broken reed, ready to slip my head in a noose, or walk the plank, or do anything I was asked. Don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I am no wimp. I’ve smacked heads in my time. Young Chester Howard here has stuck up for himself in schools where the pudding plates go flying, and schools where, if you don’t watch yourself, someone’s infected teeth are in your leg, and schools where the staff need cattle prods.
    But Walbottle Manor (Mixed)! Their sheer bloodcurdling
niceness
had defeated me, and I ran up the white flag.
    Howard it was.

2
All goody-goody and old-fashioned
    You wouldn’t
believe
the playground. Half of these goofballs were wandering round offering their last crisp to anyone who looked in the slightest bit peaky, and the rest were all skipping.
    No kidding. They were skipping. Two rosy-cheeked milkmaids in pigtails were swinging this great long rope, and everyone else was jumping up and down, all thrilled to bits, waiting their turn.
    Then, each time someone rushed in under the rope, everyone burst into song.
    I stood on the steps and listened. First I heard:
    Miss Tate bent down to pick a rose
.
    A rose so sweet and tender
.
    Alas! Alack! She bent too far
,
    And
bang!
went her suspender
.
    And then I heard:
    Mandy Frost was a very good girl;
    She went to