will be shown to the class in a five-minute presentation.’
Annabel raised her hand. ‘Will it be marked?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Scruby. He held up the pile of test papers on his desk. ‘And I’m warning you. If it’s as bad as this lot, I’ll make sure you regret it.’
Cries of ‘But, sir,’ and ‘That’s not fair,’ filled the air.
Mr Scruby ignored them. ‘I’m leaving it up to you. The topic is “The Body”.’ He wrote those two words up on the board. ‘You can write fact sheets, make observations — anything — as long as it is about the body and how it functions. Any questions?’
‘Do you want it in a special project book?’ asked Annabel.
Ian could already picture Annabel’s projectbook. It would be covered in pink paper with a matching pink ribbon running down the spine.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘A project book, a poster, fact cards. It’s your presentation. You can do it how you like. All I ask is that you put some thought and effort into it and show it to the class.’
Ian put up his hand. ‘Can we do an experiment?’ he asked.
‘Even one that involves food,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘You’d be good at that.’ He laughed, looking around to see if someone would join in. Annabel tee-heed in return. Ian worked on his blank stare. ‘You can choose one part of the body and talk about that if you like,’ said Mr Scruby, warming up. ‘Sean, you might like to look at something you’re missing — the brain.’
The bumps in Sean’s cheeks grew to the size of golfballs.
‘Maybe Sean and Pieter should work with Ian and Colin?’ quipped Annabel.
Mr Scruby laughed again. The boys exchanged looks. They said, She’s dead meat and You betcha .
‘Which reminds me,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I don’t want you working in pairs. I want you to work alone. This should be all your own effort. Don’t even talk about it with each other. I want to see what you, alone, can come up with.’
The bell rang.
‘You’ve got one week,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘It’s due next Friday.’
Ian sighed. Another long, hard week loomed ahead.
‘Mr Screwball’s so mean,’ said Ian as the boys sat in the classroom writing an essay for their detention.
‘And the rest,’ said Sean. ‘He’s always so sar — sar — how d’you say it?’
‘Sarcastic,’ said Colin. ‘Mum says people who are sarcastic all the time have a big chip on their shoulder and you should feel sorry for them.’
‘Sorry for them?’ said Pieter. ‘You mean we should feel sorry for us.’ He kicked at the desk leg. ‘We’ve had a whole year of him.’
‘That stupid project,’ said Ian. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do it?’
‘If we don’t we’ll be on detention for the rest of term,’ said Colin.
‘Shish-kebab,’ said Ian.
‘Shivers,’ said Sean.
‘Shoot me,’ said Pieter, pointing two fingers at his head. ‘Might as well be dead.’
‘According to Mr Scruby you’re already brain-dead,’ said Colin.
They laughed then grew serious again. Suddenly Ian began to smile. ‘Come to think of it, this project won’t be too bad,’ he said. He noticed the puzzled faces around him. The smile deepened. ‘The trick,’ he added, putting an arm around Pieter and Sean’s shoulders and lowering his voice, ‘is choosing exactly the right project to do.’
Chapter Two
When Ian got home from school he did what he always did. Went straight to the loo. When you ate as much as Ian did, three visits a day was considered average. He sat, deep in thought, trying to think of a project that would rattle Mr Scruby. A few seconds later he made a startling discovery.
‘Muuum!’ Ian let out a shriek.
‘Ian?’ There was a knock on the bathroom door. ‘Ian? Are you all right?’
‘Muuum,’ he called, again. ‘I’m turding black!’ And his poo was black. Thick and black like a sausage made of tar. He’d seen brown poo, of course, and red poo once, when his mum had made him swallow some red worming
Annabel raised her hand. ‘Will it be marked?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Scruby. He held up the pile of test papers on his desk. ‘And I’m warning you. If it’s as bad as this lot, I’ll make sure you regret it.’
Cries of ‘But, sir,’ and ‘That’s not fair,’ filled the air.
Mr Scruby ignored them. ‘I’m leaving it up to you. The topic is “The Body”.’ He wrote those two words up on the board. ‘You can write fact sheets, make observations — anything — as long as it is about the body and how it functions. Any questions?’
‘Do you want it in a special project book?’ asked Annabel.
Ian could already picture Annabel’s projectbook. It would be covered in pink paper with a matching pink ribbon running down the spine.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘A project book, a poster, fact cards. It’s your presentation. You can do it how you like. All I ask is that you put some thought and effort into it and show it to the class.’
Ian put up his hand. ‘Can we do an experiment?’ he asked.
‘Even one that involves food,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘You’d be good at that.’ He laughed, looking around to see if someone would join in. Annabel tee-heed in return. Ian worked on his blank stare. ‘You can choose one part of the body and talk about that if you like,’ said Mr Scruby, warming up. ‘Sean, you might like to look at something you’re missing — the brain.’
The bumps in Sean’s cheeks grew to the size of golfballs.
‘Maybe Sean and Pieter should work with Ian and Colin?’ quipped Annabel.
Mr Scruby laughed again. The boys exchanged looks. They said, She’s dead meat and You betcha .
‘Which reminds me,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘I don’t want you working in pairs. I want you to work alone. This should be all your own effort. Don’t even talk about it with each other. I want to see what you, alone, can come up with.’
The bell rang.
‘You’ve got one week,’ said Mr Scruby. ‘It’s due next Friday.’
Ian sighed. Another long, hard week loomed ahead.
‘Mr Screwball’s so mean,’ said Ian as the boys sat in the classroom writing an essay for their detention.
‘And the rest,’ said Sean. ‘He’s always so sar — sar — how d’you say it?’
‘Sarcastic,’ said Colin. ‘Mum says people who are sarcastic all the time have a big chip on their shoulder and you should feel sorry for them.’
‘Sorry for them?’ said Pieter. ‘You mean we should feel sorry for us.’ He kicked at the desk leg. ‘We’ve had a whole year of him.’
‘That stupid project,’ said Ian. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do it?’
‘If we don’t we’ll be on detention for the rest of term,’ said Colin.
‘Shish-kebab,’ said Ian.
‘Shivers,’ said Sean.
‘Shoot me,’ said Pieter, pointing two fingers at his head. ‘Might as well be dead.’
‘According to Mr Scruby you’re already brain-dead,’ said Colin.
They laughed then grew serious again. Suddenly Ian began to smile. ‘Come to think of it, this project won’t be too bad,’ he said. He noticed the puzzled faces around him. The smile deepened. ‘The trick,’ he added, putting an arm around Pieter and Sean’s shoulders and lowering his voice, ‘is choosing exactly the right project to do.’
Chapter Two
When Ian got home from school he did what he always did. Went straight to the loo. When you ate as much as Ian did, three visits a day was considered average. He sat, deep in thought, trying to think of a project that would rattle Mr Scruby. A few seconds later he made a startling discovery.
‘Muuum!’ Ian let out a shriek.
‘Ian?’ There was a knock on the bathroom door. ‘Ian? Are you all right?’
‘Muuum,’ he called, again. ‘I’m turding black!’ And his poo was black. Thick and black like a sausage made of tar. He’d seen brown poo, of course, and red poo once, when his mum had made him swallow some red worming
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