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I don't like Year 6. It's a bit...you know what I mean? Dreary. It's put this in your folder, Dave. No, not that folder, Dave. I'm confiscating your iPod, Dave.

Submitted:Aug 9, 2008    Reads: 233    Comments: 3    Likes: 3   

I don't like Year 6. It's a bit...you know what I mean? Dreary. It's put this in your folder, Dave. No, not that folder, Dave. I'm confiscating your iPod, Dave. And the classroom smells. It smells like mothballs, and Frooti-Tooti Chewy, which is under at least every desk once. You can only breath fresh air in Classroom A when you're outside of it. I loved Year 5. I was cool then, you know what I mean? People liked me. But in a way, I didn't have no friends, you know what I mean? Yeah. Anyway, on with my story. We got this teacher, an' her name's Miss Pipley, but we all call her Miss Poopley. Well, I do. That's why I was cool last year, you know what I mean? Anyway, here I am, and I pass this note around about her. It has a picture of her, going all crazy-like, and there's stink-lines coming from her butt, you know what I mean? And above her head it says, "Miss Poopley" but instead of the "oo"s, I put little drawings of poos. I love art. Anyway, I'm about to pass it to Ashrik Tahndala, but Miss Pipley comes over and she's like, "Is there something wrong, Dave?" And it just slips out, you know what I mean? And I says, "No, Miss Poopley." An' she goes all cold-like, an' she grabs the paper, and puts a hand over her mouth. She told me to spend the rest of the day in Classroom B. I ain't never heard of Classroom B. But somehow, I know where it is, you know what I mean? My head's thinkin' of something else, but my feet shuffle to the door, and my hand turns the knob, and my nose reluctantly takes a whiff of air. But the air in here is worse. It smells like two things; Perfume, and...dried blood. But it's not just the smell. There's something so...deceased about Classroom B, you know what I mean? It's got that-what's the word?-atmosphere of depression, like the air is full of screams, but silent ones. And I have to sit in the corner, next to a khaki cupboard. It's like on o' them lockers, you know what I mean? But I can't stand next to it. It's so un-magnetic to my heart, I just can't do it. So I do the school a runner. Again. I skipped classes before. I wagged 'em. But not like this. I'm actually scared. I see our brown little house. I go through the weeds around the side of the hose, and throw open the flyscreen door. I dash into the kitchen and lean on the counter, panting. As I breath deeply, a well-known voice sighs. "I know what you did, Dave. You have to stop." Mum has a look of worry on her tanned face. "You wagged it because you were bored." "Not because I was bored!' I say, not defensively, though, you know what I mean? "I got scared." "Scared of What?" "This Classroom B, Ma. It's so...dead." "Yes, it is." "What?" Mum sidles over to the sink and starts scrubbing pasta off a crusty plate. "You remember a Miss Dinley?" I shake my head. "She was a good teacher. Wonderful woman, she was." "Was?" "Yeah, she died. Fell out the window o' Classroom B, where she was teaching her Year 3 class. But the strangest thing was, that before she died, she locked the cupboard inside the room." "And no-one knows what was in there?" "Nope. She died with the key. And YOU'RE going to die if you don't apologise to Mrs Pipley tomorrow, capische?" I nod. Capische is such a spastic word, you know what I mean? But I have to find out what was in that cupboard if it's the last thing I do. I DO apologise to Mrs Pipley/Poopley, but she still sends me to Classroom B. How mean can a person be, you know what I mean? I was prepared, though. Last Christmas, I got one o' them Swedish Pocket Knives, with the tiny blade, you know what I mean? I just cut a hole around the handle of the cupboard, an' open it. Inside are about a dozen. Human. Bodies. Some are bleeding. Some have screams on their faces. Some have broken bones and twisted body parts. But they have one thing in common; they are all dead. I let go off the door, shocked, and one tumbles out of position, on top of me. I dodge. I'm a good dodger, you know what I mean? But after I dodge, I feel a strange force, no, not a gust of air, a HANd push me tumbling out the window. So now I'm waiting. Me, another dozen kids killed with the same trick, and Mrs Dinley. We're waiting for the next kid to be sent to this class. Because we're hungry. And one just won't do, you know what I mean?


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