The New Kid at school

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
He's new. He's fresh. He's the boy you can count on to put the blame on.

Submitted: January 21, 2010

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Submitted: January 21, 2010



Mr. Emon gives a bloodcurdling roar. He chucks his bit of chalk at the back wall, charges from the blackboard to the front desks and bellows, "That is enough!"

Dead Silence.

The bit of chalk rolls across the floor somewhere.

I'm terrified to death because I'm sitting in the front row with Mr. Emon's enormous gut jammed up against my desk, just twenty centimetres away from my eyes. I don't dare to look upwards. He'll be frowning so hard his eyebrows will have merged into one big wavy, hairy line, his facial expression fuming with disapproval and his laser eyes, scanning the entire class, trying to pin-point the culprit who spat the spit-ball.

I close my eyes in hope that coming to this school is just some sort of bad dream and I'm really just back at my old school in Sydney. I cautiously open my eyes again, only to see the straining belt bulckle Mr. Emon is wearing, glinting in front of me.

No, it's not a nightmare. I'm still in year 10 with the fattest mathematics teacher alive.

Of course, I didn't spit the spit-ball. In facet, anyone with the right mind would know not to do some kind of crazy stunt like that, unless of course they know they can get away with it.

The rolling chalk stops and all that can be heard is Mr. Emon inhaling deeply and exhaling with all the exaggeration he can muster. He's beetroot red, veins popping and eye twitching.

Veerrrryyyy slowly, he strolls back to the teacher's desk, eyeing us, full of loathing. We all stare blankly back at him. He turns his right foot and swivels back to face the black board. Biiiiggg boo-boo.

A shower of spit-balls practically hammers down like hail on every squarecentimetre that is available on Mr. Emon's plump body. The last one, hitting him square on the buttocks. I'm agasp.

He roars, snaps his head back to face the class, landing his pitch black eyeballs...on me. Me. A simpleton. A new kid. Me. Why me? I don't know. But that sure isn't the problem I should be pondering about now. I should be firguring out how to get his bloodshot loathing eyeballs off me.

I look around the classroom for a bit of support. I look to my left to see Stella Barker, her index finger pointing at my forhead. I look to my right to see Tim Sanders and Clarik Benson both giving me the "man I feel bad for you" look, their index fingers pointing to my chest.

I look up at Mr. Emon and utter a nervous laugh, "It wasn't me."

It wasn't me? What the fuck? Why did I just say that? Those are the exact words that puts you into suspicion.

He's mad. He's lost it. He's just gone bull. Well...what did I expect him to do? Believe me? Pshaw. The whole world is pointing the finger of blame at my face, chest and forehead. What do I wish Mr. Emon would do? I wish he'd just kneel down and apologise for even thinking that I, the new kid, would do such a stupid thing.

Saying "It wasn't me" has probably just ruined all my mathematic marks for the rest of the year with Mr. Emon. I'll be blamed for every spit-ball in sight, and I don't want that.

I put my hands up in the air, as if to say 'I surrender.' Tactic one. Reasoning.

"Look, sir" I say, trying to calm myself, "I know what you're thinking. You think I did it. But I didn't. I swear to god. I didn't do it."

Mr. Emon ponders over my surrender, his beady little eyeballs scanning my face, "have you any proof?"

Good, ok. So now the old bastard wants proof. What am I? Sherlock Holmes? I buy some time for myself, "well...."

"Well what?" He thunders, his temper rising again.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellll...can YOU find any proof that I did do it?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "Let me see whats in your pockets."

I shrug. Whatever. I never have anything in my pockets. What does he expect to find? Some tissues and a pipe for spit-balling fat mathematics teachers? I don't think so.

I obligingly empty my pockets, starting with my school pants. Nothing. My front pocket of my school shirt. Nothing. I look up at Mr. Emon, "Satisfied?"

He smiles, "You forget to check a pocket, boy." He points to my blazer, hanging on my chair, "Hiding something in that Blazer's pocket, I suppose?" He sneers.

I roll my eyes. Nothing is going to be in there. To prove it to him, I reach into the pocket........I pause. Something is in there. I slowly pull out the objects. A pipe and a couple of tissues. OH shit.

The rest of the class snickers.

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