How to Write Really Badly (3 page)

Miss Tate said warningly:

‘I’m losing patience with you, Howard.’

So I stowed it till she left. Then all I did was watch as poor Joe picked up his pen, gripped it so hard his hand looked like some paralysed tarantula, and wrote, pitifully slowly:

‘That won’t do,’ I told him. ‘There’s five mistakes in that. Not to mention the truly dismal standard of penmanship.’

Joe tried to stick up for himself.

‘But you can read it, can’t you?’

‘Of a fashion.’

‘It’s the best I can do.’

‘Then you’re writing the wrong book,’ I told him patiently. ‘Always, in project work, it’s best to trade on your strengths, not on your weaknesses.’

Joe sighed.

‘Not sure I have any.’

If you don’t mind, I’m breaking off to make a short public service announcement here. I
know
when someone says to you, ‘I’m not sure I have any strengths,’ you’re supposed to pat their paw kindly and say to them: ‘Of
course
you do!
Everyone
has strengths. It’s just that some people’s are more hidden than others. And some people’s don’t show up in school.’

I
know
you’re supposed to say that. OK? It’s just that that isn’t what I said.

What I said was:

‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re really good at writing really badly.’

You want to know my big mistake? I’d said the magic words: ‘You’re really good at –’ That was my big mistake. Here was this sad case at my side, whose teachers probably hadn’t drawn a smiley face at the bottom of his work since he was
three
, and I was saying he’s really good at something.

‘Do you think so?’

He beamed so wide, I thought his face might split. For one grisly moment, I feared he would even lean over and hug me.

Then it was Worry Hour again.

‘But will you help?’

So tell me, all you bigheads out there reading this: what would you have said?
Here I am, stuck in Happy Valley School, where everyone is peachy-sweet, and this poor dimple-head thinks that I’m being
nice
, like everyone else.

I’d like to see you wriggle out of it any better than I did.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll help.’

I picked up my pen. I wrote the title in big, clear capitals, so he could copy it on to one of the bits of card he’d spent break cutting to make covers. And copying isn’t hard, so he made quite a decent job of it. I won’t say it was neat. And there were way too many fingerprints. And he’ll take time to crack this business of the backwards ‘e’.

But I was proud of it. And so was he.

After a bit, Miss Tate trills over our way:

‘So how’s it going, Joe?’

He sticks his tongue back in his mouth to answer her.

‘It’s going well. Howard is helping me.’

Now didn’t Miss Tate look pleased at that!

‘And, Howard, how about your own work?’

‘It’s still a secret, Miss Tate.’

‘Well, just so long as you’re getting on with it.’

I looked at my nice white cover on which, so far, I’d written diddley-squat.

‘Getting along nicely, Ma’am.’

She nods away, all happy as a clam. My mother’s always saying it, and it is true. Some of these teachers are so away with the fairies, they should be put right out to grass.

I would have found it easier to work in a street riot. You wouldn’t believe the noise Joe Gardener made, trying to write. His pen clattered to the floor ten times a minute. He said ‘Sorry!’ half a dozen times whenever he stabbed me with his elbow. And every few seconds he lifted his desk lid and rooted through the garbage inside.

It was like sitting next to a giant gerbil.

‘What is the
matter?
’ I asked finally.

He turned his worried face in my direction.

‘What do you mean?’

I tried the question round another way.

‘Why aren’t you working?’

‘I
am
working. You can
see
I’m working.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t see you working.
All I can see is you knocking things off the desk, and flapping your paper, and lifting your desk lid every ten seconds to stir up the mess inside.’

‘Well, I am working.’

‘You’ve got nothing done.’

And it was true. So far he’d managed:

I felt a little brutal. He looked crushed.

‘What is that, anyway?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘What you’ve written.’

‘Can’t you read it?’

I gave it my best shot.

‘Ik you ore?’

He sighed so heavily, I knew I’d got it totally wrong. I tried again.

‘Ik –’

‘
If
.’

My turn to stare.

‘If
?’

He pointed.

‘That’s an
f
.’

‘In your dreams!’

‘Be fair,’ he argued. ‘That is definitely an
f
.’

‘And I’m a wombat.’

His face dropped.

‘Well, that’s why I was looking in my desk. Somewhere I’ve got a special sheet of paper with a lot of words written out for me.’

I peered into the dark abyss that was Joe Gardener’s desk.

‘How could you ever find one special sheet of paper in that tip?’

Flushing, he tried to defend himself.

‘I’m looking for my dictionary as well.’

I dipped a finger in and gingerly stirred a few mucky papers about.

‘No sign of any books in here.’

‘Maybe it’s sunk to the bottom.’

‘Why don’t you clear it out, for heaven’s sake? Then you’d be able to find things.’

He said unhappily:

‘I do
try
. It’s just –’

His voice trailed off. It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t really need telling. I’d seen him take a million years to (try to) write three words. If someone like Joe tried clearing his desk, he’d have a beard down to his feet before the job was done.

I pushed my blank How-to book cover aside.

‘All right,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

‘But we’re supposed to be –’

I didn’t stop to listen. I just punted up the front to fetch the waste-paper bin. Miss Tate’s beady eye fell on me the moment I stretched a hand under her desk.

‘Howard?’

‘Just borrowing the bin,’ I explained.

‘But, Howard. That bin’s for everyone.’

I think what I hate most about being in
school is being treated like a halfwit.

‘Yes. I do understand,’ I said. ‘But, right at this moment, Joe and I need it most because he can’t get down to work until we’ve cleared out his desk and found his dictionary.’

A strange light flickered in her eyes.

‘Cleared out Joe Gardener’s desk?’

I think I got the look right. I think my expression clearly said, ‘Yes, lady. You get the pay cheque. I do all the work.’

No more trouble from her, then. I carried my trophy back, and planted it on the floor beside Joe’s desk. Then I pointed to my chair.

‘You sit here.’

He shifted over. (Putty in my hands.)

‘Right,’ I said, lifting out the first disgusting sheet of chicken-scratchings. ‘Trash or treasure?’

‘Trash,’ he admitted.

I lifted another. ‘Trash or treasure?’

‘Trash.’

This is my mother’s trick. She uses it on me three times a year, before my grandmother’s visits.

‘What about these?’

‘Trash. Trash. Trash. Trash.’

It took a while. I had to keep putting my foot in the bin to stamp the rubbish down, and make more room. But gradually we worked our way down all the tides of rubbish in his desk. And once or twice we had a nice surprise.

‘Treasure! I lost that pound
weeks
ago!’

Or:

‘My dental appointment card! Mum’s been nagging me for that!’

And suddenly, a triumph!

‘Hey! That’s my special sheet of paper!’

‘Take a break.’

I strolled across to Flora.

‘Borrow your sticky tape?’

Miss Tate had spotted me.

‘Howard,’ she trilled. ‘We don’t go wandering in this class without putting up our hands first, to ask permission.’

What is it with teachers and this stupid ‘we’ business? Miss Tate had been rolling round the room all morning, and never once put up her hand.

‘Gosh, sorry!’ I warbled, and scuttled back with Flora’s tape in hand. I used a lot. (No point in messing about.) I stuck that special sheet of paper on the desk so well it won’t go walkabout again. And I took a look at it.