Any boy cussing his mum would get a punch. James was one of the toughest kids in Year Seven. Even funnier than the first three times you said it. I went for a five-mile jog yesterday, Samantha said. James loved his mum, but he tried to find excuses when she wanted to go somewhere with him. She had to order her clothes out of a special catalog for fat people. Samantha’s cronies laughed, same as always. James’s mum is so fat, they have to grease the bath tub or she gets stuck in it. She was always winding him up about his mum being fat: But when the teachers weren’t looking, Samantha was a total cow. She did all her diagrams with three different colored pens and covered her textbooks in wrapping paper so they looked extra smart. Teachers thought Samantha was fantastic: always volunteering for stuff, neat uniform, glossed nails.
James was sleepy because the lab was hot and he’d been up late playing Grand Theft Auto the night before. It was his second to last class, raining outside and turning dark. You had to write everything down even though the photocopier got invented forty years earlier. What he got was an hour propped on a stool watching Miss Voolt write on a blackboard. It should have been test tubes, jets of gas, and sparks flying all over the place, like he’d imagined when he was still at primary school.
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