Head Kid. David Baddiel

the TV, pushed his enormous glasses up on his forehead and fell asleep.

      At which point, Ryan Ward, who had been sitting at the back quietly, knew it was time to make his move.

      “What are you writing?” whispered Ellie Stone. She was one of six pupils gathered in a circle round Mr Barrington’s right hand. The reason this circle had gathered was that Mr Barrington’s right hand was lying loosely by his side. His head was lolling on his chest and he was snoring gently into his moustache. A tiny bit of dribble, originating from the left-hand corner of 6B’s teacher’s mouth, had made its way down to the top of his chin. And crouching by his right hand was Ryan Ward, brandishing an eyeliner pencil.

      “You’ll see …” said Ryan, whispering back.

      “And so the sheet metal is curved round the frame of the bucket …” said the television, not whispering.

      Very carefully, and making sure he did it gently enough not to wake his teacher, he began to write.

      “That’s clever,” said Sam. “You’re doing mirror writing.”

      “I am,” said Ryan. He carried on writing with great concentration. Because this was, of course, a prank. And Ryan, the naughtiest boy at Bracket Wood, prided himself on his pranks. He was a philosopher-prince amongst pranksters. Not for him the bucket of water on the top of the door, or the fifty pizzas delivered to your house that you haven’t ordered. He was a prankster whose motto was Make it new. Even if he was using an old trick – such as one you might play on a sleeping teacher – Ryan would have to do it in his own way. The devil, some people say, is in the detail, and certainly this particular devil always made sure he got all the details right for all his tricks.

      “It’s important, at this stage, to make sure that the bottom of the bucket does not have a hole in it. Even if later – ha-ha! – you might want to sing a song about that!”

      Ryan put the eyeliner pencil down.

      “OK,” he said – still whispering – to his little audience. “Now for the kicker.”

      He reached into his school bag and brought out a little plastic box. Inside, munching on a piece of lettuce, was an ant. He put his index finger inside the box and let the ant crawl on to it. Then, watched by the entranced circle of schoolmates, he carefully raised that finger towards Mr Barrington’s forehead, to just above his pushed-up glasses. The ant looked up, twitched its tiny antennae and began to make its way down his finger.

      “Using this process, a workshop can make up to fifteen buckets a day.”

      “Hang on,” said a voice. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing …?”

      

      Ryan didn’t turn round. Focused, concentrating, he kept his finger still.

      “I don’t know, Dionna,” said Ryan. “What do you think I’m doing?”

      Dionna Baxter, standing right behind him, was Ryan’s best friend. She was also usually his prank assistant. But that didn’t mean she saw herself as junior to him. Not least because she was two months older.

      “I think you’re doing something that means that ant is gonna die.”

      “Well … possibly …” said Ryan.

      “Can’t do that,” said Dionna.

      “What?”

      “Can’t do that, Ryan. Not fair to the ant. Little ant just strolling around your garden, building its ant stuff, carrying leaves …”

      “Actually, it was carrying one of my bogies. That’s how I caught it. Couldn’t resist that salty goodness.”

      “Whatevs. Point is, it doesn’t deserve what you’ve got planned. Mr B, maybe. Not the ant.”

      “Dionna,” said Ryan, still looking at the ant, which by now had nearly made it to the teacher’s forehead, “if we keep arguing, Barrington will wake up!”

      “So. Stop arguing.”

      Finally, Ryan moved his gaze up to meet Dionna’s. Her eyes looked at him in a way that brooked no argument.

      Ryan sighed. “OK. OK!” He put his finger back down into the plastic box with the lettuce in it. The ant, uncertain as to the point of its journey to and from the box, crawled off and resumed munching.

      “So now what are we going to use to tickle him?” said Ryan.

      “No worries,” said Dionna. She went round behind Mr Barrington’s still-sleeping form and flicked her head down, making the front tips of her hair fall on to his forehead. She moved her head from side to side, drawing the strands gently across his ingrained frown lines.

      Mr Barrington twitched in his sleep. His nose wiggled. Ryan, watching, understood.

      “OK, everyone! Back to your seats! Now!”

      Everyone ran, and they all got there in time. In time, that is, to see – in one movement – Mr Barrington open his eyes, let his glasses fall back down on to his nose and slap the palm of his right hand hard across his forehead.

      He yawned, stood up and said, “Hmm. Right, class!”

      He was about to say, “That was a very interesting documentary. I hope you all enjoyed it.”

      But he never got the chance as they were all pointing at him and laughing.

      

      “Sorry, Mr Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett, “I didn’t quite follow?”

      “As I was saying, Headmaster, I was showing Six B a fascinating documentary – I was paying great attention to it myself, of course – when suddenly the whole class started laughing and pointing at me. Well, obviously, I knew straight away who was behind this mockery: Ryan Ward! As usual!”

      Mr Barrington was standing in the office of Mr Fawcett, the headmaster of Bracket Wood, in front of his desk. Next to him stood Ryan Ward. There is an expression: as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I have never understood this expression. It means: looking innocent. What that has to do with the temperature of your mouth, I have no idea. And, frankly, if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you should call a doctor or an appliance engineer, because either you’re very ill, or your fridge is far too cold.

      But, anyway, Ryan was looking … like that. Although one giveaway that perhaps he wasn’t quite so innocent was his tie, which, as ever, was not done up properly. It hung loosely, two buttons down from his collar. Ryan liked to think of this as an act of rebellion: his way of saying, “Fine, I’m wearing the tie, but I’m not a boy in uniform.”

      “Right,” said Mr Fawcett to Mr Barrington. “But what has all that got to do with what you’ve got written on your forehead?”

      “Pardon, Headmaster?”

      “On your forehead, Barrington, you have some words. In black capitals.”

      Mr Barrington, who had been speaking and waving his arms around quite fast, stopped doing both of these things and looked very confused.