Bloom. Nicola Skinner

pale eyelashes peeped out through her frizzy brown hair, fluttering rapidly. She reached for her tablet and began to call out names from the register.

      ‘Robbie Bradbury?’

      ‘Here,’ said Robbie from the desk in front of ours.

      Interesting facts about Robbie:

       He’s got a thing about gerbils. He managed to keep his last one, Victoria, in his locker for a whole week in the summer term before she escaped. No one knows where she got to. And this is not a book about a missing gerbil, in case you were wondering. She doesn’t turn up at the end. I’m sure she’s fine.

       He’s totally deaf in his right ear. If he’s interested in what you have to say, he turns his left ear towards you really carefully.

       Why I like him: he’s funny.

      ‘Elka Kowalski?’

      A big smile spread across Elka’s round face in her desk across the aisle.

      ‘Here, Miss Mozzheart.’

      Interesting facts about Elka:

       Elka’s from Poland. She came to live in Little Sterilis two years ago. She and her family live two streets away from us.

       She is massively into rock music, particularly an all-female Polish band called the Sisters of Crush.

       Elka’s mum works in Chillz too, but on the production line, and not in the bit where the software’s kept, so our mums don’t see each other much. We still give each other the odd Chillz Kidz smile now and again.

       Why I like her: I just do.

      ‘Bertie Troughton?’ said Miss Mossheart.

      ‘Here,’ whispered Bertie, making a visible effort to speak up.

      Interesting facts about Bertie:

       He’s a huge bookworm.

       He has quite a lot of eczema on his face, neck and hands. This seems to get itchier when Mr Grittysnit is around, and less painful when he is reading.

       In Year Four, Bertie won our school’s one and only creative-writing competition. His essay was about a horrible headmaster who got eaten by a snake. The next year, Mr Grittysnit banned creative-writing competitions. But Bertie still likes doodling snakes in his exercise books. Especially when Mr Grittysnit comes into our classroom.

       Why I like him: you can’t NOT like Bertie – he’s sweet and kind.

      

      AFTER THE REGISTER, we filed into the school hall for Assembly.

      The hall was buzzing. Excited whispers flew around us, thicker and faster than treacle jetpacks. Kids squirmed and craned their necks to size up their competition: other children. The air was sweet with undertones of shoe polish, iron starch and shampoo.

      There was a bustling movement in the doorway. Children straightened their backs and arranged their faces into the ‘nice and polite’ setting.

      I did the same, then nudged Neena, who glared. ‘This is ridic—’

      ‘Shh,’ I hissed.

      Mr Grittysnit strode on to the stage, a tall bald man in a grey suit. Everything about him was tidy and precise, from his closely clipped fingernails to the way he walked, every step exactly the same measurement as the last. Even his yellow teeth were perfectly aligned. The only thing remotely untidy about him was the thick thatch of long black hairs which sprouted from his nostrils.

      He marched to the lectern and cleared his throat. ‘Children,’ he said.

      Along our row, Bertie started to scratch his hands.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Grittysnit,’ we said in unison.

      ‘I have called a Special Assembly today because it is a very important day.’

      I nodded solemnly.

      ‘Now, as you are well aware, it’s the first day of our competition to find the Grittysnit Star, and I want to explain the rules.’

      ‘Pah,’ muttered Neena, picking at her eyebrow and slouching in her chair.

      ‘Rules are extremely important, as we all know. They keep us in line, give us purpose and make this school what it is.’

      Next to me, Robbie nodded too, as if this was something he also strongly believed, despite the whole Victoria-the-gerbil thing, which I knew for a fact was against rules number 11, 17 and 101 in The Grittysnit Rule Book.

      ‘Obedience Points will be allocated to every child each time they behave in a way that befits our school’s motto: May obedience shape you. May conformity mould you. May rules polish you. The child with the most at the end of the term will be the winner. Now, any teacher can reward you with Obedience Points.’ He made a sweeping gesture to the row of teachers on the stage behind him, who looked back at us with grave faces.

      Miss Mossheart gazed at her lap.

      ‘But be warned,’ the Head continued. ‘If your behaviour is unsatisfactory; if you are scruffy, late, answer back, unenthusiastic about following school rules; or are dressed in anything less than our regulation uniform, you will earn a Bad Blot. The child with the most Bad Blots by the end of term will be expelled.’

      There was a collective gasp from around the hall.

      Bertie’s fingers flew to his cheeks.

      ‘I need not point out,’ Mr Grittysnit said, his eyes sweeping the room, ‘how unsatisfactory that would be. We are the only primary school in Little Sterilis, so if you are expelled, you will have to attend the extremely inferior school in Western Poorcrumble. If they will have you.’ His dark eyes glittered and his nostril hairs quivered dramatically.

      Mr Grittysnit was one of those grown-ups who could speak to a hall full of children and make each one feel as if he was talking only to them. I squirmed uncomfortably and, by the pained expressions on the faces around me, I could tell everyone else felt the same.

      ‘But come,’ he said. ‘Let’s not be gloomy. Follow the rules, and you have nothing to fear.’

      A hand shot up a few rows ahead of us.

      Mr Grittysnit stared at a small boy from Year Three – the Dirt Devils. ‘What?’ he snapped.

      The boy stood up and gave a bow. ‘My mum is scared of flying, sir, so is there any other prize we could try to win, apart from the holiday in Portugal?’

      Mr Grittysnit cocked his head to one side. One of his nostril hairs seemed to peep out, as if sniffing out a potential uprising. ‘There is no second prize. If you win, I suggest you put a bandage on your mother’s eyes, a bag on her head, or better yet, leave her behind as punishment for her lack of cooperation. Fear of flying is simply a sign of a disobedient mind. Hers must be disciplined.’

      ‘Er,’ said the boy.

      ‘Yet you will all be winners,’ continued Mr Grittysnit, thumping the lectern with clenched fists. ‘And your prize is this: becoming a better child. I have no doubt that, after eight weeks, each of you – apart from the expelled child, of course, ho ho, who will be eking out their miserable existence somewhere else – will be neater, tidier, more cooperative and more obedient than you were at the start. You will all be new and improved.’

      The boy smiled uncertainly. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He sat back down very quickly.

      ‘Any more questions?’ asked Mr Grittysnit. ‘Good. Now, before we eat into any more precious time, I have one more