Bill's New Frock. Anne Fine

closed, rather sharply.

      Back in the classroom, everyone settled down at their tables.

      ‘We’ll do our writing first, shall we?’ said Mrs Collins. ‘And after that, we’ll reward ourselves with a story.’

      While Mrs Collins handed out the writing books and everyone scrabbled for pencils and rubbers, Bill looked round his table.

      He was the only one in a dress.

      Flora was wearing trousers and a blue blouse. Kirsty and Nick were both wearing jeans and a shirt. Philip was wearing corduroy slacks and a red jumper, and Talilah wore a bright red satin salwar kameez.

      Yes, there was no doubt about it. Talilah looked snazzy enough to go dancing, but Bill was the only one in a frock.

      Oh, this was awful! What on earth had happened? Why didn’t anybody seem to have noticed? What could he do? When would it end?

      Bill Simpson put his head in his hands and covered his eyes.

      ‘On with your work down there on table five,’ warned Mrs Collins promptly.

      She meant him. He knew it. So Bill picked up his pen and opened his books. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to have any choice. Things were still going on in their own way, as in a dream.

      He wrote more than he usually did. He wrote it more neatly than usual, too. If you looked back through the last few pages of his work book, you’d see he’d done a really good job, for him.

      But you wouldn’t have thought so, the way Mrs Collins went on when she saw it.

      ‘Look at this,’ she scolded, stabbing her finger down on the page. ‘This isn’t very neat, is it? Look at this dirty smudge. And the edge of your book looks as if it’s been chewed!’

      She turned to Philip to inspect his book next. It was far messier than Bill’s. It was more smudgy and more chewed-looking. The writing was untidy and irregular. Some of the letters were so enormous they looked like giants herding the smaller letters haphazardly across the page.

      ‘Not bad at all, Philip,’ she said. ‘Keep up the good work.’

      Bill could scarcely believe his ears. He was outraged. As soon as she’d moved off, he reached out for Philip’s book, laid it beside his own on the table, and compared the two.

      ‘It isn’t fair!’ he complained bitterly. ‘Your page is much worse than my page. She didn’t say anything nice to me.’

      Philip just shrugged and said:

      ‘Well, girls are neater.’

      Bill felt so cross he had to sit on his hands to stop himself from thumping Philip.

      Up at her desk, Mrs Collins was leafing through the class reader: Tales of Today and Yesterday.

      ‘Where are we?’ she asked them. ‘Where did we finish last week? Did we get to the end of Polly the Pilot?’

      She turned the page.

      ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Here’s a good old story you all know perfectly well, I’m sure. It’s Rapunzel. And today it’s table five’s turn to take the main parts.’

      Looking up, she eyed all six of them sitting there waiting.

      ‘You’ll be the farmer,’ she said to Nick. ‘You be the farmer’s wife,’ to Talilah. ‘Witch,’ she said to Flora. ‘Prince,’ she said to Philip. ‘Narrator,’ she said to Kirsty.

      Oh, no! Oh, no! Bill held his breath as Mrs Collins looked at him and said:

      ‘The Lovely Rapunzel.’

      Before Bill could protest, Talilah had started reading aloud. She and the farmer began with a furious argument about whether or not it was safe to steal a lettuce from the garden of the wicked witch next door, to feed their precious daughter Rapunzel. Once they’d got going, Bill didn’t like to interrupt them, so he just sat and flicked over the pages, looking for his first speech.

      It was a long wait. The Lovely Rapunzel didn’t seem to do very much. She just got stolen out of spite by the Witch, and hidden away at the very top of a high stone tower which had no door. There she just sat quietly for about fifteen years, being no trouble and growing her hair.

      She didn’t try to escape. She didn’t complain. She didn’t even have any fights with the Witch.

      So far as Bill Simpson could make out, she wasn’t really worth rescuing. He wasn’t at all sure why the Prince bothered. He certainly wouldn’t have made the effort himself.

      After three pages, there came a bit for Rapunzel.

      ‘Ooooooooh!’ Bill read out aloud. ‘Oooooooooh!’

      No, it wasn’t much of a part. Or much of a life, come to that, if you thought about it.

      Bill raised his hand. He couldn’t help it.

      ‘Yes?’ Mrs Collins said. ‘What’s the problem?’ She hated interruptions when they were reading.

      ‘I don’t see why Rapunzel just has to sit and wait for the Prince to come along and rescue her,’ Bill explained. ‘Why couldn’t she plan her own escape? Why didn’t she cut off all her lovely long hair herself, and braid it into a rope, and knot the rope to something, and then slide down it? Why did she have to just sit there and waste fifteen years waiting for a Prince?’

      Mrs Collins narrowed her eyes at Bill Simpson.

      ‘You’re in a very funny mood today,’ she told him. ‘Are you sure that you’re feeling quite yourself?’

      Was he feeling quite himself? In this frock? Bill stared around the room. Everyone’s eyes were on him. They were all waiting to hear what he said. What could he say?

      Mercifully, before he was forced to answer, the bell rang for playtime.