How to Write Really Badly Read Free Page A

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 inschool 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