Bloom

Outside, the sun beat down on the empty playground. The sound of the school gates being slammed shut rang out across the tarmac. My stomach quivered as I followed Neena through the door. I touched my Head of Year badge for luck.

Showtime.

EVERY SEPTEMBER, ON the first day of school, a very important tradition took place at Grittysnits. Before we walked into the classroom that would be ours for the next year, we’d get a special talk from our headmaster.

Oh ho, you’re probably thinking. Aha. Special talk, eh? Something to kindle a love of learning? A pep talk about wisdom and books and the wonderful things that can happen when you learn and you listen?

Nope.

Mr Grittysnit never talked about books or knowledge or that sort of stuff. No. Mr Grittysnit liked to talk about inventions.

And not just any invention. He wasn’t excited about toy robots, or potted plants that played music from speakers in their leaves. He preferred things that made the world tidier, cleaner, spicker and spanner. He idolised inventions that tidied up human existence and made it all a bit less messy.

And each classroom was named after his favourites.

This term, Mr Grittysnit had pointed at the silver plaque outside our Year Six classroom and fixed us with a solemn stare. ‘There is nothing more satisfying than putting a shiny plastic sheen over things,’ he’d said. ‘The most boring and insignificant things in the world can be transformed with a laminator. Put mediocrity through this machine and it instantly looks better.’

Then he’d glared at us meaningfully for a while. I thought I heard him mutter, ‘If only I could do the same to children’, but I wasn’t completely sure.

So, we were known as the Laminators. It wasn’t that catchy. But as I followed Neena into the classroom, the name suddenly made sense. Everyone did look as if they’d been put through a laminator – shiny, plastic, new. It was all gleaming teeth, scrubbed faces, fresh socks. Not one grimy fingernail, stray bogey or muddy knee. Mr Grittysnit’s competition had started in earnest, and it looked as if everyone in the Laminators was out to win.

‘Didn’t you read the letter, girls?’ teased the tall, red-haired girl nearby, checking her perfect French braid in a compact mirror. ‘The Grittysnit Star has to look amazing. Not –’ she looked us up and down, smirking – ‘like you’ve been sicked up by a cat.’

I bit my lip.

Chrissie snapped her compact shut and stared pointedly at Neena’s burnt eyebrow and my crumpled shirt.

Neena shrugged. ‘This will scab over soon,’ she said evenly.

Chrissie looked at me with disdainful emerald eyes. ‘What’s your excuse, Suck-up?’

I stared at my shoes. Chrissie was the human equivalent of a funfair mirror. I always felt shorter and chubbier when she was around. How we normally interacted went like this: she’d say something mean; I’d bite my lip and pretend I was too busy thinking about something important to reply; she’d snigger, give me a pitying look and then saunter off. And repeat.

I could feel her eyes boring into me, amused. I continued to admire the view of my black lace-ups.

After a while, she laughed. ‘It’s your choice, I suppose,’ Chrissie said casually, flicking the collar on her immaculate charcoal-grey silk shirt. ‘If you can’t be bothered to make an effort, be my guest. Anyway, it’ll make it easier for me to win the prize.’

The scrawny blonde girl by her side nodded adoringly, her silver braces glinting in the light. ‘Easier, no contest.’ I have to say this for Bella Pearlman, Chrissie’s sidekick: she seemed easy to please. All she needed was a couple of words to repeat once in a while. Entertaining herself in the school holidays must have been a breeze.

I forced a smile out. Good girls don’t fight.

After a pause, they sidled off towards their desks. As they walked away, I busied myself with my rucksack, brushing off imaginary specks of dirt.

When I looked up, Neena was giving me a funny look. ‘When are you going to start standing up to her?’ she asked. ‘You could run circles round her if you tried.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said quickly. ‘I’d rather stay out of her way if she’s in one of her moods. Anyway, as Head of Year, I can’t be seen getting into arguments. That wouldn’t set a good example to anybody else.’

Neena rolled her eyes as we walked towards our desks by the window. But even her Little Miss Judgy act wasn’t going to get me to change. Because no good could come from standing up to Chrissie Valentini. Only last term, a nice supply teacher had gently asked her to stop losing her spelling books. Chrissie’s parents had threatened to sue the school for defamation if the teacher wasn’t fired, and we’d never seen the nice supply teacher again.

Mr Grittysnit did everything Mr Valentini wanted. Chrissie’s father was rich, he was on the board of governors and he gave loads of money to the school every year for school trips and supplies. Plus, he owned a big property-development company that gave Mr Grittysnit a cut-price deal on school extensions, which Mr Grittysnit was very fond of doing.

So, yeah, it wasn’t ever a good idea to cheese off Chrissie. Which meant pretending her jokes were hilarious. Even if they were at my expense.

*

In the Laminators, silence reigned. Everyone sat upright in their chairs, hands folded neatly in their laps, waiting for our shy teacher, Miss Mossheart, to take the register. This was unusual. Normally, she had to beg to be heard above the racket you get when you put thirty eleven-year-olds into one room.

Miss Mossheart flinched if the classroom was too loud, blushed if anybody looked at her longer than two seconds, and if she ever had to tell anyone off would spend the rest of the lesson panting quietly at her desk, trying to get her breath back.

You might wonder why she went to work at Grittysnits in the first place. The word in the corridor was she was Mr Grittysnit’s niece. Apparently, he gave her a job because she failed her Chillz interview and couldn’t find work anywhere else in town.

Her 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 announcement.’

I squirmed excitedly in my seat. This term just kept getting better and better. I wished I’d brought something to take notes with.

‘A school that doesn’t develop is a school that doesn’t succeed.’ Mr Grittysnit stretched his lips back and flashed his yellow teeth at us in what we’d learned was his smile.

A little boy in Reception, new to the unpredictable ways of Mr Grittysnit’s face, burst into tears.

‘Which is why I’m delighted to announce that from tomorrow, work will begin on the construction of a brand-new space. A space where you will be able to reach your full potential and prepare yourself for the real world.’

I wondered what he was talking about. A sports hall? A theatre? A proper science block to keep Neena quiet? The bigger library Bertie always said we needed?

‘You’re all going to get a brand-new exam hall!’ said Mr Grittysnit.

An uncertain silence filled the room.

Then, along our row, Bella and Chrissie began to clap.

There was a flash of mustard teeth in their direction. Mr Grittysnit waved a hand vaguely at the window, through which we could see the football-pitch-sized patch of grass that we played and had PE on. ‘It will be built on that useless playing field out there.’

‘But that’s the last of our field,’ spluttered Neena indignantly. ‘There’ll be nothing but concrete if he takes that away!’

‘I’ve decided you’ll be better off without it,’ declared Mr Grittysnit, as if Neena had never spoken. ‘Too much grass can lead to grass stains! Too many bugs outside leads to bugs inside, which leads to illness and sick days and a patchy school attendance record! A nice clean exam hall is much more beneficial to your future, your welfare – and the state of your uniform, quite frankly. Valentini Constructions –’ and here those stained gnashers were turned on full beam at Chrissie, who smirked in return – ‘will begin digging this week. I want you all to avoid playing out there to let the builders finish the hall as quickly as possible. And you can thank me by passing your exams with flying colours and pushing us to the top of the league tables!’

Bella Pearlman stood up and clapped frantically, like a seal who’d spotted the sardines being dangled by its trainer. ‘Go, Chrissie!’ she said.

Chrissie stood up and started clapping too. ‘Go, Mr Grittysnit!’

He smiled at her. ‘Have an Obedience Point, Chrissie.’

She smirked and shot me a triumphant look.

My heart sank. She’s in the lead already?

Then all the other children in the hall stood up slowly and started clapping too.

‘They are literally clapping an exam hall that hasn’t been built yet,’ grumbled Neena. ‘They’re clapping an infringement on our right to play.’

‘I know,’ I muttered, trying to look as if I knew what ‘infringement’ meant, ‘but best be on the safe side …’ And I got to my feet and joined in. ‘Could get a Bad Blot for not taking part. We should probably do what everyone else is …’

But Neena stayed stubbornly seated. ‘And where are we meant to play, Mr Grittysnit? Next to the bins and the drains?’ she shouted, but the sound of the applause drowned her out.

After we’d clapped for about ten minutes, none of us wanting to be the first child to stop, Mr Grittysnit gave a little nod, as if satisfied, and waved his hand around. This was our cue to stand up and recite the Grittysnit Pledge.

We stood and said:

‘At Grittysnit, we children are

Exceptionally normal, never bizarre.

We show up for lessons five minutes early,

We eat what we’re given and are never surly.

We walk and talk at a sensible pace,

With a regulation smile on our face.

Non-regulation is not okay,

That’s why everything we wear is nice and grey.

Answer back? You must be mad –

To answer back is to be bad.

We love our lessons, tests and work –

Without them we would go berserk.

We won’t rock the boat or speak out of line,

We won’t question rules or play in class-time.

In spring, in summer, here’s the truth:

We’ll do our lessons under the roof.

We’ll stay inside until the bell goes bong,

And that’s (nearly) the end of our lovely song.

If you don’t know this yet

(Have you not paid attention?),

Don’t break these rules

Or you’ll get detention.’

‘Rousing stuff, eh?’ said Mr Grittysnit, ignoring Neena’s outstretched hand. ‘Now run along, children, and let’s start the day. You don’t want to fall behind any more than you already are.’

ONCE OUR HEADMASTER had walked off the stage, closely followed by a row of silent teachers, I jumped out of my seat, fired up and enthusiastic after Mr Grittysnit’s motivational chat.

‘Hey, what are you waiting for?’ I asked, for Neena was still sitting in her chair, her face a thundery sky.

‘Didn’t you hear what Mr Grittysnit just said?’ she grumbled.

‘Every. Single. Word.’

‘So you heard we’re going to lose the playing field? If that goes, we’ll have a tiny square of concrete the size of a paddling pool to play on. Does that strike you as fair? How are we all going to fit on that, for a start?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said reluctantly.

This was typical Neena, asking overly complicated questions. It was only a bit of brown earth. Perhaps an exam hall was a good idea. Besides, I enjoyed exams. I enjoyed drawing up revision timetables and buying new highlighters, and proving how much I knew then promptly forgetting it all once the exam was over. And was there anything wrong with that? And Mr Grittysnit had a point. Grass did lead to grass stains, and getting them out of our uniform was a real nightmare, as I knew only too well.

Neena was still looking grumpy though. ‘Neena, you don’t use the playing field much. You’re always hunched over your science journals at lunchtime.’

‘That’s not the issue here,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t care about what we actually need – he just cares about our stupid exam results …’

While she rambled on, I cast an anxious look at the clock. 9.37 a.m.

‘Come on,’ I said, pulling her to her feet. ‘There’s nothing you can do, so you might as well not stress. Besides, I’ve got a holiday to win.’

*

Although the others in our class were also upset about losing the playing field, things soon quietened down when Miss Mossheart put an Obedience Points chart up on our wall.

‘This is so you can all track your progress,’ she murmured, standing on tiptoes to stick it up next to the whiteboard. ‘Uncle – I mean, Mr Grittysnit – wants it here for the rest of the term.’

‘Don’t forget to put my point up,’ said Chrissie, touching her hair. ‘The first of many, probably.’

And after that, the morning flew past, with everyone in the Laminators (bar one) trying to behave as perfectly, obediently and tidily as possible.

Just before lunchtime, with the whole morning gone and no Obedience Points under my name, my mood was pretty low. So when Mr Grittysnit dropped by and asked for volunteers to tidy up the library, my hand shot up first. I was filled with joy when he picked me. Here was my chance.

‘Do you want to choose another classmate to help?’ asked Miss Mossheart.

I ignored Bertie’s chapped hand waggling about in the air. ‘Can I have Neena?’ I asked.

But Neena just scowled at me from her chair, huffing and puffing like an old train.

‘Come on, this could be a perfect opportunity to earn an Obedience Point,’ I said brightly.

She rolled her eyes, but got to her feet.

‘Race you there,’ I muttered to her as we followed Mr Grittysnit.

Neena knew I never ran anywhere in the school grounds, so this was quite a good joke. And did she appreciate it?

She did not.

*

Mr Grittysnit took us to the school library, a ramshackle collection of old bookcases in the corridor outside the kitchen.

‘I want all these books covered in these grey book covers,’ he said, gesturing towards a box nearby. ‘They’re far too non-reg as they are. And clean the grubby fingerprints off them too, while you’re at it.’

‘Shall we take opposite bookcases and then work towards each other?’ I suggested to Neena, once Mr Grittysnit had gone. A bit of peace and quiet might sort out her funny mood, and after all the excitement of Assembly, I wanted a bit of tranquillity myself.

‘Fine by me,’ she said, stomping to the furthest bookcase.

Within a few moments, I’d got into the rhythm of pulling out a book, wiping it down and covering it up. It was oddly calming. I’d reached the bottom shelf of the first bookcase, Local History, when I spotted a book wedged at the back. I teased it out of its nook. It was dirty and dusty, but felt well made. With a damp cloth, I wiped the cover and a picture emerged through the grime.

It was a painting of a small white cottage in a field of colourful flowers, and the title said:

The Terrible Sad History of Little Cherrybliss.

As I stared at the cover, I had the strongest feeling I’d seen the painting of the little cottage before, but I couldn’t work out where. Did Mum have it at home, mixed up with all those cookery books of hers? And where on earth was Little Cherrybliss? It didn’t sound like any of the towns near us. And why was its history terrible and sad? Perhaps it was one of those forgotten villages. Perhaps it had disappeared into a sinkhole and vanished for ever.

After a moment’s hesitation, I slipped the book into a grey jacket, feeling a strange pang of loss as the white cottage disappeared from view. I wrote the title on the cover, then slipped the book back on to the bookshelf.

I moved on to Hobbies. The first book I grabbed had a photograph of a boy on the cover, under the title The Children’s Gardening Book. He seemed to be dropping something into a little pot. I peered closer. The thing flying out of his hand was small.