She placed on his desk a cream red book, and a grey pencil and shouted, ‘ Tom, write your name on the book,’Tom squished his little digits around the pencil and attempted. Suddenly his mind went blank! He forget how to spell his name!. Tom having a seriously mischievous plan turned to the small sandy-haired girl behind him and asked, ‘ may I have a look at your book ‘ he said sweetly. The girl arrogantly replied ‘ NO’, but Tom said back ‘ would you exchange it for a big juicy sweet’, having been corrected by the girl, Tom popped a moist sweet from his pocket and dropped it in her hand. Tom not knowing what her name was copied the odd squiggly lines onto his book, thinking the teacher would not notice or care.
Then to Tom’s surprise the curious teacher started on a tour of the classroom, unexpectedly heading towards Tom. When she had reached the rascally boy she bent her gnarled back over to see what he had written.
‘ROSEMARY? What?’, she screeched at the boy who was in complete embarrassment. The youngster’s freckly face turned a maroon red as young children whipped their faces towards the centre of attraction. The teacher feeling rather mischievous, headed towards the front chalkboard and said, ‘ Class…we have a new member’, - the boy in severe mortification- ‘ Her name is rosemary… and she is a boy’. The thirty faces dotted around the room chuckled and entered insanity at the boy’s foolishness.
Later on that day when all was calm, the children were given a small task to complete. They were to slice out peculiar shapes from clean paper.
Then suddenly, just live a miracle; the young rascal was introduced to the scissor and for once in his life had a pair for himself. Tom had always loved the idea of cutting through objects but had no access to them after his mother classified him as dangerous. Then from the heavens above, a curly portion of his hair floated down onto his desk effortlessly, like an elegant fairy. Tom wondered desperately whether his coat of golden locks needed a fine spruce up and cut. Tom put the blades enthusiastically to his fleece and squeezed his little digits on the handle. The little shears sliced through the forest of hair with ease, creating a pleasing and soothing ‘sniping’ sound. After a while, random abundant mounds of fine locks were beginning to accumulate on the oak desk.
Tom had never heard such a satisfying sound before and his cheeks filled up with affection and warmth. He brushed them thoughtfully onto the floor, knowing that any instinct such as cutting your hair was likely to infringe some dim-witted rule.
It wasn’t long before a creepy stout kid, named James, a desk behind, noticed the sunray reflecting of Tom’s golden lockets of hair situated on the filthy floor.
The snitch of a child, got of his warm chair and announced,’ Miss…look what I’ve found!’. This was a chance for any world-weary and dreamless child to have his extra playtime. Soon every child was content in finishing the game as the wind swept the bunched heaps of thick gold hair around the classroom. All to many of his classmates were successful in their hunt. Cries and squeals came from everywhere as every child exchanged their treasures and said, ‘ I’ve found some…over his miss’, ‘Me…Me to miss, there’s some hair,’ ‘Look at this miss…Its really curly.’
Every dumb child had their suspicions and staring faces began to gleam at Tom. The teacher raged over, bent over, and inspected the ringlets. She looked around, then lifted her crimpled face up and looked at Tom anxiously. ‘ AAHHH,’ she screamed obnoxiously, as she awoke the dozy few at the back, ‘Tom…Tom, what has happened to your hair,’ as she gradually re-opened her squinting eyes. Tom, who had no aid of a mirror, cut a side of his woolly fleece more than the other. So it gave the impression of a frightful punk hairstyle. Young Tom had now made an indisputable reputation of excellence in amusement.
That afternoon the angel, now the class clown, was given another task to complete. He was to colour in a picture of a dog. He was given a box of crayons and coloured pencils to accomplish it. With his confidence, Tom decided to not be a sheep. Instead of using a boring pencil he felt the need of going the extra mile. He pulled out from his squeaky new rubber case, a collection of pricey fine felt-tip pens that Tom felt pride in having. He plucked one out of its packet and shaped his little fingers around the leather grip. He then positioned the tip comfortably on to the picture. He then created a fine motion from the elbow and coloured in the picture. Tom, feeling ambitious, added more and more colours to the picture only to notice the pen had gone through the paper leaving a multi-coloured sensation on the surface of the desk. Tom was in disbelief; he had totally ruined the whole desk that looked clean as the sky when he sat down. Tom, in isolation, covered the mess with his tiny body.
To further astonishment, the teacher found Tom on the desk with his pens.
‘Tom…Tom, do take your body off the table, this instance,’ she commanded.
Tom did not comply, and so said again,’ Tom, if you don’t do what your told, the headmaster will give you a jolly good beating.
All of a sudden the ground shook, as a large, dumpy broke through the door. He said abruptly ‘ what is going on here…what is the noise about?’
‘ Well, this young lad, new to this school seems to be hiding something,’ the teacher said cheekily.
‘What are you hiding chap?’ the head demanded from Tom.
‘ No-N-Nothing sir,’ Tom replied shaking.
‘ Take your hands off now, One…Two…Three.’
Tom obeyed the schoolmaster and uncovered the eyesore, which had permanently obliterated the desk surface.
The Schoolmaster believed in harsh discipline. Scaring children into terrified submission was his favourite pastime. He stood for no nonsense and was eager to show it to this bright-eyed child. The boy kept a firm grip of his lunchbox, thinking he might need it.
Alas, this schoolmaster was in for a surprise. He was about to meet the type of unruly courage only a boy with a loved wily old grandfather would have.
Moustache twitching and bristling, the master bent over and stared deeply in to the self-proud child.
‘ Lad!’ he hissed fiercely, expecting him to quake in fear.
‘ If you’re the slightest nit naughty again, I shall beat you within an inch of your life.’
Then it happened… as if in slow motion. The hero’s eyes glinted with fire as he heard his father’s words: ‘ don’t ever be bullied son, a bully never expects his victim to fight.
The boy swung his lunchbox hard. Crack! Went the bulging red nose on the headmasters face, sitting him down onto the floor of the class, then tom ran for the door and out across the schoolyard. Looking back, as he raced down the fields for home, the headmaster was in hot pursuit. In luck, his farm was not far ahead.
As tom ran up the stony pathway his family met him at the gate as he tore into the farm. Here the champion found sanctuary and protection.
