A Picture of Revenge

By Jamie Owen, aged 12

Year 7 in High School was great. Despite a summer of worrying, I hadn’t got lost trying to find my tutor room, I hadn’t got the wrong school bus to the middle of nowhere, and I hadn’t been swirlied (head pushed down the toilet and flushed) by a menacing gang of year tens BUT I had met the school bully and he definitely had it in for me.

Of course the teachers had explained what to do about bullies during our Induction Days, but it wasn’t a lot of use when the school bully turned out to be the Art teacher!

The Art room smelled of paint and wet dog and busy-ness. The chatter and clatter of 7C’s stampede down the corridor ceased abruptly as we trooped into the art room, like a column of soldier ants. Even David Bowen, 7C’s superstar trouble maker, meekly waited for instructions from the weasel faced man who glared from his desk.

‘Put your shoe on the table and draw it.’ He growled.

‘But Mr Travis,’ I said, ‘mine’ll make the desk all muddy.’

He swooped down on me like an owl on a mouse.

‘Sir!’ he screeched. ‘You call me Sir.’

Pencils scratched busily while Sir stalked the room. Anxiety hung like a curtain.

‘Call this Art, Jamie Owen? A three year old could do better!’ He waved my sketch in the air. I glowed red with shame as he ripped it into shreds and flung it in the bin.

‘He’s a prat.’ said my best friend Nathan, as we did our homework, later at my house. ‘As if Darcey could do better.’

Darcey, is my three year old niece who had joined us at the table.

‘Here Darcey, draw your shoe.’ Nathan giggled, passing her some crayons.

‘No!’ she replied, ‘I’ll draw some flowers.’

‘Next week you lot are going to see some real art at Riverside Gallery.’ Sir announced next lesson, ‘including one of my pieces.’

7C groaned. Sir banged the wooden mallet he used for class management onto the nearest desk. Someone at the back squeaked nervously.

‘Jamie! Nathan!

‘But Sir…’ we both protested.

‘Detention!’

Nathan, myself and a brown package addressed to the Riverside Gallery in Sir’s handwriting, were the only occupants of the Art Room during detention.

‘That must be Sir’s masterpiece for the exhibition ‘ I told Nathan, as I rummaged through my bag and discovered I’d picked Darcey’s flower picture up by mistake last night. I looked at the picture. I looked at the package. I looked at Nathan. He looked at the picture. He looked at the package. He looked at me. We both burst out laughing. Could we? Should we?

Sir rushed 7C straight through the gallery to view his work just as the local reporters arrived. His face was a picture of shock and rage, as saw Darcey’s crayon flowers alongside his name.

‘Call that Art?’ one of the critics sniggered, ‘my three year old could do better than that!'

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