Don't Call Me Ishmael by Michael Gerard Bauer Page A

‘rudimentary’ and ‘rude’ might have escaped Barry Bagsley.
    â€˜Definitely rudimentary,’ James Scobie said to himself.
    By now everyone in the class was looking up from his book or twisting around in his seat to see what would happen next. Even Bill Kingsley had responded, but probably only to the mention of E.T. Scobie and Barry Bagsley faced off against each other. It was like one of those old “Western showdowns: Bad Barry versus Twitchy James. You could almost feel the street emptying.
    â€˜What’s your problem, Ferret Face? Something crawl up ya nose?’
    James Scobie pushed his glasses up and frowned slightly.
    â€˜I suggest you turn around now, ya mutant, unless you’d like ya head smacked in. ‘Cause I can smack it in for ya if that’s what ya want.’
    James Scobie held Barry Bagsley’s glare for a few seconds and then turned around and went back to work as if nothing had happened. Almost immediately a ball of paper the size of a small planet flashed into the side of James Scobie’s head and left his glasses hanging from one ear. Cheers and whoops shot up from the back of the class.
    â€˜Hey, what’s that stink? Is that you, Le Sewer, or has Rat Boy there just shat in his pants?’
    James Scobie unhooked his glasses slowly and held them in his hand. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling as his mouth stretched first to the left then to the right. When he replaced his glasses, he leant to the side of the desk, picked up the ball of paper, carried it slowly to the front of the class and dropped it in the bin. Every boy in the class followed James Scobie’s movements like iron filings drawn to a magnet. He walked quietly back down the aisle. When he reached his seat, he kept going, and didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of Barry Bagsley. Then he spoke calmly.
    â€˜When you said you could smack my head in, you were right, of course. I’d have little or no chance of stopping you. However, I should warn you that if you did take that course of action, I would immediately inform the appropriate authorities–MissTarango, Mr Barker, Brother Jerome–and my father. I would also have to insist that the police be contacted, since a ‘smacked-in’ head would certainly come under the banner of ‘aggravated assault’. Naturally my father and I would be consulting a lawyer. By the way, I would suggest you do the same as soon as possible. I would also be checking myself in for a thorough medical examination in case compensation had to be calculated–medical bills, emotional and psychological damage, that sort of thing. At this stage, I don’t think the media need be involved over an isolated incident. After all, I wouldn’t want the school’s reputation to suffer unnecessarily. But, if it happened again or there was evidence of other victims beside myself or indications of a history of violence and intimidation on your part-well, you know how the newspapers and current affairs programs love that kind of hardhitting investigative reporting.’ James Scobie stopped and pushed out his bottom lip. ‘So what I am saying is that
technically
, yes, you were right about being able to smack my head in, but I must say, for all the reasons I have just outlined, I would strongly advise against it. Now, as for me having “shat” in my pants–by the way, do you think that’s an acceptable form of the past tense? I’d like to see what the experts say on that. Anyway, I assume that you are implying by your comment
not
that I am incontinent, but rather that you believe your very presence has filled my body with such a volume of fear and trepidation that the only way I could accommodate it was by the involuntary emptying of my bowels. On this point I have to inform you, you are mistaken.’
    The class stared at James Scobie. Something wasn’t right here. This wasn’t the way