Sticky Beak by Morris Gleitzman

up the broken glass.
    Before I could start writing, there was a knock on the door and a bloke stepped into the office. He was wearing jeans and a multicoloured shirt and he had a ponytail.
    Great, I thought, here am I in the middle of a travesty of justice and some high-school kid who’s off sick with brain damage wanders into the wrong school.
    â€˜This is Mr Segal,’ said Mr Fowler, ‘your new teacher. Take her away, Mr Segal, before I forget I’m a Rotarian.’
    On the way to class Mr Segal made conversation.
    I wasn’t really in the mood because my knees were hurting and I wanted some time to myself to plan Darryn Peck’s death, but I could see Mr Segal was trying hard so I joined in.
    â€˜So,’ said Mr Segal, ‘you’re Rowena Batts.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Mr Fowler’s told me all about you,’ said Mr Segal.
    I nodded again.
    â€˜Never feel inferior,’ said Mr Segal.
    I shook my head. I could see he meant well.
    â€˜Pictures,’ said Mr Segal, ‘are more important than words.’
    He smiled.
    I smiled.
    I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.
    Then I realised he must have been talking about his shirt, which had pictures of fish all over it.
    It wasn’t till much later, in class, that I realised he was talking about television.
    By that time Mr Segal had talked about television a lot. He told us he believes television isn’t studied enough in schools. We clapped and whistled, partly because we agreed with him and partly because you have to see how far you can go with a new teacher.
    When we’d finished he told us we were going to spend the last three weeks of the school year studying television.
    We clapped and whistled some more.
    â€˜Starting with a project,’ he said when the noise had died down. ‘Tomorrow you start making your own TV programmes.’
    We stared at him in stunned silence.
    For a fleeting moment I thought that perhaps he was a brain-damaged high-school kid after all.
    â€˜Hands up,’ said Mr Segal, ‘whose parents have got a video camera.’
    Then we understood.
    About half the class put their hands up.
    I didn’t. We can’t afford a video camera. Not with an apple-polishing machine and a luxury nursery to pay for. But I was relieved to see Amanda with her hand up.
    Mr Segal explained the project.
    We’ve got to split into groups and we’ve got one week to make any TV programme we like as long as it’s not rude or offensive to minority groups.
    After the bell went, me and Amanda agreed to keep our group small.
    Just her and me.
    Then I saw Megan O’Donnell wandering around not in a group. I hate seeing kids left out of things just cause they’re slow readers so I looked at Amanda and Amanda nodded and opened her mouth to ask Megan to join our group. Before she could, though, Megan was grabbed by Lucy and Raylene Shapiro who asked her to help them make a documentary about the human side of dry-cleaning.
    It was for the best. Megan’s a nice person but she can get pretty nervous and she wouldn’t have been comfortable doing what I’ve got in mind.
    â€˜Shall we do a comedy or a drama?’ asked Amanda.
    I told her I was thinking about something different and wrote it out so she’d get all the details first time.
    â€˜Let’s do,’ I said, ‘a fearless in-depth current affairs report exposing to the world Darryn Peck’s heartless and brutal treatment of poor old Sticky.’
    Amanda grinned and nodded.
    â€˜Great,’ she said, ‘it’s just what he deserves. Who’s Sticky?’

 
    Sticky’s really excited too.
    I’ve just told him about the project.
    I didn’t tell him last night because I didn’t want him to suffer the crushing disappointment if Amanda’s parents said no about the video camera.
    I needn’t have worried.
    Amanda came running into school this morning with a bag over her