Miss Understood Read Online Free

forgotten about what had happened the day before. Or maybe Mr Hilder had called them after I’d gone to bed and told them that he’d had a big think about things and changed his mind, or that I was only suspended. Or that ‘expelled’ didn’t mean what Mum and Dad thought it meant.
    These were promising thoughts. I threw back my covers, and Muppet plopped down off the bed, ready for some breakfast. (He’s always hungry.) I looked around. Ordinarily my school dress would be hanging over the back of my chair, ready for me to pull it on. But not today. Still, no one’s perfect, I thought. Maybe while Mum was busy forgetting that I was going to be homeschooled from now on, she’d also forgotten to put out my uniform.
    ‘Mum, I don’t have a school dress,’ I called.
    ‘You don’t need one,’ she called back. ‘You’re doing school here from now on, remember? You get to wear mufti every day.’
    I groaned again. So Mr Hilder hadn’t called.
    ‘But you need to grab some breakfast soon, because we’re going to start at half past eight, just like normal,’ she called.
    Was it totally necessary to do everything the same way we did it at school, I wondered. Was she going to mark the roll as well, and make me put my hand up if I had a question?
    As I walked into the kitchen in my T-shirt and jeans, I saw that Mum obviously thought it was necessary to do things the same way, because she was wrapping a sandwich in wax paper and putting it into my plastic lunch box next to a muesli bar, one of those tiny packets of chips that has about three chips in it, and a green apple.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
    ‘Nowhere,’ she replied. ‘I’m making your lunch. What would you like in your lunch box for recess? Is a lamington okay?’
    It felt to me as if she was taking this way too far. ‘Recess? Really, Mum?’
    She nodded. ‘Between maths and writing skills.’ Then she might have smiled, just a tiny bit. It was quite possible that she was actually enjoying this.
    ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
    ‘Absolutely. Lizzie, could you get Richie down out of his highchair for me? I think he’s had enough.’
    It turned out that she was completely serious. At exactly half past eight, when Mum called me into the dining room, I stood frozen at the door with my mouth half-open. I was in bigger trouble than I’d ever imagined. She’d set the room up just like a miniature classroom, with my pencil case and books ready and waiting at one end of the table, her books and folders at the other end, and my old chalkboard easel standing there all proud and obvious, with WELCOME LIZZIE written across it in yellow and pink chalk.
    ‘Have we got a new girl starting today, Miss?’ I asked, once I managed to find my voice.
    Mum ignored that. ‘Good morning, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘Take your seat, please.’
    ‘Are you going to mark the roll?’ I asked.
    She didn’t seem to find this very amusing, either. ‘Don’t forget your manners,’ she said as she set Richie up on the floor with some toys. ‘Now, I’d like you to take out your spelling book.’
    ‘We never do spelling first . . . Okay,’ I agreed when I saw her eyes going all squinty. ‘I’d love to do some spelling.’
    ‘Without the sarcasm,’ she said.
    ‘Sorry, Mrs Adams . . . I mean, Mum.’
    I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it was a really miserable morning for me, and because of that it was a really miserable morning for Mum as well. And if that’s what you’re thinking, then you’re wrong, because it wasn’t very long before I had to admit that Mum wasn’t a bad teacher. In fact, she was a very good teacher. Not as good as my third grade teacher Mr Norman, but he could turn his eyelids inside out and talk like Donald Duck, which was always going to be hard to beat. I also heard that he ended up living in a tent in the bush somewhere near Byron Bay, and wasn’t allowed to teach any more, but that’s a different story, and not