The Secret Hen House Theatre Read Online Free Page B

everybody watched.
    Hannah gazed at him adoringly. He was so good-looking. And so funny. How could Lottie not see that?
    “‘Ode to my Goldfish’,” declaimed Jack.
    Danny snorted.
    Jack allowed a generous dramatic pause before continuing.
    “Bubble, bubble, swim, swim.”
    Another dramatic pause.
    “Verse Two,” he announced. “Bubble, bubble, swim, swim.
    “Verse Three,” he continued through the laughter.“Bubble, bubble, swim, swim.”
    “How many verses are there?” somebody asked.
    “Thirty-seven.”
    “And they all go, ‘Bubble, bubble, swim, swim’?”
    “Yep. Hey, it’s not my fault,” he protested, dodging a book hurled at his head. “Goldfish only have four-second memories. He really wants to say more but he keeps having to go back to the beginning.”
    “Idiot,” muttered Lottie as Jack sat back down, ducking a blizzard of flying objects. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can like him.”
    “I don’t like him!” said Hannah, suddenly aware that she’d been grinning like a halfwit.
    “Oh, come on, Han, you so obviously do. You go red every time he looks at you. And you’ve been in such a love trance that you haven’t even finished question one and the bell’s going to go any minute.”
    Oh, my goodness. Lottie was right. Hannah pulled Lottie’s maths book closer to her and started scribbling furiously.
    “What are you doing in our classroom anyway?” Jack asked Hannah.
    He leaned his chair sideways and glanced at the two maths books open in front of her. “Ooh, what’s this? Copying homework? In Year Seven? Tut tut.”
    Lottie leapt in like a lioness protecting her young.
    “At least she had a proper reason, Jack. Unlike someone I could mention. So don’t you dare say anything.”
    “Shut up, pudding head,” said Jack. “You’re nother babysitter.”
    The door opened and Hannah looked up.
    Oh, help.
    Mr Nagra was heading straight towards them.
    Hannah slammed shut the two exercise books spread out on the table. She slipped Lottie’s on to the top of the pile on the shelf. But what could she do with her own? All she had written was the date and half of question one.
    “Just in time, you two,” said Mr Nagra. “Right, let’s have those books.”
    He picked up the pile of books and tucked them under his right arm. Hannah hid her book behind her back.
    Honestly, what was she – five years old?
    Mr Nagra stretched out his left hand. “Come on, Hannah. It can’t be that bad.”
    Hannah stood as if turned to stone. If she confessed now and got told off in front of Jack and his friends, how humiliating would that be? But not to confess and then to be found out later…
    Mr Nagra would phone Dad. And that would be worse.
    And then, as she stood there dithering, the book was snatched out of her hand.
    Hannah swung round.
    And there was Jack, holding her maths book, strolling away from her towards the window, rifling through the pages.
    She couldn’t believe it.
    He was looking for the page with her unfinishedhomework.
    He was going to show it to his form tutor.
    So that she’d get into trouble and he’d get brownie points for grassing her up.
    How could he?
    Hannah ran over to get her book back but he held it out of her reach and carried on flicking through the pages.
    “Stop horsing around, Jack, and bring that over here,” said Mr Nagra. “I haven’t got all day to waste.”
    And then the most amazing thing happened.
    Holding the book with the covers facing the teacher, Jack found the page of unfinished work.
    With a dramatic flourish he ripped it out, tore it into tiny pieces and threw them out of the window.
    Hannah stared, frozen, as the wind blew the shreds of paper out of sight.
    Jack turned to Mr Nagra and shrugged. “Just saving your time, sir. It was all wrong anyway. She’s rubbish at maths, isn’t she, sir?”
    Mr Nagra was speechless for a moment. Then he said, “Jack Adamson, go to the Head’s office. This minute. I’ve just about had it up to here