So here I am, standing in the main entrance hall by a gaudy, tinsel-laden, bauble-laden Christmas tree, complete with a very precarious, stoned-looking excuse for an angel about to topple off its peak; contemplating my first ever English detention.

Suddenly, my phone rings. It’s funny how it always seems to be in the bottom of a very full, very heavy bag when it decides to do that. I swing the bag over my shoulder, sending a string of red tinsel and a gold bauble to the floor. The tree shudders dangerously, the Stoned Doll wobbles and I catch my breath. It’s okay, I decide: she looked relatively stoned already, so no one will notice. I roughly sling my bag down and hear a crack from beneath it. Crap, it’s the bauble. I’d better report that later – there’s no way I’ll stand accused. I pick up the tinsel and stuff it in my coat pocket. I stare at my now open text message.

“Hi anny im wrk l8 2nite dnt 4get 2 put da tea on help dan w/ frnch hmwk”

How crudely abbreviated it is. I scroll down and groan inwardly “ 4 gods sake put ur name on da new gym shorts so u dnt lose em agen”

Sometimes I begin to wonder if those gym shorts are the love of her life. It’s not my fault I keep forgetting to put my name on them, but she harps on about it so much I’m sent asleep just thinking about it. It would be enough to discourage my forgetfulness, but I’ve just got so many more important things to think about than gym shorts – that upcoming hockey team trial for one, but I should sail through that; no problem.

I look down at the poor excuse for a piece of lined paper in my fist and conclude that it’ll probably take an evening session to get my ‘Advantages of CCTV Surveillance in Schools’ article up to standard. If my reputation with Miss Reynold plummets as a result of this misdeed, at least my grades shouldn’t. Not that I care about Old Noldy in any particular way, shape or form. If she’d a pinch of kindness left in her she’d have been sympathetic towards the fact that the detention was never something I intended to endure, and that as a result of my being in hundreds of sports tournaments I quite frankly forgot all about homework. So it was all sort of inevitable - an accident, even. After all, it’s not my fault I’m so hopelessly talented at racket sports that every tennis and badminton club in West Kirby gags for the privilege of having me. It was no big deal – Kaleigh Gladstone gets detentions all the time, and she’s skived off, been in fights, stolen from the lockers and she even swore at a teacher once (there’s a rumour that Miss Reynold was sent home crying after that – she didn’t dare go off on one of her famous yelling fits for a whole week!). Kaleigh never worries about keeping a clean record, so why should I? Nobody’s going to hold this one little after-school against me.

I glance at my wrist to realise that I’d forgotten to put on my watch this morning, so I look up to the display on the interactive whiteboard instead. It’s 5:00. Kaleigh has always been famous for her mockery of this whiteboard, as you can always imagine Miss Reynold’s voice chanting the same old monotone message as it scrolls across the bottom of the board 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Kaleigh receives hoots of laughter, and all she has to do is chant it out in that croaky, rasping voice which is unmistakably Miss Reynold in it’s characteristic ‘exterminate-all-students’ sort of fashion: “In the interests of personal safety and security, the school gates will be closed promptly after 6:00 PM. We apologise for any inconvenience.” I don’t think her impression is even that impressive in itself; it’s only funny because it’s her saying it. I walk over to the dustbin in the corner of the room and pop in my crumpled assignment. All at once, I hear a familiar croaky, rasping, ‘exterminate-all-students’ fashion of a voice. I swallow tersely.

“So where is it?” I spin around.

“Where’s what, Miss Reynold?”

“What do you think? What have you just spent the last 60 minutes doing?” she spits.

“Erm, my assignment?” I shoot a nervous glance at the dustbin. “It’s, er, in my bag – safe.” I pat my bag.

“Give it to me.” I swallow again. “Do it now, Annabelle Radcliffe.” I open my mouth to speak and nothing comes out. I close it again. “I didn’t ask for a goldfish impression, girl! Where’s the work?” I shudder and catch the mocking expression of the Stoned Doll. Damn you.

“WellactuallyIdecideditwouldbebestImeanwithyourpermissionIcouldtakeithome and, er, finish it?”

“You mean to say it’s unfinished?” she sneers.

“Well, not perfected – yet.” My throat tightens.

“Tomorrow after school, senior library for you, I think.” She produces a smooth, white detention slip from her file. It’s still warm – fresh off the photocopier. She knew this was coming, didn’t she? My eyes begin to sting.

“Thank you, Miss Reynold,” I murmur in the smarmiest voice I can muster.

“Same time tomorrow, Annabelle,” she growls, warningly. With that, she storms off out the door. Such bloody swank! I grit my teeth and a little tear wells up in my eye. Oh, Kaleigh would be rolling about at the mere thought of good little Anna-cliffe being double detentioned by Old Noldy – and crying over it! I wonder how she manages to keep her head above the water. I bet she doesn’t take stupid bitchy behaviour from anyone, let alone stupid plastic Stoned Dolls. She’d at least have a better comeback than “Thank you, Miss Reynold”, for sure.

My phone vibrates in my fist, and I realise that I’m still holding it. I open the message.

“gym shorts”

I take a sharp breath upon breaking point, then stop, reach into my coat pocket and pull out a handful of tinsel. The idea that hits is too genial to be true. I skip to the lockers, hunt for my key, open it and am greeted by a surge of falling books, to my convenience for once. I rifle through, chucking out anything that isn’t PE kit, which isn’t that hard. I check the present contents of my locker: joggers, sweater, old sock, polo shirt, other old sock, skirt, blue hockey sock, trainer, other blue hockey sock, other trainer… there’s one thing missing. I rack my brains and swirl the key around in the lock whilst zipping up my phone pocket. No. Not already, surely. I shake my head – this can’t be happening. For goodness’ sake, I’ve only had them a week! Inevitably, however, it appears that I’ve lost my sixth pair of gym shorts in four years, and I’ve not even made it into the sixth form yet. I know I should have put my name on them; I just never had time, so no reasonable person could blame me. That ‘genial’ idea of mine seems to be becoming more and more non-functional by the second, as I realise that I’ll probably have to wait for some other time to avenge Old Noldy. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I put my key away and trudge up to the PE department. They might be there, waiting for me in Lost Property. They might just be.

It’s another one of those signs. Kaleigh would be having a ball tonight, I bet. It reads: “In the interests of personal safety and security, unsupervised access to the fitness suite is strictly prohibited to all students with the exception of the Sixth Form. We apologise for any inconvenience.” Who takes notice of a sign like that? Not Kaleigh, and certainly not me; especially when there’s the Lost Property corner waiting behind it. Everyone knows that a sign written in ‘the interests of personal safety and security’ in this school doesn’t mean a blinded thing, except the fact that if I don’t hurry up I’ll get locked in. Lost Property appears to consist of a trainer basket, an assortment of old polo shirts, skirts, and a few pairs of Year 7-sized gym shorts. I tut and give a sigh: there’ll be inevitable death when I get home. A growing smile begins to play upon my lips as I rise to embrace an opportune moment. Better make the most of my time left alive, eh?

I reach into my bag and find no glue, no sticky tape, no scissors or any cutting or sticking implement of any kind, except, upon further inspection, a stapler. Gym shorts and tinsel in hand, I gallop towards the main entrance hall. This could be the day I make History – I can feel it coursing through my veins. It will be known by one and by all as the day that Little Cliffe beat Old Noldy. How very, very sweet. Kaleigh will be so proud that I can see her now, bowing down to my newfound, fully-fledged rebellish-ness. I giggle with glee and make a dive for the banister rail. I’ve always wanted to do this. I give out a stifled whoop as the air rushes against my face all the way down and I decide once and for all that banister sliding is quality sport. Ugh… dizzy… Perhaps if the Stoned Doll tried this more often she wouldn’t look so… stoned. Sorry Dolly, but natural adrenaline rush is my only fix of choice.

The shards of broken glass are still here. Perfect - I’ve always loved a nice DIY accessory job. I take the shorts and staple patches on here and there around the edges. Not a patch on ‘Miss Sixty’, I quip to myself. What’s more they truly aren’t; they actually look rather fetching, but I feel as if they lack something. Oh yeah – tinsel. All around the legs I staple bits of tinsel together like stylish, sparkly rims. The shorts look magical. I stretch the waistband slowly so that the glass doesn’t pop out; carefully slide my legs through and stretch them around my skirt. I laugh at myself – I must be mad. But there’s nobody watching except that old Stoned Doll. The bits of glass start to poke through the fabric and I begin to ease them off, glancing at the interactive whiteboard. “The time is 5:45 PM. In the interests of personal safety and security, the school gates will be closed promptly after 6:00 PM. We apologise for any inconvenience.” Crap. I drag them off, making tiny white scratches on my leg. The Stoned Doll stares on from atop her perch. Damn you, I mouth. Suddenly, my phone buzzes inside my bag again. “No, damn you!” I say aloud, picking it up like an impetuous baby from my pocket.

“name gym shorts”, it reads. “Blow that for a game of soldiers”, I curse, slamming it back into my pocket. At that moment, I stop. My eyes widen, and I reach inside my bag for my pencil case. Producing a bottle of white Tipp-Ex, a wide grin spreads across my face. I unscrew the cap and draw a large ‘O’ on the shorts, centre-left. I follow it by an ‘L’. Then a ‘D’; then an ‘N-O-L-D-Y’. A little shriek of laughter escapes my throat as I stagger up the stairs, bag in hand. It’s positioning time. Floundering for a second at how to carry out the operation, I decide to dangle the bag down at the Stoned Doll. She takes a few hits and I hear a clatter as my calculator falls on the floor below. I frown, and with a disgruntled shuffle she falls from her throne and topples branch by branch to the bottom. Victory! Now for the shorts. I hold them in my hand, dangling them over the banister rail. They’ll fall to the floor if I drop them now, so I lean further over, wobbling and on the verge of over-balancing and falling to a very horrible and painful death. Crap. The Stoned Doll stares up with an expression comprising of a cross between ‘I’m stoned’ and ‘I told you so’. Damn you. The tip of the tree is within range. There. Just there. That’ll do the trick. I let go and the gym shorts land neatly, square on the very top of the tree. After sliding down the banister rail again, I stand back to survey my masterpiece.

Simply perfect. The shimmering shorts give the tree gleam admiringly at their creator and I wish only that I had a camera at hand. Why had nobody else thought of this fabulously artistic idea? Mr Meyer, our resident Da Vinci, would just die to have thought up this baby of a scheme. I glance to the floor to find the Stoned Doll and my calculator with a deep crack running right down the display screen. Was it worth five quid for a new calculator? I’ll bet! I decide to keep the doll as a curiosity. Rehabilitation just isn’t worth its trouble for some. This Stoner’s got ‘Life Imprisonment’ written all over her forehead; poor little sod. I glance up again at the interactive whiteboard: 5:54 PM. We’re timed to perfection.

“Half to Hoylake, please,” I state at the man at the station office. Boarding the train, I re-contemplate my act of rebellion. It truly was an amazing feat – just imagine the look on Old Noldy’s face when she sees it tomorrow! It’s just sitting there now like a new prize, waiting to be discovered. Best of all, it’s got her name on it! I hope sincerely that whoever now must lay claim to a pair of defaced gym shorts doesn’t take it too badly. I was in a position of understandable thirst for vengeance, and torturing poor Stoned Dolls simply isn’t satisfying enough. I pull out my bag and finger the Stoned Doll’s scraggly yellow locks. “It was your idea,” I murmur gratefully, before putting her carefully away.

After fumbling to find the right key, I slam the door, throw my coat over the banister rail. It’s not as big as the school one, so it doesn’t make for as good a sport. I stop dead in my tracks. There is a voice coming from the kitchen, and what’s more, it’s a voice that I don’t often associate with the kitchen. In fact, I don’t often associate it with anything remotely related to home life whatsoever. It’s croaking, rasping, and has a spine-tinglingly characteristic ‘exterminate-all-students’ fashion about it. I gulp and make a u-turn.

“Annie, it’s your schoolteacher come to see you. Won’t you say hello?” This merely confirms the obvious: I am going to die.

“Yes, okay Mum.” Crap.

I creep in, my face burning and my muscles tensed to defend any flailing detentions, flying insults or springing ambushes. She’s sitting there, all smiles; looking rather humoured with herself. Well, she has a lot to be humoured with all right. She gives me this strange, knowing look, and my stomach lurches as I wonder how much she knows. Then she reaches into her handbag and produces a pair of year-7 sized gym shorts, bedecked in gaudy tinsel, bits of broken baubles and the words ‘Old Noldy’ plastered across the middle. To my horror, she lifts the back of the inside label to reveal a small yet lethal weapon encrypted in tiny, smudged handwriting: ‘Anabelle Radcliffe, 7KS’.

“Annabelle Radcliffe,” she begins in an unnaturally soft drawl, “In the interests of personal safety and security, CCTV Cameras are stationed throughout the school grounds. We apologise for any inconvenience.”

Damn you.