Free Class Act by Debbie Thomas Page A

But he hadn’t bargained for this.
    â€˜Pampered brats. Fancy the old duffer knowing all their names!’
    â€˜He may be old but he’s not a duffer!’ Brian glared in the mirror on his wall. ‘He’s the kindest man ever.’
    â€˜I can see that. Their own slice of cake indeed – their own plate! In my day we had to work for our food. No wonder those girls are so hefty.’
    Brian hadn’t noticed any flab on Alf’s bees. But it wasn’t the moment to mention it.
    â€˜And that apartment block!’ He guessed she meant the hive by the river. ‘Ready-built walls and roof – I ask you. Probably furnished too.’
    Brian swallowed a smile, picturing TVs and sofas in each tiny cell.
    â€˜No such mollycoddling in my day. We had to build our own home, every cell and comb. We bees are supposed to work for a living – we’re called workers, for daisy’s sake! But that lot are more like shirkers. No distant foraging for them, oh no, but flowers sitting pretty on their doorstep. Ooh!’ Her wings fluttered. ‘If I could get out, I’d teach ’em a thing or two, show ’em how to bee.’ She shook her head furiously. ‘Bet they can’t even dance.’
    â€˜Dance?’ Brian hooted. ‘Why would they?’
    Dulcie stamped her front legs so hard that his earlobe wobbled. ‘You mean you’ve never heard of the waggle dance?’
    Brian shook his head and sucked in his cheeks, picturing Dulcie in a tutu.
    â€˜I thought life was supposed to have evolved since my day,’ muttered the bee. ‘More like diss olved.’ She tutted. ‘A bee is born to dance. She needs nectar and pollen for food, right?’
    Brian nodded.
    â€˜So she flies around looking. And where does she find them?’
    â€˜In flowers.’
    â€˜Very good .’ Dulcie clapped her antennae sarcastically. ‘When a bee finds a crop of flowers she buzzes back to the hive and dances up and down the honeycomb. And the way her bottom waggles tells her sisters where to go.’
    â€˜Are you serious?’ Brian’s eyes filled his face. ‘That’s incredible.’
    â€˜But true.’ She sniffed proudly. ‘Our butts are moving maps. At least …’ a tiny sigh tickled his ear, ‘they’re meant to be. Mine never was.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    Her wings drooped. ‘I was the youngest and smallest, the runt of the family. And that’s saying something, out of thirty-five thousand, four hundred and twenty-six.’
    Brian murmured sympathetically. He felt runty enough in a family of two.
    â€˜From the moment I popped from my cell, my sisters bossed me around. They gave me the grottiest jobs: waxing the walls, polishing their wings, emptying our … you-know, from the comb.’ Brian tried to picture bee poop. Chubby nuggets or skinny threads?
    â€˜Meanwhile my sisters crept and crawled to our queen-mother. They were desperate to win Mama Humsa’s favour. I didn’t get a look-in.’
    Brian felt a pang for this teeny Cinderella.
    â€˜But she didn’t care about any of her daughters. Her only interests were eating and sleeping and being adored. Whoever brought the most nectar was the favourite. One day it was Melanie, the next Fran, the next Arabella, that silly, frilly furball.’ Dulcie squeaked contemptuously. ‘And because I was too young to fly, I was bottom of the heap, bullied like you wouldn’t believe. “I’ve got wing itch,” they’d say, “scratch it, Dulce.” Or, “My cell needs rewaxing. Get to it, maggot.” And when they weren’t bossing, they made fun of me. “Found any nectar, wimpywings?” or “Hey, sucker, you wouldn’t know a pansy if it punched you in the mandible.”’
    Brian winced. Thirty-five thousand, four hundred and twenty-six classmates.
    â€˜It was a hot, dry summer. The flowers