Free The Monkeyface Chronicles by Richard Scarsbrook Page B

“It’ll have your face and Adeline’s body!”
    I shrug. “At least my kids will be able to add and spell.”
    Sam is pretty sure he’s just been insulted. “You better watch it, Monkeyface,” he says.
    â€œYeah, yeah,” I say, waving my hand in the air like I’m swatting away a fly. “Beat me up after school, okay?”
    â€œI might just do that, Monkeyface,” Sam says. “Be ready.”
    Sam stretches his neck out into the hallway to see if Mr. Springthorpe is on his way. Then he reaches out with a blue magic marker and scrawls the words “CEESIL B. SUCKS THESE!” at the bottom of a faded biology poster entitled The Male Reproductive System . “Hey, Baby Bulk!” he calls out. “I wrote a little poem about you!”
    Cecil looks back at Sam and says, “J-just because y-you th-thuck them, d-doesn’t m-mean I do, Th-tham.”
    â€œGee-ZUSS!” Sam grunts. “What’s gotten into the geeks today, Trevor?”
    â€œPretty friggin’ mouthy, eh?” Trevor says. “Maybe they think they can shoot off their mouths because holidays start tomorrow.”
    â€œRemind Cecil that Christmas hasn’t arrived yet,” Sam says.
    Cecil cowers as Trevor dramatically raises his fist in the air.
    â€œOkay, people,” Mr. Springthorpe calls out from down the hallway, “here I come. Settle down and get your Science notebooks out.”
    I have a theory that Mr. Springthorpe announces his imminent entrance like this so he won’t have to witness what’s been going on before his arrival, and therefore won’t have to actually do anything about it.
    Trevor drops his fist to his side. Sam tosses the magic marker into a nearby garbage pail. Caitlin stops glaring at Adeline and puts on her sweet Little Colour Girl face. The stormy rumble of conversation fades, and the rain of little projectiles stops abruptly, as if a new weather system has swept into the classroom. Mr. Springthorpe switches on the overhead projector, and tosses a time-yellowed transparency onto the dust-specked glass.
    â€œOkay, people,” he drones, as he wanders toward his desk at the front of the class. “You are to copy this note on Temperature, Heat, and the Particle Theory. When you’re finished, you can read pages 106 to 125 and answer the questions on 127 and 128. That should keep you all busy until the end of class, but if you have time for chit-chat and goofing off, I can assign more.” He sits down and opens a Sportsweek magazine. “So, unless there are any questions . . . ”
    I raise my hand.
    â€œUh, yes, Philip?” he says, somewhat surprised. In his science classes, Mr. Springthorpe is more accustomed to the sound of pens scratching down notes than to any sort of human discourse.
    â€œI’ve got a question about a topic from a previous class, sir.”
    â€œPhilip,” he sighs, “is this something you could look back in your notes and find out for yourself?”
    â€œWell, actually, sir, I’m looking for some clarification on a point you made during our class on light and its spectrum.”
    â€œMmm-hmm?”
    â€œWell, sir, if I recall correctly, you told us in class that the colour brown is not actually a colour at all.”
    Caitlin looks back at me, wide-eyed, her Little Colour Girl mask momentarily cracking. Adeline’s face is still hidden in her textbook, but I know she’s listening. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
    â€œThat’s correct,” Mr. Springthorpe says. “Brown isn’t a colour — it’s just an impression created by our eyes and brains.”
    â€œBut, sir,” I say, flipping my science textbook open to the glossary section, “according to the definition you had us copy into our notes, colour is the appearance of objects (or light sources) described in terms of a person’s perception of their hue and