Who drew on the banana? - Ros

"Who drew on the banana, my banana?"Mr Chapman yells.  He picks up the offending banana and brandishes it.  He looks ridiculous.  A titter goes around the room.

"What is it?" someone calls out insolently.

"Be quiet," he shouts, and more steadily, "Who did it?"

For once his voice manages to sound authorative.  The room hushes but the sound of the school bell intervenes.  The room erupts.  As one, twenty five desk lids lift, lunch boxes and other possessions are retrieved  and then twenty five desks lids slam shut.

"Nobody leaves until some one owns up.  Sit down."  Dark looks, audible swearing and genral mutterings, including "it's only a banana" run around the room.  Reluctantly lunch boxes are replaced on desks, bags are slung onto the floor and restless legs now stilled, return to their original posiions under their desks. Fingers drum impatiently.  Twenty five pairs of eys turn expectantly onto Mr Chapman.

They all wait.  He senses their collective criticism.  Too late he recognises that he has over reacted.  Self-consciously he fidgets with the board rubber.  He can imagine what they are thinking as they study his ill-chosen clothes; the jacket, rescued from a bag of things discarded by his flatmate, who planned to send it to Oxfam and his only tie, gifted by his Aunt Jane, not known for her sartorial taste.  An errant lock of  troublesome hair flops into his eyes.  Irritated, he sweeps it away with a slender hand .   He turns his back on the class and begins furiously dusting the blackboard, removing the set of equations with which they had all struggled that morning.

A pall of dust now hangs in the air.   Particles of chalk dance in the single shaft of sunlight which pierces the room and illuminates the single picture, a pastoral scene, on the classroom wall.  The only sound now is of an early bee enjoying the nectar cupped in the orchid  residing on the master's desk.

 The mood is broken by the scraping of a chair as a young man with blonde hair stands up.  Mr Chapman recognises the noise and turns round.  He is surprised to see that it is "the new boy"still so titled after nearly a  term.

"I did it."  His voice is quiet but clear.  Twenty five curious heads swivel round to gaze upon him.  Some regard him with gratitude as the cause of their imminent release, others view him with grudging respect but most stare at him with contempt for having broken the unwritten code that no one confesses to any misdemeanour, however trivial to Mr - Chapman.

"You may all leave.  James, step forward."  The room springs to life;  voices are raised, possessions are gathered and eager bodies rush through the open door.  A few glance back at their classmate as he awaits his fate but most are intent on making up for lost time and hurry on with their lives.

Now that he is in the unusual situation of being faced by a self-confessed miscreant, Mr Chapman is at a loss as to what to do.  He picks up the banana and for the first time examines it closely.  Immediately his face blanches, then a flush creeps up his neck to meet his unruly hair.  The thick banana skin has been crudely carved with one word, "LIAR".

James is fifteen years old and Martin Chapman is twenty three.