The teacher slammed her fists on the desk.
''Plagiarism is a punishable offence you know. Technically, I
could fail you.''
''I suppose ... ,'' John said, preparing for the hurricane
that would follow, ''... you wouldn't be prepared to believe
that Aristotle plagiarised this work off me?''
''No, John. I would not,'' she said, looking as if she was
going to snap the desk in two.
''However, I would be prepared to believe that some time in
detention would do you good. Now out!''
Never had John been more willing to follow an order.
He marched to the door, determined not to mess things up more
than he already had, which is why he then said: ''All I did
was take advantage of my natural resources, my resources
being other people's work.''
John had never run faster.
It seemed to him slightly unfair that this whole business had
occurred in the first place. Whoever heard of a teacher
His parents wouldn't be happy, though.
When he got home, he'd get the whole ''You're not stupid,
John - you just need more help'' lecture he always got.
John kicked a stone.
''Why me? Why always me?'' he screamed to the heavens, though
the heavens seemed content not screaming back.
Being an upper middle-class white kid sucked.
There was no justice in the world for someone born to one of
the most privileged nations ever to exist.
At least they hadn't noticed he had stolen his biology report
John hurried down the street, determined to at least not be
late delivering the news to his parents, wondering if arson
and murder were punishable offences for minors.
Yeah, they probably are, he thought, but still ...
The school itself was organised into a hierarchy unusual for
a high school.
Essentially, it was divided into people who hated John and
people who really hated John.
To John, pyrotechnics seemed the logical way of ridding the
world of both groups simultaneously.
He sighed. This was ridiculous; he couldn't get them all into
the school at once.
His mind began to drift to his current dilemma, how he was
going to deal with his parents back at home, which actually
reminded him of an extended part of the hierarchy - his
John was certain his family wanted nothing more than to tear
apart every bit of his joy and throw it into the wind.
It was not his fault the teachers actually checked the work
they were supposed to be marking.
John arrived at home and took in a breath of air and entered
''Anyone home?'' he called.
''Just me, sweetie. Your father is away at work; he's not
here at the moment.''
Another epic case for Sherlock Holmes - lord, his parents
reeked of stupidity.
''So how was your day, love?''He told her.
''Dearest, you really are going to have to try harder,'' his
John, deep down, did love his parents, but at the moment he
believed he was in the moral right, hoping that they would
have a brain aneurysm.
However, instead of saying this, he excused himself and left
before she could say anything else.
His basement was a dark, musty place covered with cobwebs,
significant for one reason only - it housed the greatest
creation of all time.
It bothered John, though, that despite his attempt to explain
the ramifications of his creation to his parents and
teachers, they still dismissed his talks as ''cute'' or, in
his teacher's case, with ''detention'', but that didn't
matter, he supposed.
So with those parting thoughts, he hopped into the slightly
rusty time machine.
He and Aristotle were going to have words.
• By Nathaniel Brown, Year 11, Kaikorai Valley College