|Mr Stanford, the Golden Gun and the Dog, by Chelsea Rose
Stanford's patchy-as-the-oval head by a gut wrenching 5 cm. He doesn’t notice, like the typical
sloth that he is, but you can feel every bit of oxygen disappear as the whole class gasps in perfect
synchronisation at the near-death experience. With the shared looks of relief, the class returns to
doing absolutely nothing.
I feel bad for Mr Stanford. Not enough to be a fabulous student, but how crappy would it be to have
people fall into a deep slumber at the very sound of your voice? What a curse. It doesn’t help that
what he talks about is enough to bore even David Attenborough. I’ll admit I look forward to his
lessons, knowing that I can catch up on the sleep I missed out on the night before. Maybe his goal
is to get his students to like him by allowing them to recharge in his boring classes. That’s
definitely it, which is genius, to say the least. He wouldn’t drone on without some sort of
motivation, and popularity is the key in school, even for teachers. Good ol’ Stanford, climbing the
ranks by being wonderfully boring. The sneaky fella.
A piece of crumpled paper is thrown onto my desk, and lands near my pen. I pray that it’s not for
me; that someone has really crap aim when throwing the sneaky note. But judging by the attempted
spelling of my name, Charlotte, it is written for me. Let’s see what we have here…
Sharlet, Meet me at the tennis courts, b@be. I’ll show you a good time ;) Tommy
Well, I’m not sure what is more intriguing; the fact that it’s from Tommy Frank, the single most
yucky sleaze ball in the century is passing me a note, or the fact that he used the symbol @ as
though writing the mammoth word ‘at’ proved too difficult for his arm pit brain. Fair enough, the
damaged caused by his smell is bound to cause problems. The spelling of my name is perfect proof of
his dumb-ass brain. I really don’t want to acknowledge that I read it by looking at him, but I
simply can’t deny myself the pleasure of seeing his hopeful face and laughing. Turning ever so
slightly, I cast my eyes to his desk. His face, to say the least, is terrifying. Looking completely
dishevelled in his crinkled uniform, his face resembles that of a dog’s about to get food.
Wonderful. I try to smile, but being completely terrified by the sex-crazed teenage boy, it comes
out as an ugly grimace with too much teeth. What I hope will put him off only seems to make the
teen/hungry dog more determined. Yay.
The bell rings, and he jumps to his goofy feet and all but sprints to my desk. I try to pack up my
things without gagging at his smell, but it’s a difficult task.
“Coming to the tennis courts, Char-char?” he says. I gather that it’s not really a question, to my
disgust. Char-char? What am I, a Moulin Rouge dancer? He literally winks at me whilst his sweaty
hands make their way into my personal space bubble. Searching for a reply which will prove valid to
the dog, there is only one true way to fend off boys. My sister taught me this many months ago. She
said it’s the female golden gun. Only to be used in desperate times, this defence ensures no
questions, no explaining and no possibility of confrontation. So I suck up my fears and go for it.
“Oh, well I am actually on my period. I started yesterday, and I need to change my tampon. Plus, I
have the worst cramps.” Jackpot! His body language communicates absolute repulsion, and his dog face
is replaced by utter disgust and embarrassment. The urge to celebrate is strong, but I know I must
act the part. I continue.
“Actually, I always keep a spare tampon in my pencil case. See? So handy!” I take the small, golden
gun bullet out; careful not to be in sight of dear Mr Stanford in case I give him a heart attack. I
put the thing as close to Tommy’s face as I can without wetting my pants with laughter, and he jumps
back as though the small tampon has grown teeth and will eat his manhood. “Do you still want to hang
out? I can absolutely come to the tennis courts when I am done!” Giving him my sweetest grin, I wait
for the predictable answer.
With a panicked ‘no thank you’, he stumbles through the desks and chairs. Job well done, Char-char.
Packing up my desk and placing my golden gun bullet back in its place, I march out of the classroom
proudly, thanking the fabulous Mr Stanford as I leave.
Stanford droning on about Australian Politics in the year of who gives a
damn, saying “three weeks had passed and it was happening all over again,
with Australian policies repeating the same patterns of voting systems.” And
here is where I stop listening.
It’s a depressing moment when you realise that there isn’t a single cute boy
in this room, or in the entire year level. I mean, seriously. Hasn’t anyone
heard of deodorant at this age? My sister always says that walking through
the Year 9 corridor constantly makes her question whether the year level
knows about deodorant. That’s half the reason all the boys in Year 9 are so
feral. It’s as if their body odour is so incredibly rank that it causes
serious damage to their brains, making their intellectual capacity the
equivalent of their arm pits.