Innocent Till Proven Guilty
By Claire Wilson, age 12

The piano started playing. Mr.Spinks performed his daily procedure of peering over the music to check that everyone was paying attention to him. However, when his head popped back down, the Infants would flick bogeys at each other and the Year Threes would play hand-clapping games. As for us, we were having a whispered conversation. "Who's betting that he'll retire next year?" I whispered.
"No, this year!"
"This month!" We stifled our giggles, as Mr.Spinks' rear end sagged over the stool. Suddenly, everyone sat upright silently. This was our cue to show our angelic faces. Mr.Spinks stood up.

"Another school year," he said bluntly. No one quite understood why he said this each year, but everyone tried to look enthusiastic. "Good morning everyone," he muttered, even though, from the look on his face, we all knew he was thinking exactly the opposite.

"Good mor-ning mister Spinks" the school chorused. There was silence for a few seconds, broken, when a tousle of red hair from the front row said loudly "mister STINKS" and chortled cheekily.

My heart missed a beat. It was my brother! How I regretted telling him our codename for our good old head teacher.

I could almost taste the silence. I didn't like its flavour. Mr. Spinks' bulging eyes flashed from him to me. I almost thought they would pop out of his purple face and onto my lap.

"CLAIRE WILSON!" he bellowed. My name hovered in the air and then floated down through the floor. I wished I could do that as well. He signalled to the deputy to take over assembly.

I found myself being frog-marched to his office. "Sit!" he said sharply. I obeyed.

His behind a regular scratching post, Mr. Spinks was a truly repulsive man. His grubby finger was regularly seen up his overlarge nostril (though not as big as his bulging bald head, which always looked like he had spent hours polishing it until it was squeaky-clean). He combed his fingers through his few strands of hair as he glared over me. He lumbered over to his desk, and stood behind it. (He walked rather like a sloth with a sore head that made its movements lopsided). Mr Spinks thought the world of himself and clearly thought that everyone else did too. He bared his yellow crooked teeth at me, as I cowered underneath his baleful glare. He opened his mouth to start shouting.

My mind gladly wandered away from his rambling, and rested on a black and white picture of himself in the middle of the room. Wait-were those lip-marks? My thoughts dropped back down to earth. "In conclusion, your English lessons will now become Art lessons." His words cut through me like a knife.

"What?" I gasped. "You-you can't do this to me - it's the only lesson I'm good at!" "Tough!" he spat.

Infuriated, I stormed out of the room, already maliciously thinking of revenge.

Mr. Spinks was still glaring at me. He hadn't stopped glaring at me ever since I had first walked gloomily into the room half an hour ago. Other prisoners of Mr. Spinks' wrath were in there, staring at their blank canvas, as if in a trance. We were all counting the seconds until 12 o'clock. It seemed the clock had slowed down just to spite us. My paintbrush dawdled, swaying pointlessly from side to side. My eyes scanned the playground. A small black cat sat gingerly on the broken metal fence. For a second, I thought I saw it wink at me.I shook myself. What am I doing? I should be thinking about the matter that had been haunting me for the last few days. How to wipe that gloating smirk off of Mr.Spinks' sallow face.

Suddenly, it clicked. I had the perfect idea to get my own back on Mr. Spinks. I slyly walked behind Mr Spinks, pretending I was washing out my cup of dirty water. I held it above his trousers and closed my eyes as I tipped the cup. The water splashed all down my clothes as Mr. Spinks turned round.

"You had better watch that you don't have any more 'accidents' with water," he snarled, his face level to mine. I put on the best grimace I could, and made plans for tomorrow.

Everything was in place, the paint tin on top of the door, and me sitting, innocently painting a picture of me at the seaside, making sandcastles. As Mr. Spinks slouched through the door, the tin wobbled and tipped. On the wrong side of the door. Mr. Spinks came out as dry as his sense of humour. I scowled, and angrily scribbled on my drab picture or the seaside, so now I was kicking over all the sandcastles. I was going to get him where he couldn't accuse me. "Innocent until proven guilty," I muttered to myself, a smile playing across my lips.

The clock struck ten. Everyone was out of the school, probably sleeping peacefully. But not Claire Wilson. I was smothered in a blanket of darkness. I tiptoed past the hall, clutching my only weapon, a permanent black marker. I crept into Mr.Spinks' office, and set to work. Finally, all those Art lessons were going to come in handy.

The next morning, the school sat silently, with bated breath. Mr. Spinks was holding up the photo of himself, his face purple with rage, for the second time this week. " Whoever has done this will face the consequences," he roared, staring straight at me. I put on the best bemused expression I could. Indignantly, I noticed he was pointing at my work as if it was a monstrosity.

"Please, Mr.Spinks, could I study that masterpiece in my new Art lessons? It must have been drawn by a genius, sir, I mean, look what they had to work with!" Mr Spinks turned white. He ripped the paper out of the frame. He opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly looked taken aback. He stared at the four words scrawled on the back. "Innocent until proven guilty."

"WILSON!" he yelled. As I made a hasty exit out of the hall, Mr Spinks pulled his trousers up, and attempted to run after me. But I called back something that made him grind to a halt.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Mister Stinks!" I cried.

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