Stanley Stickle Hates Homework
by
Trevor Forest
Copyright T A Belshaw 2011
Artwork copyright Marie Fullerton 2011
No part of this work may be copied, republished or stored electronically without the express permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are entirely fictional and are not based on real people, places or events. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to events that may have occurred is purely coincidental.
Special thanks to Maureen Vincent-Northam for her patience, editing skills, and unqualified support during the creation of this book. Thanks also go to Marie Fullerton for designing the wonderful artwork.
I’d also like to mention my two Springer Spaniels, Molly and Maisie who had to put up with late dinners and a little less attention than usual while this book was being written.
Trevor Forest has written eight children’s books including the fabulously funny Magic Molly series. Find out more about the author at https://www.trevorforest.com
Parents evening…Oh No!
Stanley Stickle pushed away his plate, slammed both elbows on the table and dropped his chin in his hands.
‘Homework,’ he complained. ‘I hate homework.’
Stanley’s mum ignored the outburst and began to clear the plates. She was well used to Stanley’s outpourings and was determined not to fall into his trap.
‘Homework,’ repeated Stanley. ‘I hate…’
‘We heard you the first time.’
Stacey, Stanley’s sister, didn’t have her mother’s patience and enjoyed winding Stanley up anyway.
‘I like homework. That’s why I’ll earn millions and you’ll end up still doing a paper round when you’re sixty,’ she said.
‘I like homework,’ mimicked Stanley. ‘You’re the teacher’s pet, so you would.’ He pushed his arm up into the air as high as he could. ‘Pick me, Miss, pick me.’
‘Homework is important,’ said Stacey. ‘It proves you can work on your own.’
Stanley was ready with his well-rehearsed answer. ‘You can work on your own at school. It would be easier anyway, because if you’re stuck, you can ask a teacher.’
Stacey got up from the table and put her plate on the draining board. ‘At least I know I’ll get a good report at parents evening, I bet you don’t.’
Stanley groaned. He’d forgotten all about parents evening. He needed a good report this year. His last one had been dreadful. He thought about it for a moment. Maybe if he went with his parents he might be able to think up an excuse for one or two of the things they were going to hear about him.
‘I could come with you, if you like, Mum,’ he offered.
‘No, you stay here, Stanley. Dad and I have an appointment with the headmaster after we talk to your form teacher.’
Stanley gulped. Headmaster? This got worse by the minute.
‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of Mr Strap,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like me much and…’
Stanley’s whinge was interrupted when his father arrived home from work. Mr Stickle ruffled Stanley’s hair as he walked past. ‘You look like you’re preparing for the firing squad, Stanley. Your report can’t be that bad, can it?’ Stanley said nothing. He wanted to put the parents night subject off for as long as possible.
Dad poured himself a mug of tea and sat down opposite Stanley. ‘I tried to get those match tickets again today, but still no luck.’
Stanley slumped in his chair. ‘It’s not fair. It’s Rangers v Rovers, the biggest game in history; it’s a semi-final, one game away from Wembley. They should limit it to one ticket each. Barry Barrett’s dad got eight.’
‘Barry Barrett’s dad is a season ticket holder and he’s related to one of the directors. I’m surprised he only managed to get eight,’ said Mr Stickle. ‘Never mind, Stanley, we’ll watch it on TV.’
‘It’s not the same; I should be there to see us get to Wembley.’ Stanley pushed back his chair, stood up and walked towards the stairs. ‘I’ll just get changed and go to George’s for…’
‘Homework first,’ said Mum, sternly.
Stanley looked round innocently. ‘I don’t have any homework tonight.’
‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ said Stacey. ‘I looked at your homework sheet at breakfast. You’ve got Geography, Maths and...’
‘Stanley pointed to his nose. ‘Keep this, out. No wonder they call you, Stacey the trunk, at school, you can’t stop sticking your enormous hooter into other people’s business.’
Stacey was horrified. ‘I don’t have a big nose, do I, Mum?’
‘You do,’ said Stanley. It’s like a ski-slope, You could set the world ski-jump record sliding dow…’
‘Homework,’ Mum repeated. ‘You shouldn’t leave everything to the last minute. You’ll get better marks if you take your time over it.’
Stanley kicked the banister and trudged upstairs.
‘I hate homework.’