Stanley Stickle Hates Homework

  Stanley gets the bad news

  Stanley went to his room, plonked himself down on the bed and pulled his homework schedule out of his school bag. The next piece of work he needed to hand in was Geography on Wednesday, but it was only Monday, he could do it tomorrow, surely?

  Stanley decided to have ten minutes on the X-Box first. He reached for the power switch but pulled his finger back as his mum’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘We’re off now, Stanley. We’ll be back in an hour or so. Get off the X-Box and do your homework.’

  Stanley threw his arms in the air. How did she know? He slumped onto his bed and picked up his homework notes.

  ‘Name the capital cities for the following countries and fill them in on the map provided,’ he read.

  Stanley scanned the list and filled in the ones he knew on the map.

  England? London.

  France? Paris.

  Germany? Hamburg? Or was it Berlin?

  Greece? Athens. That was an easy one. He’d been there on holiday.

  Austria? No idea.

  Stanley scanned the rest of the list and threw down his pen. How was he supposed to know this stuff? He’d only been outside of England once. After a few moments, he sighed and picked up his ‘Countries of the World’ book that his gran had bought him for his birthday when he’d asked her for the latest Football Manager game.

  The book was heavy, two inches thick. Stanley flicked through the pages until he came to Austria. At least it began with an A, so was near the front. He skimmed through the facts and figures. Population, height above sea level, average rainfall… This was hard work. He didn’t know what half of these things meant. Stanley slammed the book shut and dropped it on the floor with a thud. There had to be an easier way. He decided to think about it while he played on his X-Box. He pushed the power button and logged onto his favourite online game. Toby and George should be on by now, he thought. He scanned the list of players on the leader board, yes, there they were, Mad Slayer and Iron Fist. Stanley armed himself with his favourite weapon and immersed himself in the game.

  Two hours later he heard the front door close and once again the voice of his mother called to him.

  ‘Stanley, we’re home. Come down please, we need to have a word.’

  Oh, oh, thought Stanley.

  Stanley trudged down the stairs like a prisoner heading for the gallows. When he got to the kitchen, Mum and Dad were sat at the table. Dad looked annoyed. Mum looked sad.

  ‘It’s not my fau…’

  ‘Sit down, Stanley,’ said Dad.

  ‘But…’

  Stanley pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. His eyes rested on the tablecloth. He put his hands under the table and crossed his fingers. Please don’t let it be too bad, please don’t let it be too bad…

  ‘That was one of the most embarrassing conversations I’ve ever had, Stanley.’

  Stanley looked from his mother to his father, then back at the tablecloth.

  ‘The teacher said that you have a very quick mind.’

  Stanley looked up. This sounded hopeful.

  ‘He also said that you are a very intelligent boy.’

  Stanley smiled to himself. Mr Strap wasn’t so bad after all.

  ‘He also said that you continually waste the gifts you were born with, that you are lazy, sometimes rude and you can be disruptive in class.’

  ‘I…’

  Mr Stickle held up his hand for silence.

  ‘He said that if you spent as much time, effort and initiative on your schoolwork as you spent trying to avoid homework, you would be in the top five in the form.’

  Stanley heaved a sigh of relief. This wasn’t so bad; better than last year at least. He looked up at his father for a sign of agreement. There was none.

  Mr Stickle shook his head slowly.

  ‘We have made a promise to Mr Strap that he will see a marked improvement in your behaviour and I intend to make sure that you help us keep that promise, Stanley. You will work harder this term; you will do your homework and hand it in on time. You will stop making ridiculous excuses like: The dog ate my history chart. The cat had a fit and slashed up my Maths book, or, I was mugged by a mad homework collector who stole my English project. Do I make myself clear?’

  Stanley frowned. Those excuses weren’t ridiculous; it took him ages to think them up. He was about to say so when he saw the look in his father’s eye. He decided to say nothing.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’ Dad repeated.

  Stanley studied the tablecloth again and nodded. He crossed his fingers under the table and smiled at his father. ‘I’ll try harder this term, Dad.’

  Mr Stickle narrowed his eyes. ‘You will try much harder, Stanley,’ he said firmly. ‘And you can start by turning your X-Box off; you’ve already had a couple of hours on it tonight.’

  Stanley rolled his eyes to the ceiling and trudged to the stairs. How did they know?