You're Not the Boss of Me! by Catherine Wilkins

Author:Catherine Wilkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nosy Crow
Published: 2022-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

It’s weird sitting down to write sketches now. If any of these new “Anil” sketches get chosen to be performed, I’ll know (officially) that my sketches are good enough, and it’s those boys’ prejudice against me that has been preventing their selection.

I think very hard about the three sketches I finally go for. One is a great new idea I’ve been ruminating on for a little while about a YouTube prankster, and all the pranks backfire.

One is about the school fire alarm going off during one of Mr Farland’s maths lessons, and he won’t let anyone leave because the fire bell doesn’t dismiss them, HE dismisses them.

(Mr Farland is famous for making everything take much longer than it should at our school. Especially if he gets a whiff that anyone is in a hurry.)

So in my sketch he makes up lots of other reasons why it has to take ages to leave the burning school. (Like doing some yoga to calm down so no one panics. “Get into eagle pose, please, everyone. It’s your own escape time you’re wasting.” Etc.)

Finally I decide to also include one of my original rejected sketches about the substitute French teacher, which I have slightly rejigged to sound a tiny bit different. I’ve changed the lesson it’s set in (to Spanish) and everyone’s names, but the dialogue and the punchline joke at the end are all exactly the same.

It’s basically the exact same idea and sketch. This is my “control group” test. The placebo or whatnot. If (when the truth finally comes out) Harry and the others try to say my new sketches were better than my early ones I submitted, I’ll have proof they’re lying.

I stay up a bit later than usual, trying to make these sketches absolutely as good as they can be. I’ll be a bit tired tomorrow, but it will be worth it.

When I’m finally finished to a level I’m happy with, I email them to Anil. It’s over to him now. Phew.

I realise I’m thirsty, so I pop downstairs for a drink of water and find my mum still sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away at her laptop.

“Oh, hi there,” she smiles, seeing me. “Bit late, isn’t it?”

“Just getting some water,” I reply. “And ditto.”

“I’ve got to catch up,” says Mum. “It’s my only chance, working at night.”

“Won’t you be tired tomorrow?” I ask her.

“Yes,” says Mum. “But it’s worth it. I really believe in this project and I want it to work. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I understand now, Mum,” I tell her honestly.

I really do.

Mum’s job is almost as important as my sketches.

I used to judge my parents quite harshly for being so disorganised. But what if there really isn’t enough time in the day for them? And they’re trying to cram too much into a space where it just doesn’t fit? This really could be the only time to do something.

I don’t want to be up late two nights in a row, like Mum though. I’ll get crabby.

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