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** NOVEMBER 20TH ** |
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*** MATTHEWS RESIDENCE - 3:50 PM *** |
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| Greg skims over the letter once again, scratching his chin as he stuffs it back in the envelope. | |
| Greg Matthews: | Oi, kiddo! Downstairs! |
| Ian walks down the stairs slowly. He is not his usual chirpy self. | |
| Ian Page: | What's the matter Greg? |
| Greg waves the envelope in front of the little boy's eyes. | |
| Greg Matthews: | I think you might have a pretty good idea. Come on, what happened? |
| Ian guiltily shuffles his feet. | |
| Ian Page: | What do you mean? |
| Greg Matthews: | You called Mrs Anderson a 'wrinkly old bitch". Why'd you do that? |
| Ian shrugs his shoulders. | |
| Ian Page: | 'Cause she is one! |
| Greg rolls his eyes. | |
| Greg Matthews: | That's no excuse and you know it! |
| Ian Page: | She marked down my story about aeroplanes just 'cause I wrote a naughty word in there. She's a real cow. |
| Greg Matthews: | Look, it doesn't matter what you did. She's your teacher which means that you can't talk to her like that. You're a child and she's an adult. Understand? |
| Ian Page: | But she's so stupid! And she's a woman. I ain't taking orders from a wrinkly old woman! |
| Greg sighs heavily. | |
| Greg Matthews: | She's your teacher. It makes no difference that she's a woman, you still have to do what she tells you and not call her names. |
| Ian Page: | But Greg, you told me that women are silly bitches. |
| Ian pouts. | |
| Greg Matthews: | That's not the same thing. She's your teacher, so you can't think of her as a woman. You have to respect her anyway. |
| Ian Page: | Even though she's a woman and she smells like fish? |
| Greg chuckles lightly. | |
| Greg Matthews: | Even though she smells like fish. Okay little buddy? |
| Ian Page: | Okay Greg. You wanna go out and play footy later on? |
| Greg Matthews: | I'll do a deal with you. We'll kick the footy around until dinner but then you have to promise to go to bed on time and not make a fuss. Deal? |
| Ian Page: | Deal. I'll just go up to my room and get the ball. |
| Ian trudges up the stairs, his head downcast. | |
| Ian Page: | Silly wrinkled old cow. I hope her dentures fall out. |
| Greg smiles, shaking his head as the child leaves. Ian mutters under his breath as he walks along the corridor towards his room. He pauses outside Polly's door and looks at her sitting at her desk. | |
| Ian Page: | What are you doing? |
| Ian wanders into Polly's room with an interested look on his face. Polly quickly wipes the tears from her eyes and opens a maths book. | |
| Polly Page: | Homework. What do you want, pest? |
| Ian Page: | I want to know what you're doing. You always sit up in your room nowadays. You never come out to play with me like you used to. |
| Polly Page: | You fink I'd waste my time kicking a football around the back yard? |
| Ian Page: | It's fun! Or at least I think it is. What do you do for fun? |
| Polly searches through her schoolbag, finding her uneaten lunch and affectionately placing on her bed where upon Bella wakes up and polishes it off. Ian starts to play with the ballerina on Polly's dresser. | |
| Polly Page: | Bella's fun. She's really cute. But she's getting so big I can hardly carry her up the stairs anymore. Then she can't come inside. |
| Ian Page: | Who wants a stupid dog anyway? Lizards are way more fun. |
| Polly Page: | Yuck. They're disgusting! Bella's all soft and furry and she smells like a little baby. |
| Polly turns back to her desk, trying to focus on the maths questions. Ian shrugs. | |
| Ian Page: | Babies suck. You should see "Revenge of the Mutant Babies". This guy wipes out a hundred giant babies with a bazooka! This is so unfair, you getting a silly puppy but Greg won't even get me that cool new chameleon down in the pet store. |
| Ian sulks. Polly empties the contents of her pencil case loudly on the desk. | |
| Polly Page: | Stop whinging, pest. Go and play your stupid football! |
| Ian stops fiddling with Polly's ballerina. | |
| Ian Page: | Fine! I don't want to be up here with a silly girl anyway! Let alone her stupid dog. |
| Ian glares at Bella, who stares back at him affectionately. | |
| Ian Page: | My collection of four hundred and eighty-seven different roaches is way cooler anyway! |
| Ian walks out of the door with his head held high. Polly raises her voice as he tears off down the corridor. | |
| Polly Page: | They better not be anywhere near this house! |
| Ian yells out behind him. | |
| Ian Page: | They'll be under your pillow in the morning, Polly! |
| Ian dashes into his room to fetch his ball. | |