‘Is it me or is your pencil case ringing?’ I asked, watching the little metal box rattle along the desk.
‘Nah, that’s just my bee,’ replied Umer. ‘He’s always doing that.’
‘Why’ve you got a bee in your pencil case, man? Let that bee go!’
‘No way,’ Umer said, trying carefully to peer inside the lid without the bee escaping. ‘I’m keeping him. I’ve never had a pet before.’
‘A bee ain’t a pet. You can’t stroke a bee or teach it tricks. A bee’s a bee.’
‘Doesn’t mean it can’t be a pet,’ said Umer. ‘My cousin had a worm named Liam.’
‘Yeah, well, at least a worm ain’t gonna sting you.’
‘Mustafa wouldn’t sting me.’
‘Who the hell is Mustafa?’
‘My bee,’ replied Umer.
‘You called your bee Mustafa?’
‘Yeah, Mustafa Bee.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I . . . must-av-a bee.’
‘I don’t even know why we’re friends, man.’
See, this is the kind of thing I have to put up with.
I’m not saying Umer’s an idiot, but you can only watch someone put their shoes on the wrong feet so many times before you start to wonder. Still, he is my best friend. Not forever, obviously. When I’m a famous ninja-rapper I’ll probably be best friends with Busta Rhymes or Dr Dre, or one of the Power Rangers. But, for now, I’ve got to put up with Umer.
‘Ow!’ shouted Umer, slamming the pencil case shut.
‘Did you just get stung?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied Umer, rubbing his swollen thumb.
‘Well . . . maybe.’
‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘Now you’ve killed him.’
‘“Killed him”?’ gasped Umer, staring at the pencil case containing his bee. ‘What are you talking about? I haven’t touched him!’
‘You don’t have to. Once they sting you, that’s it – they die.’
‘What? I didn’t know that!’ cried Umer. ‘Why did you do it, Mustafa? Why?’
‘Quiet down, man – we’re gonna get in trouble.’
‘Oh, Mustafa! Why?’ wailed Umer, tears filling his eyes.
‘You two!’ came a voice from the front of the class. ‘What’s going on back there?’
‘Uh, nothing, miss,’ I replied. ‘Umer just got stung by a bee.’
‘He’s dying, miss! He’s dying!’ bawled Umer.
‘Who’s dying?’ said Miss Crumble, sounding panicked.
‘Mustafa!’ replied Umer.
‘Who on earth is Mustafa?’ asked Miss Crumble, arriving at the desk.