The Smell of Rebellion

Prologue

The pupils of Crunchem Hall gathered on the tables, sitting tall and rigid as they focused on their muscular, intimidating headmistress. Her eyes were furious and dark as they scanned the nervous pupils, shifting and trying to sit up tall. After a long moment, she growled, "Who," She glared at a single section of tables, "dared to pour golden syrup on my chair? WHO?" She roared, now focusing her gaze on another section.

The section under the Trunchbull's angry glare seemed utterly terrified as well, but had the sense to stay still and quiet.

The pupils looked as terrified as if a charging bull was heading towards them, or as it a ticking time-bomb was being placed in front of them. Which, it technically was. The Trunchbull was a huge, unpredictable time bomb of a woman.

And, worse still, time was ticking.

There was a long pause and some silent, quick whispers and exchanged looks, but no words were spoken to the Trunchbull. Some kids glanced in the school's troublemaker's, Hortensia's, direction, but none made it very obvious.

The tinier kids were much more fidgety and uncomfortable with this all, looking away and trying to force themselves to stay upright to avoid the Trunchbull's attention. No one wanted her attention.

A boy broke the tense silence with a loud cry and eyes snapped to him as soon as his mouth opened.

The headmistress' eyes snapped to him as well,

"Hortensia Buckets!" Ollie Bogwhistle cried from his seat. "It was her, Miss Trunchbull!"

The Trunchbull's lips curled into a sly, evil smile and everyone started to grow nervous.

Bogwhistle, with his two buck teeth and short, dark brown hair cut in a ruffled haircut, was sitting upright and raising his hand straight as he spoke. His skin was pale with a handful of freckles over the nose, and a big nose. His lips were thin and his eyes were pushed together into a stuck-up one, an unpopular yet well-known expression of his that he had as he ratted everyone out.

All eyes now snapped to Hortensia, who stiffened and shouted in indignation, "No, it wasn't! Bogwhistle is lying!"

"I know it's you!" Ollie shouted. "I know—"

Hortensia's eyes sparked with anger, burning with anger and a rush of intensity rose in them. She was about to stand up when the Trunchbull interrupted.

"This is ENOUGH!" The Trunchbull roared, smacking the riding crop against her leg as she marched towards Hortensia Buckets.

The pupils just stared. Dead. Silent.

Hortensia froze where she was, her icy blue eyes flashing with a hundred different emotions. Terror, anger, indignation, and a flaring rage.

Students rushed to push the tables out of the way to make way for the headmistress as she marched over with a quick, furious stride. She reached the accused girl in under five seconds.

The headmistress looked her dead in the eye and spat, "You disgusting maggot. You disgust me. You, troublemaking, squirming, revolting, WORM!" She roared, grabbed her by the arm.

Hortensia yelped, eyes widening. The anger disappeared to make way for fear and for indignation.

She cried, "I didn't do anything! I didn't know that even—"

"Shut it, maggot!" The Trunchbull barked, grabbing her arm and forcing it down, dragging her alongside the headmistress on the double.

Her feet stumbled, tripped, and dragged under her, and after a few seconds of struggle, a loud crack followed.

Pain flashed in her eyes, and her face twisted, whimpering. She cried out in pain, but the Headmistress kept her relatively upright.

"I didn't— I didn't do anything!" The girl cried through choked, pained sobs. It was impossible to read her eyes, with so much intensity and so many emotions at once there was almost nothing to see but an electric storm in her eyes.

The Trunchbull didn't slow down, though, and kept on dragging her, growling and mumbling about how the world would be better without children, and how children should stop their pathetic snivelling.

The girl lowered her head to avoid the stares of her peers, ashamed as she cowered away from their unblinking, seemingly unsympathetic stares.

There was a feeble attempt from the girl to pull her left arm back, but it was no use fighting a former, professional, Olympic hammer-throwing champion.

The struggling student and the furious headmistress slammed the door to the canteen and their shouts grew quiet.

A few glances were exchanged, and a couple pupils outright glared at Ollie, who was still sitting upright and smug.

Then, the students slowly streamed out.