When I Grow Up

When I Grow Up.

Arnold Judas Rimmer, aged eleven and two-thirds stared at the title on his worksheet. It was a very nice title: written in impeccable cursive with a blue Parker pen and underlined using one of those interchangeable biros: First line red, second line green and third line black. The only problem was that underneath his perfect title was a dismal lack of prose.

When I Grow Up.

An immediate and snide voice in Arnold Judas Rimmer's head had whispered, "Think you'll live that long?" when Mr. Petersen had scribbled the same words upon the blackboard, not even ten minutes ago, using the squeakiest of his five chalks. Now Rimmer was looking at his page again and was surprised to find that he had written something under his flawless title.

When I grow up, I would like to be

The penmanship stopped there. Supposing that Arnold Judas Rimmer did live long enough to be classed as a grown-up, he knew exactly what he would be. His father had it all planned out. Before he was even off the podium on graduation day, his father would whisk him away to the Space Corps. where he would train to be a great pilot just like his brother John. Just like his other brothers, Frank and Howard, would one day be. There was just one problem with Arnold Judas Rimmer.

He was Arnold Judas Rimmer. The name said it all.

If I'd had a good name, the boy thought as he chewed the end of the interchangeable biro, my life would be much simpler. No one would push Johnny Malone into a puddle during rugby. No one would steal Vince Logan's correcting fluid and use it all up. And no one would dare shove Bruce Firestorm's head into a used toilet.

He looked over at Porky Roebuck's paper. Porky was his best friend i.e. the boy who picked on him the least. He hadn't even started. There was a crude doodle in the corner of the sheet of a dog tearing Mr. Petersen's arms off. Porky turned around and grinned, showing off his artwork. The boy could only smile at Porky and nod his head approvingly.

When I grow up, I would like to be a…

"Class, we have a new student joining us today." Rimmer was semi-aware of Mr. Petersen's voice from the front of the classroom. It drifted in and out of his mind like the sound of the sea inside of a shell.

"He's new on Io, so let's give him a pleasant greeting." The reason Mr. Petersen didn't use the phrase 'warm welcome' was because there was no such thing at his school, Rimmer was certain of that.

The classroom door opened and the new student was greeted by mumbled chuckles, as the new student had expected. He was small, underfed and scruffy. He had owned his brand-new school uniform barely a day and it already hung it tatters about him. It was ill-fitted, but he seemed to have managed to sculpt it into his own fashion statement. It stated, "I am a bum."

"This is David Lister, from Earth. Now, we did a little about Earth last term, didn't we, when we were studying third-world planets? Lister here is from England. Does anyone know where that is? Yes, Parker?"

"Between the rotting teabags and used nappies." The class burst into laughter.

"Parker, you know perfectly well that only America is being used as a dump currently. The rest of the planet is not being demolished until next decade. Now, if you'd like to tell us a bit about yourself, Lister." David Lister reluctantly stood in front of the blackboard, eyeing the heckler carefully. "Well, me dad died when I was six and I've been with me foster parents for a few years now but money's been dead difficult so the government took me away and shoved me here 'coz you were the cheapest private school in the solar system. 'Rich kids taught poorly', they called it." Mr. Petersen smiled unpleasantly. "So anyway," the tiny ruffian continued, "I'm here now and I don't want to be. The end."

"Fanciful story, Mr. Lister. Go take your seat over there."

"Oh, not here sir," whined an acne-ridden boy sat in the direction that Mr. Petersen pointed. "I need the air-conditioner to myself or I get heat rashes. Put him next to Bonehead."

"Fine. Next to Bonehead, then. Hop to it, boy!" David Lister slunk next to the Arnold Judas Rimmer and mouthed "Bonehead?" quizzically at him. The boy stared at his paper with wet, stinging eyes.

When I grow up, I would like to be acknowledged.