Hey love, listen up cause I need to get this story out of my head. It starts with Max Harper slumped at the kitchen table of his cramped flat in Manchester, the kind of place where the walls are just plaster and the only decoration is a cheap clock ticking away. His mum, Linda, is tapping her knuckles on the table, sounding annoyed.
Max, seriously, how many times are we gonna have this? she snaps, her voice buzzing through the tiny kitchen.
Max tries to jump in, But mum
No buts! she snaps louder, almost tipping the halfempty mug of tea off the edge. Ive got my own mountain of problems, you hear? You think starting from scratch is easy? Picking up a job, paying the rent on a £800 a month council flat?
He curls tighter, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggs on his plate the ones they got on a clearance sale, dotted with those ridiculous plastic flowers. The yolk spreads like a dull sun on a rainy window, the same grey light that filters through the drizzle outside, turning the whole block of ninestorey flats into a foggy, colourless scene. People hurry past, looking like ghosts.
Its just the new school Max mutters.
What about the new school? his mum interrupts, fixing her hair in the cracked mirror stuck to the fridge. Cant you stop being so shy? Grow a pair and things will sort themselves.
She grabs her worn leather bag, giving herself a quick onceover in the hallway mirror. The bag is so narrow two people could barely squeeze through it another little irritant about their new place that Max cant get used to.
Ive got to head to work. And dont expect me to be home tonight Ive got a meetup with Ian. she says, slamming the door behind her.
The flat falls silent, only the hum of traffic outside and a dog barking from the flat above breaking the quiet. Max gets up, washes the dishes out of habit, slings his backpack over his shoulder. The thought of walking to the new school makes him want to crawl back into bed.
The school itself is a redbrick threestorey building from the 70s, a carbon copy of his old one same smug glances, whispered jokes behind backs, narrow corridors smelling of cafeteria food and damp cleaning cloths. Only here it feels worse: nobody knows him, nobody wants to know him. Hes just another target for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad ditched you! The taunts follow him all day, bouncing off the palegreen painted walls and the scuffed linoleum. At the last break, things go south.
Hes hanging around the loo on the ground floor, in that dim corner where a bulb never seems to work, when three senior pupils corner him. The leader, a lanky redhaired bloke called Eddie Tommy Collins, grins with freckles splattered over his nose and cheeks.
Alright, newbie, hand over some cash. he says.
I dont have any Max mumbles, trying to slip past.
One of the other two grabs his collar on the faded denim jacket, while Eddie feels around his pockets.
Whats this? he pulls out a crumpled £5 note the money Max was supposed to buy groceries with after school.
Its the last one Max whispers, his breath trembling.
Now its mine, Eddie laughs, shoving Max into the wall. Max feels a punch hit his back, then another jab to his stomach that knocks the wind out of him. He doubles over, the air thick with dust and damp.
He skips the next lesson, staring at his reflection in the grimy mirror of the school bathroom where the tap drips nonstop. He decides hes had enough.
In less than a minute hes on the roof, the old iron door swinging open without a lock. The wind messes his hair, the city below hums with traffic, barking dogs, kids shrieking on the playground. He steps close to the edge, the concrete railing cold under his palms.
Stop! a shout makes him jump.
The caretaker, a wiry old man in a sagging grey sweater, lunges and grabs his jacket, pulling him back with surprising strength in those arthritic hands.
Then the chaos erupts. The headmistress, a hefty woman in a strict suit, fidgets with a pearl necklace. The school counsellor, a young lady with kind eyes, babbles about mandatory therapy and trauma work. Linda bursts in from her shift, makeup smudged, eyes rimmed with tears, shouting:
Are you out of your mind? Trying to embarrass me? Do you think I dont have enough problems already?
Maxs outburst gets hushed, but the next day he drags himself to school. The grey building hangs over him like a sentence, and the usual jibes are joined by new labels: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They echo down the corridors, rebounding off the walls.
Then, out of nowhere, a calm, slightly teasing voice cuts through the chatter.
Mind if I sit here? it says.
Max looks up. A tall, skinny boy with unusually pale grey eyes stands in front of him, wearing faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed sneakers.
Plenty of seats free, Max mutters, pointing at the empty desks.
Yeah, but I like this spot, the boy replies.
Max shrugs. Whats the difference?
Im Sam, he extends a hand, warm and dry.
Max, Max replies.
Sam becomes the first real friend Maxs ever had. One afternoon on the schoolyard, the autumn sun filtering through the old trees, Sam says:
You know whats wrong with you? he starts. You let other people decide who you are.
How so? Max asks.
They call you weak you believe it. They say youre nothing you accept it. Try deciding for yourself.
Max kicks at the wet ground, his sneaker sliding in the rain.
Then who am I? he asks.
See? Sam smiles slyly, his eyes catching the light like silver threads. I wont tell you; youve got to figure it out. Oh, by the way, come with me I found something.
Sam leads him to a basement gym in an old block near the school. A peeling sign reads Boxing Club. Max hesitates, eyes scanning the lads sparring.
I cant he begins.
Just try, Sam cuts him off.
So Max tries. At first his muscles ache, his body protests, sweat blurs his vision. The trainer, a stocky bloke with silver temples and a scar above his brow, looks like a drill sergeant. But nobodys laughing at him now. Slowly, his body changes, and with it, his confidence.
Sam also hangs around the gym, but he never trains; he just sits on a cracked bench watching Max.
Its not about how hard you hit, Sam says one evening as they walk home through lamplit streets reflecting in puddles. Its about believing in yourself, in your right to be you.
A few weeks later, when Eddie Tommy tries to push Max again in the hallway, Max meets his stare steady and calm. Eddie backs off, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grins. Youve changed.
That night Max finally talks to his mum. Shes at the kitchen table, exhausted, a mug of lukewarm tea in her hands.
Mum, we need to talk. he says.
Not again? she sighs.
Yes, because Im your son. I exist, and my problems arent just whims. He says it, and something in his voice makes her pause, really look at him.
Youve changed she whispers, as if seeing him for the first time.
I want us to be a family again, Max says.
They talk for hours, really hearing each other for the first time in ages. Linda cries, mascara smearing her cheeks, confessing her fears about the new life. Max opens up about his loneliness, the bullying, the darkness that pushed him onto the roof. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation they brew tea, find a pack of biscuits in a cupboard, and the usually cold kitchen feels a little warmer.
The next day Sam doesnt show up at school. His desk stays empty and nobody even notices. Max asks classmates, even the teachers, but everyone looks confused, as if he never existed. No one remembers the boy who helped him with algebra or the one who worked on the biology project with him.
At the gym that evening, nobody recalls the tall, greyeyed lad who always turned up with Max.
Later, as Max unpacks his backpack in his small room now plastered with a couple of posters and a photo from the gym on his desk he finds a folded note. It reads simply: Youll make it. He stares at the words, then smiles. Sam was right hell make it.
