It, Mum, how many times must I hear this? Mother snapped her knuckles on the kitchen table, the hollow thud echoing through the cramped council flat in Manchester. I told you not to bring that up again.
But, Mum
No but! she snapped, leaping up and nearly overturning the halffilled mug of tea. Ive got my own mountains of trouble. Do you think its easy to start life from scratch? To find a job? To keep a roof over our heads?
Max curled tighter, staring at the halfeaten fried egg on a chipped plate, its yellow yolk spreading like the dull autumn sun outsidecold, lifeless. A fine drizzle fell, turning the bleak housing estate into a grey, mistshrouded scene; the ninestorey blocks seemed to dissolve into the fog, and the few hurried passersby looked like ghosts.
Its just the new school
What about the new school? Mother cut in, tugging at her hair in the cracked mirror perched on the fridge. Cant you speak up for once? Your timidity is getting you nowhere. Be bold and things will improve.
She snatched her worn leather satchel, casting a quick glance at herself in the hallway mirror. The bag was so narrow two people could barely pass each otheranother inconvenience of the cramped flat Max still couldnt get used to.
Ive got to go to work. And dont expect me at nightIm meeting Ian.
The door slammed shut, leaving Max alone with his cold breakfast and a heavy sense of worthlessness. The flat fell silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and a dogs mournful bark from the flat above. He rose slowly, washed the dishes mechanically, packed his schoolbag. The thought of walking to school made his stomach churn.
The new schoola threestorey redbrick building from the seventieswas a carbon copy of his old one, down to the sneering glances, whispered gossip, and the cramped corridors that reeked of greasy canteen food and damp mop water. Only here it was worse: nobody knew him, nobody wanted to. He was merely a target for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! they shouted. What, Mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad left you! The taunts echoed off the palegreen walls, soaking into the scuffed linoleum. At the final break, misfortune struck.
In the dark corner of the firstfloor toilet, where a bulb never seemed to work, three seniors cornered him. The tallest, a redhaired lout called Tommy Tomato, grinned with a freckled nose.
Spare some cash, newbie, he sneered.
I dont have any, Max muttered, trying to slip past. The air was cold, tinged with chlorine.
No cash, eh? one of the other boys grabbed his threadbare denim jacket by the collar, while Tommy rifled through his pockets and produced a crumpled fivepound notethe money Max had saved for afterschool groceries.
Last few, Max managed, feeling a cold sweat trickle down his back.
Now theyre mine, Tommy laughed, shoving him against the wall. A punch landed in his stomach, folding him in half. He gasped for air, tasting dust and dampness. A second blow hit his eye; darkness swam.
He missed the next lesson. Staring at his own reflection in the grimy school toilet mirror, water dripping from a leaky tap, Max made a decision. He had had enough.
Climbing to the roof took less than a minute. The old iron gate was ajar, yielding easily. Wind tossed his hair as the city below roared with cars, barking dogs, and shouting children. He stepped onto the cold, rough parapet.
Stop! a voice shouted, making him flinch.
The caretaker, a wiry old man in a sagging grey sweater, lunged and grabbed his jacket, pulling him back with surprisingly strong, agespotted hands.
Shouts followed. The headmistress, a stout woman in a severe suit, fidgeted with a pearl necklace. The school counsellor, a young lady with kind eyes, talked about mandatory therapy and trauma work. His mother, hurrying home from her shift, eyes puffy from mascara, shouted, Have you gone mad? To disgrace me? I have enough problems already! Her words still ring in his ears.
The next day Max barely forced himself into school. The grey building loomed like a sentence, and new slurspsychopath, suicidal, idiotjoined the old jeers, ricocheting down corridors. Yet he resolved to finish what had been started, and this time nothing would stop him.
Lost in his thoughts, he didnt notice a newcomer at his desk.
May I sit here? a calm, slightly teasing voice asked, rising above the classroom din.
Max looked up. A tall, lanky boy with unusually pale grey eyes stood before him, dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed trainers.
Plenty of seats, Max muttered, gesturing to the empty benches.
True, but I like it, the boy replied.
Max shrugged. What does it matter?
Im Sam, he said, extending a warm, dry hand.
Max.
For Max, Sam became his first genuine friend.
One autumn afternoon, they sat on the schoolyard steps as amber light filtered through old trees, painting strange patterns on the ground.
You know what your problem is? Sam said. You let other people decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you weakyou believed them. They said you were nothingyou agreed. Try deciding for yourself.
Max nudged his rainslicked shoe into the damp earth. And who am I?
Sam smiled slyly, his light eyes catching the sun like silver threads. I wont tell you. Youll have to figure it out. By the way, come onI’ve found something.
He led Max to a dim basement gym in a nearby block, a faded sign reading Boxing Club. Max hesitated, eyeing the lads punching bags.
Dont say you cant, Sam cut him off.
So Max tried. At first his muscles screamed, his body resisted, sweat blurred his vision, and the trainera stocky man with silver temples and a scar over his browloomed like a tyrant. Yet no one laughed at him there. Slowly, his body changed, and with it, his spirit.
Sam also visited the gym, though he never trained; he sat on an old bench by the wall, watching Max.
The real power isnt the punch, Sam said one evening as they walked down the lamplit streets, puddles reflecting the glow. Its confidencein yourself, in your right to be you.
When Tommy Tomato tried to bully him again in the corridor, Max met his glare calmly. The hulking boy stepped back, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grinned. Youve changed.
That night Max finally faced his mother at the kitchen table, a cup of lukewarm tea in her hands after a long shift.
Mum, we need to talk, he began.
Not again, she sighed wearily.
Im your son. I exist. My problems arent just whims. His voice made her pause, to truly look at him.
Youve changed, she whispered, as if seeing him for the first time.
Yes. I want us to be a family again. They talked long into the night, really hearing each other for the first time. Tears stained her mascara as she spoke of her fears and the strain of their new life. Max spoke of his loneliness, the bullying, the dark despair that had led him to the roof. Somewhere amid the conversation they brewed tea, found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard, and the usually cold kitchen felt suddenly warmer.
The following day Sam didnt turn up. His empty desk went unnoticed. Max asked classmates, teachersno one remembered a boy named Sam. Yet Sam had helped him with algebra, cowritten a biology report, and had been at the gym beside him. In the basement gym that evening, no one recalled a tall, greyeyed youth entering with Max.
Later, as Max unpacked his bag in his tiny roomwalls now adorned with a few posters, a photograph from the gym on the deskhe found a folded note. It read simply, Youll make it. He stared at those two words, then smiled. His friend had been righthe would make it.
