Jack, seriously, how many times do I have to tell you? his mum taps the kitchen table with her knuckles. The sound bounces off the bare walls of the tiny rented flat in a council estate, echoing through the cramped space. I told you not to start that conversation.
But mum
No but! she snaps, jerking upright and nearly toppling the halffilled mug of coffee perched on the edge of the table. Ive got my own problems enough to drown in. Do you think its easy to start life from scratch? To find a job? To pay the rent?
Jack curls into a ball, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggs on a plate dotted with cheap plastic flowersone of those they bought on clearance. The yolk spreads like a dull autumn sun over the window, as colourless and lifeless as the sky outside. A fine drizzle turns the bleak neighbourhood into an even grayer scene: the grey ninestorey blocks melt into the mist, and the few hurried passersby look like ghosts.
Its just the new school
What about the new school? his mum interrupts, nervously fixing her hair in the tiny mirror stuck to the fridge. Still cant get a proper conversation going? Always hiding behind your shyness! Grow a spine and things will sort themselves.
She snatches her wellworn leather bag, glances at herself in the hallway mirror. The bag is so narrow two people could barely pass each otheranother inconvenience of the cramped flat Jack cant get used to.
Ive got to head to work. And dont expect me tonight Im meeting Ian.
The door slams shut, leaving Jack alone with his cold breakfast and a crushing sense of uselessness. The flat falls silent except for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking mournfully from a flat above. He slowly rises from the table, washes the dishes mechanically, packs his backpack. He has no desire to go to schoolnone at all.
The new school is a typical threestorey redbrick building from the seventies, a carbon copy of his old one not just in looks but in sneering glances, whispered jokes behind backs, shoves in narrow corridors that smell of cafeteria food and dirty floor mops. Here it feels even worseno one knows him, no one wants to know him. Hes just a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one!, What, mums boy?, Come on, tell us how dad dumped you!the taunts follow him all day, bouncing off the palegreen walls, soaking into the scuffed linoleum. At the final break he gets his worst luck.
By the toilets on the ground floor, in that perpetually dark corner where a bulb never works, three senior pupils surround him. One, a ginger lanky lad nicknamed Tommy Tomato, with a flushed face and freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks, grins.
Alright, rookie, hand over some cash.
I dont have any, Jack mutters, trying to slip past. A cold draft runs down the wall, and the air smells of bleach.
How come youve got none? another boy grabs his collar of a threadbare denim jacket, while Tommy rummages his pockets. Whats this?
He pulls out a crumpled £5 notemoney meant for groceries he was supposed to buy after school.
My last, Jack forces out, feeling a cold sweat trickle down his back.
Now its mine, Tommy laughs, shoving him against the wall. Jack hits his back hard. And dont think about complaining
A punch lands in his stomach. Jack folds in half, gasping for air thick with dust and damp. The second blow barely registers, his vision darkens.
He skips the lesson. Staring at his reflected face in the grimy school toilet mirror where water drips from a leaky tap, Jack decides. Enough. He cant take any more.
He climbs onto the roof in under a minute. The old iron door is ajar, giving way with little effort. Wind whips his hair as the city below hums: cars roar, dogs bark, children shriek on the playground. He steps to the edge; the concrete parapet feels cold and rough under his palms.
Stop! a shout freezes him.
A gaunt caretaker in a sagging grey sweater darts forward, grabs Jacks jacket and pulls him back. His speckled, aged hands are surprisingly strong.
Later, a cascade of shouts erupts. The headmistress, a stout woman in a stern suit, fidgets with a string of pearls. The school counsellor, a young woman with kind eyes, mentions mandatory therapy and trauma work. Jacks mum, arriving from work, looks disheveled, mascara smudged, anger flashing in her eyes. Her words ring in his ears:
Have you lost your mind? Trying to disgrace me? Ive got enough problems already!
Jacks outburst is dismissed; nobody needs any more trouble. The next day he drags himself to school. The grey building looms like a sentence. Now, in addition to the old jeers, new labels stick: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They ricochet down the corridors, echoing off the walls.
He doesnt notice a quiet voice at his desk.
Mind if I sit here? a calm, slightly teasing voice cuts through the classroom chatter.
Jack looks up. A tall, lanky boy with strikingly pale grey eyes stands there, wearing faded jeans, a hoodie, scuffed trainersnothing special.
Theres a free seat, Jack mutters, pointing to the empty desks.
Yeah, I like it, the boy replies.
Jack shrugs. What does it matter?
Im Sam, he says, extending a warm, dry hand.
Jack.
For Jack, Sam becomes his first real friend.
One afternoon on the schoolyard, the autumn sun filters through the bare branches of old oak trees, painting odd patterns on the ground.
You know what your problem is? Sam says. You let other people decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you a weaklingyou believed it. They said you were nothingyou bought into it. Try deciding for yourself who you are.
Jack wiggles the toe of his sneaker in the damp earth.
So who am I?
See? Sam smiles slyly, his light eyes flashing like silver threads in the slanting sun. I wont tell you; you have to figure it out. By the way, come on, I found something.
What? Jack asks.
It turns out to be a tiny basement gym in a block of flats near the school, its peeling sign reading Boxing Club.
I cant Jack begins, eyeing the sweaty lads training inside.
Just try, Sam cuts him off.
So Jack tries. At first his muscles ache, his body rebels, sweat blurs his vision. The trainera broadshouldered man with silvergrey temples and a scar above his browbehaves like a drill sergeant. But no one laughs at Jack there. Slowly, something shifts. Not just his bodyhimself changes.
Sam also frequents the gym, but he never works out; he simply sits on a cracked bench by the wall, watching Jack.
The point isnt how hard you hit, Sam tells him later as they walk home through lanternlight streets, puddles reflecting streetlamps. Its confidence. In yourself, in your right to be you.
One day, when Tommy Tomato tries to corner him again in the corridor, Jack meets his gaze, steady and calm. The big lad steps back, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grins, noting the change. Youve turned around.
That evening Jack finally sits down with his mum at the kitchen table. Shes exhausted after a shift, nursing a mug of lukewarm tea.
Mum, we need to talk.
Not again? she sighs wearily.
Yes, Im talking. Im your son, I exist, and my problems arent just whims.
Something in his voice makes her pause, really look at him.
Youve changed she says, as if seeing him for the first time.
I want us to be a family again.
They talk through the night, truly hearing each other for the first time in ages. She cries, mascara smearing her cheeks, confesses her fears about the new life. Jack shares his loneliness, the bullying, the darkness that drove him to the roof. Somewhere in the conversation they brew tea, find a packet of biscuits in a cupboard, and the usually cold kitchen suddenly feels warmer.
The next day Sam doesnt show up at school. His empty desk goes unnoticed. Jack asks classmates, checks with teacherseveryone looks puzzled, as if Sam never existed. Yet Jack remembers the algebra help, the biology project they tackled together. In the gym that evening, nobody recalls the tall boy with pale eyes who always arrived with him.
Later, rummaging through his backpack in his small bedroomwalls now plastered with the first posters, a photo from training on the deskJack finds a folded note. It reads simply: Youll make it. He stares at the words, then smiles. Sam was righthe will make it.
