Max, how long are you going to keep this up? his mother snapped, drumming her knuckles on the kitchen table. The hollow thud echoed through the cramped flat in Manchester, bouncing off the bare walls. I told you not to bring that up.
But Mum
No but! she shot up, nearly toppling the halffull mug of tea that sat on the edge of the table. Ive got enough on my plate. Do you think its easy to start a life from scratch? To find a job? To pay rent?
Max shrank into himself, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggs speckled with cheap decorative flowersone of those kitschy packs they bought on clearance. The yolk had spread in a yellow puddle, reminding him of the dull, lifeless autumn sun outside. A fine drizzle fell, turning the bleak council estate into a grey, dripping tableau: ninestorey blocks melting into a mist, the occasional hurried passerby looking like spectres.
Its just the new school
What about the new school? his mother cut in, tugging at her hair in the cracked mirror stuck to the fridge. Still cant make friends? Always hiding behind that shyness! Grow a spine, and things will sort themselves.
She snatched her worn leather satchel, giving herself a quick onceover in the hallway mirror. The bag was so narrow two adults could barely pass each othera perfect metaphor for the cramped flat Max still couldnt get used to.
Ive got to go to work, and dont expect me back tonight Im meeting Ian. she warned, slamming the door behind her. The click left Max alone with his cold breakfast and a fresh wave of worthlessness. Silence settled over the empty flat, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and a dogs frantic bark from the flat above. He rose slowly, washed the dishes mechanically, packed his battered backpack. The thought of walking to school made his stomach twist.
The new schoolan imposing threestorey redbrick building erected in the seventieswas a carbon copy of his old one, right down to the sneering glances, whispered gossip, and cramped corridors scented with cafeteria grease and damp mop water. Only here the cruelty was amplified: no one knew him, no one cared to know. He was a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, Mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad walked out! The taunts chased him all day, bouncing off walls painted a sickly pale green, soaking into the scuffed linoleum. By the final break, luck had abandoned him.
In the firstfloor restroom, in that perpetually dim corner where a bulb forever flickered, three senior pupils closed in. One of them, a lanky redhaired brute called Ethan Tomato, his face flushed and freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks, grinned wickedly.
Whats it gonna be, newbie? Hand over some cash.
I dont have any Max muttered, trying to slip past. The air was thick with a sharp chlorine smell.
No cash? another bully snarled, yanking Maxs jacket by the collar, while Ethan rifled through his pockets. Whats this?
Ethan hauled out a crumpled notea few pounds meant for groceries Max was supposed to buy after school.
Last of them, Max whispered, feeling cold sweat cascade down his spine.
All yours now, Ethan laughed, shoving him into the wall. Maxs back thudded hard. And dont think about complaining
A punch landed in his gut; Max folded in half, sucking in air heavy with dust and mildew. A second blow blurred his vision.
He skipped class. Staring at his distorted reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror, where a leaky tap dripped incessantly, Max made a decision. Enough. He could not stomach any more.
He bolted up to the roof in under a minute. The old iron door was ajar, giveaway easy. Wind whistled through his hair while the city below roared: car engines, barking dogs, children shrieking on a playground. He stepped onto the concrete parapet, the cold, rough edge biting his palms.
Stop! a shout jolted him.
The caretaker, a wiry old man in a sagging grey sweater, was startlingly swift. He grabbed Maxs jacket, yanking him back from the brink. Agespotted hands proved surprisingly strong.
A cacophony of voices erupted. The headmistress, a stout woman in a severe suit, fidgeted with a string of pearls. The school counsellor, a young woman with kind eyes, babbled about mandatory therapy and trauma work. Maxs mother, flustered and angry, eyes rimmed with mascara, stormed in from her shift. Her words rang in his ears:
Have you lost your mind? Trying to disgrace me? Do I not have enough problems already?
They dismissed Maxs outburst as a stupid stunt; no one needed another problem. The next day he forced himself back into the grey building, its façade looming like a verdict. New slurs joined the old: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They ricocheted down the corridors, echoing off the walls.
Then, a calm voice slipped through the chatter.
Mind if I sit here? it said, a hint of sarcasm undercutting the noise.
Max looked up. A tall, wiry boy with strikingly pale grey eyes stood by an empty desk. Faded jeans, a threadbare hoodie, scuffed sneakersnothing special.
Seats free, Max grunted, pointing to the vacant spots.
Yeah, I like it, the boy replied.
Max shrugged. What did it matter?
Im Sam, he said, extending a warm, dry hand.
Max, he answered.
For Max, Sam became his first real friend.
You know whats wrong with you? Sam said one afternoon as they lingered on the schoolyard, autumn sunlight filtering through ancient trees, drawing strange patterns on the ground. You let other people decide who you are.
How so?
They called you weak, you believed them. They said you were nothing, you accepted it. Try figuring it out for yourself.
Max nudged at the wet soil with his sneaker toe.
And who am I?
See? Sam smirked, his light eyes catching the slanting sun like silver threads. I wont tell you; you have to decide. By the way, come on, I found something.
What? Max asked, eyes landing on a faded sign above a basement door that read Boxing Club.
I cant Max began, eyeing the lads already sparring.
Just try, Sam cut him off.
And Max tried. At first it was brutalmuscles screamed, his body rebelled. Sweat blurred his vision, and the coacha stocky man with silver temples and a scar over his browbehaved like a drill sergeant. No one laughed at him there. Slowly, something shifted. Not just his physique, but his whole self.
Sam also hung around the gym, never training himself, just perched on an old bench watching Max sweat.
Its not about the force of the punch, Sam said one evening as they walked home through rainslicked streets, lantern light shimmering in puddles. Its about confidence. Believing you have the right to be you.
When Ethan Tomato tried to provoke him again in the hallway, Max met his stare, steady and calm. The redhaired bully backed off, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grinned. Youve changed.
That night Max finally faced his mother at the kitchen table, a cold cup of tea steaming in her hands.
Mum, we need to talk.
Not again? she sighed, weary.
Yes, again. Because Im your son, I exist, and my troubles arent just whims.
Something in his voice made her pause, really look at him.
Youve changed she whispered, as if seeing him for the first time.
I want us to be a family again.
They talked until the kitchen light dimmed. For the first time in ages, they truly heard each other. She wept, mascara streaking down her cheeks, confessing her fears about this new life. Max opened up about his isolation, the bullying, the dark desperation that had driven him to the roof. Somewhere amid the conversation they brewed tea, unearthed a packet of biscuits, and the cramped kitchen suddenly felt a little warmer.
The next day Sam didnt show up. His desk sat empty, and nobody seemed to notice. Max asked classmates, approached teachers everyone stared blankly, as if the boy with the light eyes had never existed. In the gym, the trainer also denied seeing him.
Later, in his modest room where posters now clung to the walls and a training photo rested on the desk, Max found a folded note tucked into his backpack. It read simply: Youll make it. He stared at the words, then smiled. Sam had been right he would make it.
