Max, how many times must I say it? Mum snapped her fingers on the kitchen table, the clack echoing through the cramped flat. I told you not to bring that up.
But Mum
No but! she shot up, almost toppling the halffilled mug of tea that teetered on the edge. Ive got my own mountain of troubles. Think its easy to start life from scratch? Find a job? Pay the rent?
Max curled into a nervous knot, eyeing the halfeaten scrambled eggs flecked with cheap plastic flowers they’d bought on clearance. The yolk pooled like a dull autumn sun through the windowjust as lacklustre and lifeless. Outside, a fine drizzle turned the drab council estate into an even gloomier postcard: ninestorey blocks melting into a grey haze, and the few hurried silhouettes on the pavement looked more like ghosts than neighbours.
Its just a new school
What about the new school? Mum cut in, tugging at her hair in the cracked mirror stuck above the fridge. Still cant make a proper conversation? Always hiding behind your shyness! Grow a spine and everything will sort itself out.
She snatched her battered leather satchel, giving herself a quick onceover in the hallway mirror. The bag was so narrow two people could barely squeeze past each otheranother oddity of the cramped flat Max could never get used to.
Ive got work later. And dont expect me home tonight Im meeting up with Ian.
The door slammed, leaving Max alone with a cold breakfast and a fresh wave of worthlessness. The flat fell dead quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking mournfully from the flat above. He sluggishly rose, mechanically washed the dishes, packed his rucksack. The thought of trudging to school made his stomach turn. Not a chance.
The new school was a threestorey redbrick building from the seventies, a carbon copy of his old one: same snide glances, whispered gossip, elbowjabs in the cramped corridors that reeked of cafeteria grease and damp mop water. Only this time it was worsenobody knew him, nobody wanted to know him. He was just a punching bag for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad ditched you!the taunts echoed off the palegreen walls and into the scuffed linoleum. And the last break of the day was a disaster.
In the firstfloor bathroom, in that perpetually dim corner where a light bulb never seemed to work, three senior pupils cornered him. The tallest, a freckled ginger named Tommy Tomato, grinned with a red face.
Right then, newbie, hand over some cash.
I dont have any Max muttered, trying to slip past. The room felt icy, the air thick with a faint bleach smell.
No cash? one of the other lads snatched Maxs collar, while Tommy rummaged his pockets. Whats this?
He pulled out a crumpled £5 notemoney Max was supposed to spend on groceries after school.
My last one Max stammered, sweat trickling down his spine.
Now its ours Tommy laughed, shoving him into the wall. Maxs back thumped hard. And dont think about whining
Another blow landed on his gut, sending him curling into a ball, gulping dustladen air. The second punch was a blur; his vision went black.
He skipped class. Staring at his distorted reflection in the grimy school toilet mirrorwater constantly dripping from a leaky tapMax made a decision. Enough. He couldnt take any more.
He scrambled up to the roof in under a minute. The old iron door was unlocked and swung open with surprising ease. The wind tossed his hair as the city below buzzed: cars honking, dogs barking, children shrieking on the playground. He edged toward the concrete parapet, its surface cold and rough under his palms.
Stop! a shout made him flinch.
A wiry caretaker in a sagging grey cardigan lunged, grabbing Maxs jacket and yanking him back. His agespotted hands were surprisingly strong.
Soon the flatlined chorus began. 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. Mum, arriving breathless from work, eyes raccoonshaded from mascara, snapped: Have you gone mad? Trying to embarrass me? Ive got enough on my plate!
Maxs little rebellion was smotheredno one needed his drama. The next day he dragged himself to school, the grey building looming like a verdict. New nicknames now joined the old: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They ricocheted down the corridors, echoing off the walls.
Then, out of the din, a calm, slightly teasing voice asked:
Mind if I sit here?
Max looked up. A lanky, paleskinned boy with unusually grey eyes stood by an empty desk. Faded jeans, a hoodie, scuffed sneakersnothing special.
There are seats free, Max muttered, pointing to the open desks.
Yeah, but I like it this way.
Max shrugged. What did it matter?
Im Sam, the boy said, extending a warm, dry hand.
Max.
For Max, Sam became his first genuine friend.
One afternoon on the schoolyard, autumn sun filtering through ancient oaks, Sam said:
You know whats wrong with you? He tossed a pebble into a puddle. You let other people decide who you are.
Hows that?
They called you weak you believed it. They said you were nothing you agreed. Try deciding for yourself.
Max poked at the damp earth with his sneaker toe.
And who am I then?
See? Sam smiled slyly, his grey eyes catching the sun like silver threads. I wont tell you. Youll have to work it out. Oh, and lets go, I found something.
Something turned out to be a tiny gym in the basement of a nearby block of flats. A peeling sign read: Boxing Club.
I cant Max began, eyeing the sweaty lads training.
Just try, Sam cut in.
Max gave it a go. It was brutal at firstmuscles screaming, body refusing to cooperate. Sweat blurred his vision, and the coacha stocky man with silver temples and a scar above his browlooked like a drill sergeant. But no one laughed at him there. Slowly, something shifted. Not just his bodyhe was changing inside too.
Sam also visited the gym, though he never threw a punch, preferring to sit on a rickety bench watching Max.
Its not the strength of the hit, Sam said later, strolling home with Max through lamplit streets where puddles reflected streetlights. Its confidence. In yourself, in the right to be you.
The next time Tommy Tomato tried to corner him in the corridor, Max met his stare, calm and steady. The gingers shoulders slumped as he muttered something under his breath.
See? Sam grinned. Youve changed.
That evening Max finally mustered the courage to talk to his mum. She was at the kitchen table, exhausted from her shift, a mug of lukewarm tea in hand.
Mum, we need to talk.
Not this again? she sighed.
Yes, because Im your son, I exist, and my problems arent just whims.
Something in his voice made her pause, really look at him.
Youve changed she said, as if seeing him for the first time.
I want us to be a family again.
They talked till the kitchen lights dimmed. For once, they heard each other. Mums eyes welled up, mascara smearing, as she confessed her own fears about the new life. Max spoke of his loneliness, the bullying, the dark moment on the roof. Somewhere amidst the conversation they brewed tea, found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard, and the cramped kitchen suddenly felt a little warmer.
The next day Sam didnt turn up. His desk stayed empty, and oddly no one seemed to notice. Max asked classmates, teacherseveryone gave him puzzled looks, as if Sam had never existed. Yet Max remembered the algebra help, the biology project, the gym sessions. In the basement gym, no one recalled the lanky greyeyed lad whod shown up with him.
Later, rummaging through his backpack in his modest bedroomposters already plastered on the walls, a squad photo from the gym on the deskMax found a folded note. It bore only two words: Youll manage. He stared at them, then smiled. Sam was righthed manage.
