were a dozen questions I’d have liked the answer to. In the end, though, I just said: ‘Oh.’
‘Try not to get too cut up about it,’ she said sarcastically.
‘No, I…it’s…I thought you’d already moved on. I haven’t seen you since…you know.’ We stood there, several metres apart, all alone in the corridor. Virtually strangers.
‘Where were you?’ I asked, more forcibly than I’d intended.
‘I’ve been around,’ she shrugged. ‘Just thought you might need some space after everything that happened.’
‘What I needed was someone to talk to,’ I told her.
‘You had people to talk to. You mum. Your gran.’
‘Mum didn’t want to listen,’ I said. ‘And Nan…Nan doesn’t make a lot of sense half the time.’ I glanced down at the floor, then back up at her. ‘I needed someone who’d been through it. But you weren’t there.’
‘Hey, kiddo, I’m not a counselling service,’ Ameena shrugged. She folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight on to one foot. She was about the same age as me, but insisted on calling me “kiddo”. It drove me nuts.
‘No. But I thought you were a friend.’
‘Friends don’t get you anywhere,’ she scowled, before wincing slightly at the harshness of her words. ‘Listen, you want to talk? Here I am.’
‘I told you, not now,’ I answered. ‘Can we meet up later?’
‘And I told you, I’m leaving.’
‘Just ten minutes after school,’ I said. ‘Please.’
She looked at me for a few moments, then gave a sigh. ‘Ten minutes, then I’m gone. I’ll meet you outside.’
‘OK,’ I replied, fighting back a grin of delight. ‘I better run.’
‘Later.’
I gave her a goodbye nod, then hurried off towards my next class. Halfway along the corridor, I paused. ‘Oh, and Ameena,’ I said, turning round, ‘it’s good to see—’
But the corridor was empty. Ameena was already gone.
I started the first afternoon lesson – History – the same way I’d started the first class of the morning – late. The teacher, Mrs Ennis, didn’t look impressed when I scurried in, but at least she didn’t put me through any ritual humiliation before letting me take a seat.
It was a relief to see that Billy’s desk at the back of the class was empty. He skipped lessons quite a lot, and I was glad he’d chosen to give this one a miss. I’d had more than enough of him for one day.
The rest of the class were already studying a textbook by the time I got settled at my desk. I peeked across at the girl sitting next to me to find out what book we were supposed to be looking at, then began rummaging in my bag for my copy.
A faint, nervous knocking on the classroom door made everyone look up from their work. I ignored it, still busy looking for the book.
‘Enter,’ called Mrs Ennis, in the posh voice she only ever uses when inviting someone in, and I heard the door swing open just as I found the right textbook. As I pulled it out of my bag, I caught a glimpse of a first-year boy hurrying across the classroom, his face red with embarrassment. He thrust a note into Mrs Ennis’s hands, and then quickly beat a retreat.
I flicked through the pages of my book, trying to find the right chapter. Most of my classmates had turned back to their work, leaving only the really nosey ones to watch Mrs Ennis unfold and read the note.
‘Kyle Alexander,’ she said. I looked up to find her looking back. ‘The headmistress would like a word.’
Making my way along the deserted corridor, a sense of dread began to rise from the pit of my stomach. Whatever Mrs Milton wanted to see me for, it was unlikely to be good.
Classroom doors lined the walls on either side of me. Teachers’ and pupils’ voices drifted out of every one as I passed. I recognised some of them, but not all.
A clattering, jeering and the occasional sharp blast of a whistle could be heard from the gym hall, which was also accessed from this part of the school. The trophy cabinet stood proudly by the hall entrance, stocked with cups and shields and medals. My name wasn’t etched on to any of them.
I pushed through the final set of double doors. A bleached, clinical smell wafted up to meet me as I headed towards the headmistress’s office. This was usually as far as any parents made it into the school, so Mrs Milton made sure the janitor kept it sparkling clean.
I’d only been called to see the headmistress once before, and I’d been a gibbering mess of nerves by the time I’d made it down the first flight of stairs. No one ever got summoned for anything good. If Mrs Milton called for you, you could be pretty sure you were in serious trouble.
This time, though, I wasn’t all that bothered. It’d be about the dinner lady, I was certain. She’d want to ask me what had happened, that was all. No harm in that. Nothing for me to worry about.
Morag the school secretary was sitting behind the reception desk as I approached, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. It was common knowledge that Morag could be used as a kind of barometer as to how bad Mrs Milton’s mood was. If she was smiling, things were unlikely to be too terrible. If she didn’t make eye contact, you’d best get your will written before setting foot in the office.
‘I’m supposed to see Mrs Milton,’ I said, stopping in front of the reception desk. Morag looked up at me and beamed broadly. I was filled with relief.
‘Ah yes, Kyle, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Just go through and wait in the office, she’ll be in in a minute.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, returning the smile. I made for the office, a spring in my step. If I spun the story out, I could probably waste the entire lesson filling Mrs Milton in on what had happened. Maybe – if I really went into detail and repeated myself a bit – I could fill the whole afternoon. Not only would I avoid lessons, I’d also be able to avoid—
‘Billy?’ I frowned, as I eased open the door to the headmistress’s office and stepped inside.
He was standing by the window, looking out through the slatted wooden blinds. He whipped round at the sound of my voice, his eyes narrowing to slits when he saw me. ‘What you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘I…a kid came in with a note,’ I explained, feeling my confidence start to crumble. If Billy had been summoned too, then I wasn’t here to talk about the dinner lady. It had to be about what had happened on the way to class. That wasn’t good.
Mrs Milton was ruthlessly strict when it came to fighting in school, and I doubted she’d care that my only contribution to the “fight” was taking a punch to the guts.
Billy made a noise a bit like a horse sneezing and turned back to the window. ‘We’ll say we were just mucking about,’ he instructed. He had obviously come to the same conclusion as I just had. ‘It was nothing, just two mates having a
