him.
I feel bad for the flack he’s getting on my behalf, given that he interjected to save me, so I turn around to peer over my shoulder.
I gulp with shock. It’s Jake! He looks older but it’s definitely him. I take in the details of his face with my artist’s eye. The scar running down into his lip. His different coloured eyes – left one brown, right one green – and the thick dark eyebrows framing them. His cheekbones and jaw seem too angular, telling me he’s not eating any better than he used to. His black hair is shaggy and a touch too long.
He flicks me a quick acknowledging glance before craning his head to look up at Mr Strickland, who’s now hovering above him. ‘Sir, the truth is,’ he says with a straight face, ‘I find your lessons so inspiring that I fuck up just so I can repeat year ten and spend more quality time with you.’
I hide a snigger behind my hand. Jake’s former quiet confidence has become a more daring manner, and I marvel at the chances of us being in the same class.
Switching my attention to the teacher, I watch a mixture of emotions flutter over his face. Anger, resentment, and then resignation. It’s a war he either can’t win or just can’t be bothered fighting. ‘Right, that’s enough messing about,’ he barks, ‘let’s just get back to it, shall we? You, behave.’ He glares, nodding at Jake. ‘You’re on your last warning from me. Any more trouble and you’ll be suspended again, or worse.’ He nods down at me, ‘And you, behave yourself too.’
He’s so patronising it makes me seethe.
Mr Strickland claps his hands and strides back to the front of the room, pointing at the board. ‘Now, who wants to comment on Lady Macbeth’s behaviour? About the way she goads her husband into killing the Scottish King, Duncan?’
‘Goads?’ I mutter under my breath, yanking the earphone out and jamming it into my blazer pocket. ‘Whatever happened to free will?’
‘Someone tell me how she manipulates him. How she forces him into becoming a murderer. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. He was innocent in all this, wasn’t he? Come on! Someone must have an opinion. Act 1, Scene 7, what does she say?’
My fingers flex and curl into fists. I need to control myself.
‘You’ve all gone quiet. Look –’ he turns his back to the room, stabbing his finger at the quotes he’s copied out ‘– what do these tell us about Lady Macbeth? About the female of the species and their ability to lie and deceive?’
Manipulate? Lie and deceive? The female of the species? Like only women are capable of that kind of behaviour. My teeth grind. He’s a total misogynist. Although, his description does bear some resemblance to my feckless mum. After all, didn’t she lie and deceive us into thinking she loved us before running out? I swallow down the rage unfurling in my chest. I swear, if Mr Strickland says one more sexist thing—
‘She’s greedy and forceful,’ he continues, using a red marker to underline a quote, his back to the class, ‘and she’s willing to seduce and coax until she gets exactly what she wants. Come on, women like her have been doing this since the world began, haven’t they? What about Eve in the Garden of Eden? She completely led Adam down the garden path, and some would argue that mankind has been paying for that sin ever since—’
At that, I grab the heavy hardback off my desk and hurl it across the room at his head. It misses, hits the board beside his left shoulder and drops to the floor with a thud.
‘What the—’ Spinning around, he sees the book on the floor and glares at the class. He picks it up and holds it aloft. There’s a deathly silence. Everyone looks at each other with unease. ‘Who threw this? Who? It could have seriously injured me.’
I swallow, immediately regretting my loss of temper. You’d have thought I’d have learnt by now, after what happened at my last school. Dad is going to be horrified. I couldn’t even make it through three lessons. Shit. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth and start rising to my feet, planting my hands on the table in front of me. But before I can stand, a voice behind me speaks out.
‘I did it.’
‘What?’ Mr Strickland’s eyes narrow, his gaze landing over my right shoulder.
I click my teeth shut. What the hell’s Jake doing?
The teacher gestures to the book he’s holding. ‘Pandora, by Jilly Cooper? A bit girly for you, isn’t it?’ His mouth curls into a smirk. ‘Not the type of reading material I’d imagine you with.’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t reach the top shelf in the newsagent’s yet. Unlike you, Sir,’ Jake replies cheekily.
‘I do not—’ Mr Strickland splutters, eyebrows shooting up. Everyone loses it, and I can’t help sniggering, even while knowing I can’t let this continue.
I turn around to look at Jake again and my lips form the words to end this whole thing and take the blame, but he shakes his head slightly and talks over me, staring our teacher in the eye. ‘It pissed me off, all that guff you were spouting. I thought you should shut up. If I had to ruin a book to do it, I can live with that.’
‘Jake Harding, that is the final straw!’ Mr Strickland bellows. ‘Get out of my classroom, now. Go and find the head and explain what you’ve just done. You think you’re so clever? Well, let’s see where it gets you.’
‘That’s cool,’ Jake shrugs, grabbing his tatty bag from the carpeted floor and sauntering to the front of the room. His black trousers are an inch too short at the ankle, and there’s a noticeable gap between the cuffs of his blazer and his thin wrists. ‘I’ll just take this with me. I might need something to read while I wait.’ Plucking my book from the gaping teacher’s hands, he flings open the door and slams it shut behind him.
***
As soon as fourth period is over – a boring physics lesson I had no hope of following – I rush to the head’s office, bag banging against my hip as I ask people for directions. I get lost twice before I stumble into a reception area with four closed blue doors and matching blue carpet. There’s a row of three blue chairs and Jake’s sitting in one of them, his head resting against the wall as he gazes at the ceiling.
‘Tell me you haven’t seen the head yet,’ I blurt.
He tips his head forward and his odd-coloured eyes flicker as they move over me. I touch my pale hair self-consciously when his gaze lands on the length of it hanging down a few inches past my shoulders.
‘It’s still so light, almost silvery,’ he muses.
‘You remember me then?’
‘Of course I do.’ An odd smile plays on his mouth. When he sees me looking, he lifts a hand and rubs the scar like it’s aching.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’ Sighing, I step closer. ‘So, have you seen the head? I need to speak to him, her, whoever. I need to explain it was me who threw the book.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t just the book – it was the stuff I said. They’re used to it from me.’ From the expression on his face, he doesn’t much care.
‘But if I hadn’t thrown it,’ I insist,
