Max, how many times do I have to say it? Mum snapped, drumming her knuckles on the kitchen table. The thud echoed around the tiny rented flat in Leeds, bouncing off the bare walls. I told you not to bring that up again.
But mum
No but! she lunged up, almost tipping the halfempty mug of coffee that sat on the edge. Ive got enough on my plate already. Do you think its easy starting life from scratch? Getting a job? Paying the rent?
Max curled into a ball, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggs on a plate dotted with cheap plastic flowers from the discount store. The yolk was spreading like a dull sun over the window, as grey and lifeless as the drizzle outside. The rain turned the drab council estate into an even gloomier scene: ninestorey blocks melting into fog, a few hurried pedestrians looking like ghosts.
Just the new school
What about the new school? Mum cut in, tugging at her hair in the tiny mirror stuck to the fridge. Still cant get a word in, cant you? Youre always so shy! Be a bit braver and things will sort themselves out.
She snatched her worn leather satchel, giving herself a quick glance in the hallway mirror. It was so narrow two people could barely squeeze through another oddity of their cramped flat that Max still couldnt get used to.
Ive got to head to work. And dont expect me tonight Im meeting Ian.
The door slammed shut, leaving Max alone with his cold breakfast and a feeling of worthlessness. The flat fell silent, apart from the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking mournfully from a flat above. He got up, washed the dishes mechanically, packed his bag. He didnt feel like going to school at all. Not a chance.
The new school was a threestorey redbrick block from the seventies, an exact copy of his old one same snide looks, whispers behind backs, little kicks in the cramped corridors where the smell of cafeteria food mixed with damp floor mops. Only here it was worse nobody knew him, nobody wanted to know. He was just a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one!, What, Mums boy?, Come on, tell us how your dad left you! they followed him all day, their words bouncing off the palegreen walls and sinking into the scuffed linoleum. The final break was the worst.
In the firstfloor toilet, in that perpetually dim corner where a light bulb never worked, three senior pupils cornered him. One of them, a freckled redhead called Eddie Tomato, grinned:
So, newbie, hand over some cash.
I dont have any, Max muttered, trying to slip past. The room felt icy, the air smelling of bleach.
How can you not? another lad grabbed his worn denim jacket by the collar, while Eddie rifled through his pockets. Whats that?
He pulled out a crumpled pound note the money Max was supposed to use for groceries after school.
This is all Ive got, Max managed, feeling cold sweat run down his spine.
Now its ours, Eddie laughed, shoving Max against the wall. Max hit his back hard. Dont even think about complaining
A punch landed in his stomach, making him double over, gulping air that smelled of dust and mildew. The next blow barely registered; his vision went black.
He didnt go to class. Staring at his reflection in the grimy school toilet mirror, where a leaky tap dripped continuously, Max made a decision. Enough. He couldnt take any more.
Running up to the roof took him less than a minute. The old iron door was unlocked and gave way easily. Wind tossed his hair as the city below roared: cars humming, dogs barking, kids shouting on the playground. He stood at the edge, the concrete parapet cold under his palms.
Stop! a shout made him flinch.
A lanky caretaker in a sagging grey sweater swooped in, grabbing his jacket and pulling him back. His spotted, aged hands were surprisingly strong.
Then the shouting erupted. The headmistress, a stout woman in a severe suit, fidgeted with a pearl necklace. The school psychologist, a young woman with kind eyes, babbled about mandatory therapy and working through trauma. Mum, rushing in from work, eyes rimmed with mascara, snapped:
Have you lost your mind? Trying to embarrass me? Dont I have enough problems?
Maxs outburst was swept under the rug nobody needed his troubles. The next day he dragged himself to school, the grey building looming like a verdict. New slurs joined the old ones: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They echoed down the corridors, ricocheting off the walls.
He didnt notice when someone stopped by his desk.
Mind if I sit here? a calm, slightly teasing voice cut through the chatter.
Max looked up. A tall, skinny boy with strikingly light grey eyes stood there, dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed trainers.
There are seats, Max muttered, pointing to the empty desks.
Yeah, but I like this spot.
Max shrugged. What difference does it make?
Im Sam, the boy said, offering a warm, dry handshake.
Max.
Sam became Maxs first real friend.
One afternoon on the schoolyard, autumn sun filtering through old trees, Sam said:
You know whats wrong? You let other people decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you weak you believed them. They said you were nothing you accepted it. Try deciding for yourself.
Max nudged his damp sneakercovered foot in the rainslicked grass:
So, who am I?
See? Sam smiled slyly, his light eyes catching the slanting rays like silver threads. I wont tell you. Youll have to sort it out yourself. By the way, I found something.
Something turned out to be a tiny gym in the basement of a block of flats near the school. A peeling sign read: Boxing Club.
I cant Max started, eyeing the lads already training.
Just try, Sam cut him off.
So Max tried. It was tough at first sore muscles, a body that refused to listen, sweat blurring his vision. The coach, a stocky bloke with greying temples and a scar over his brow, barked like a drill sergeant. Yet no one laughed at him there. Slowly, his body changed, and with it, he started to change inside.
Sam also visited the gym, but he never trained; he just sat on an old bench by the wall, watching Max.
Its not about how hard you hit, Sam told him later, walking home together down lamplit streets reflecting in puddles. Its about confidence. Believing you have the right to be yourself.
One day, when Eddie Tomato tried to pick on Max again in the corridor, Max simply met his gaze, steady and calm. Eddie backed off, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grinned. Youve changed.
That evening Max finally sat down with his mum in the kitchen, her evening tea gone cold.
Mum, we need to talk.
Not again? she sighed, exhausted from work.
Yeah, Im talking. Im your son, I exist, and my problems arent just whims.
Something in his voice made her pause and look at him.
Youve changed she whispered, really seeing him for the first time.
Yeah. I want us to be a family again.
They talked all night, really hearing each other for the first time in ages. Mums eyes were red from mascara, she talked about her fears, the strain of this new life. Max spoke of his loneliness, the bullying, the dark despair that had pushed him to the roof. Somewhere amid the conversation they made tea, found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard, and the usually cold kitchen felt a little warmer.
The next day Sam didnt turn up at school. His seat stayed empty, and no one seemed to notice. Max asked classmates, spoke to teachers everyone looked puzzled, as if Sam never existed. Yet Max remembered the algebra help, the biology project theyd worked on together.
In the gym that evening, no one recalled the tall, lighteyed lad whod shown up with him.
Later, while emptying his backpack in his small room now decorated with a couple of posters and a training photo on the desk Max found a folded note. It read: Youll make it. He stared at it a while, then smiled. Sam was right he would make it.
