Max, how many times must I tell you? Mum clacked her fingertips on the kitchen table, the hollow thud echoing off the bare walls of the tiny council flat in Salford. I told you not to start that conversation.
But mum
No but! she snapped, pulling herself up from the chair and nearly toppling the halfempty mug of tea that perched on the edge. Ive got enough problems as it is. You think its easy to start life from scratch? To find a job? To pay the rent?
Max curled into himself, eyes fixed on the halfeaten scrambled eggs splattered with wilted herbsone of the cheap bunches bought on sale. The yolk spread across the plate like a pale sunrise through a grey window, as dull as the weather outside. A fine drizzle turned the drab suburb into a wash of melancholy: the ninestorey blocks seemed to melt into the mist, and the few hurried pedestrians looked like phantoms.
Just at the new school
What school? Mum cut in, tugging at her hair in the cracked mirror that hung crookedly on the fridge. Cant you speak up for once? Your shyness is your own enemy! Be brave and things will change. She snatched her worn leather satchel, glancing at the mirror in the hallway. The bag was so narrow two people could barely squeeze throughanother inconvenience of the cramped flat Max could never get used to.
Ive got to work now. And dont expect me tonightIm meeting James. The door slammed shut, leaving Max alone with his cooling breakfast and the weight of his own insignificance. The flat fell silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking mournfully from a flat above. He rose mechanically, washed the dishes, packed his battered backpack. He had no desire to go to school, not even a flicker of it.
The new schoola threestorey redbrick building erected in the seventieswas a carbon copy of his old one, down to the sneering glances, the whispered gossip, the shoves in narrow corridors scented with cafeteria grease and damp mop water. Only here it was worse: nobody knew him, nobody wanted to know him. He was merely a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad dumped you! The taunts chased him all day, rebounding off walls painted a sickly pale green, sinking into the scuffed linoleum. At the final break, luck abandoned him entirely.
In the firstfloor toilet, in that dark corner where a bulb never lit, three seniors surrounded him. The tallest, a freckled redhead nicknamed Tommy Tomato, grinned with a crimson face. Whats up, newbie? Hand over some cash.
I dont have any, Max muttered, trying to slip away. A cold draft ran down the wall, and the air smelt of bleach.
Dont have any, huh? one of the other boys grabbed his collar, tugging at his threadbare denim jacket while Tommy felt his pockets. He produced a crumpled £5 notemoney Max was supposed to spend on groceries after school.
Its my last, Max pleaded, feeling a cold sweat cascade down his spine.
Now its ours, Tommy laughed, shoving Max into the wall. Max thumped his back hard, then felt a punch to his gut that forced him to double over, breathing in dust and damp. The second blow blurred his vision.
He skipped the next lesson. Staring at his reflection in the grimy mirror of the school bathroom, where water dripped endlessly from a leaky tap, he made a decision. No more. He could not endure this.
He scrambled up to the roof in less than a minute. The old iron door was unlocked, giving way with an unexpected ease. Wind tossed his hair as the city roared belowcars hissing, dogs barking, children shrieking on the playground. He stepped onto the cold, rough concrete parapet.
Stop! a shout jolted him.
The nightwatchman, a gaunt old man in a sagging grey sweater, lunged with surprising speed, grabbing Maxs jacket and pulling him back from the edge. His spotted, arthritic hands were oddly strong.
Then came a chorus of voices. The headmistress, a stout woman in a severe suit, fidgeted with a string of pearls. The school counsellor, a young woman with kind eyes, murmured about mandatory therapy and trauma work. Mum, arriving breathless from work, eyes rimmed with mascara, shouted, Are you out of your mind? Trying to disgrace me? Ive got enough on my plate! Their words rang in his ears like a broken bell.
The next day Max dragged himself to school. The grey building loomed like a verdict. New insults piled onto the old: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They ricocheted through corridors, multiplied like echoes. Still, Max resolved to finish what hed started, and this time no one would stop him.
Lost in his thoughts, he didnt notice a figure stopping by his desk.
May I sit here? a calm, slightly teasing voice cut through the classroom din.
Max looked up. A tall, gaunt boy with unusually light grey eyes stood there, dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed trainersnothing striking.
There are seats free, Max muttered, gesturing to the empty desks.
Yeah, but I like it this way.
Max shrugged. Whats it to you?
Im Sam, the boy said, extending a hand that was warm and dry.
Max.
For Max, Sam became his first real friend.
Know whats wrong with you? Sam asked later, as they sat on the schoolyard bench, autumn sun filtering through ancient trees, painting strange patterns on the ground. You let others decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you weakyou believed it. They said you were nothingyou accepted it. Try deciding for yourself.
Max poked at the rainslick earth with his sneaker toe. And who am I?
Sam smiled slyly, his pale eyes catching the slanted sunlight like silver threads. I wont tell you. You have to figure it out. By the way, come on, I found something.
The something was a cramped basement gym in a block of flats near the school, a peeling sign above the door reading Boxing Club.
I cant, Max began, eyeing the training boys.
Just try, Sam cut him off.
Max tried. At first his muscles screamed, his body rebelled. Sweat streamed into his eyes, and the coacha burly man with silver temples and a scar over his browloomed like a tyrant. Yet no one laughed at him there. Gradually, something shifted. Not just his physique, but his whole self.
Sam also visited the gym, though he never lifted a weight; he lingered on a cracked bench by the wall, watching Max.
The real power isnt the punch, Sam said one evening as they walked home through puddles reflecting streetlamps. Its confidencein yourself, in your right to be you.
When Tommy Tomato tried to corner Max in a corridor again, Max met his staresteady, calm. The redhead flinched, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam whispered, smiling. Youve changed.
That night Max finally faced his mother at the kitchen table, her hands cradling a mug of lukewarm tea after a long shift.
Mum, we need to talk, he said.
Again? she sighed, weary.
Yes. Im your son. I exist. My problems arent just whims.
Something in his voice made her pause, to really look at him.
Youve changed she whispered, as though seeing him for the first time.
Yes. I want us to be a family again. They talked through the night, really hearing each other for the first time in years. Mums eyes welled, mascara smearing, as she spoke of her fears and the strain of this new life. Max spoke of his loneliness, the bullying, the darkness that drove him to the roof. Somewhere amid the tea and a forgotten packet of biscuits, the kitchenusually cold and alienfelt unexpectedly warm.
The next day Sam didnt show up at school. His seat sat empty, unnoticed by anyone. Max asked classmates, teachersno one recalled a boy named Sam. Yet Max was certain of the shared algebra notes, the biology project theyd drafted together. In the gym, nobody remembered the tall, greyeyed stranger whod trained beside him.
Later, rummaging through his small bedroomwalls now plastered with a few posters, a photo from the gym on the deskMax discovered a folded note. It read simply: Youll make it. He stared at the words, then smiled. Sam had been righthe would make it.
