13March
Mum was tapping her knuckles on the kitchen table, the dull thump echoing off the bare walls of our little flat in Salford. Max, how many times must I hear you complain? she snapped. I told you not to bring this up again.
But Mum
No buts! She sprang up, nearly toppling the halffilled mug of tea that sat on the edge of the table. Ive my own troubles enough. Do you think its easy to start life from scratch? To find a job? To pay the rent?
I curled into a ball, staring at the halfeaten fried egg on a plate dotted with cheap plastic flowersone of those things we bought on clearance. The yolk spread out like a faded autumn sun through the window, just as dim and lifeless as the sky outside. A light drizzle blotted the dreary council estate, turning the already bleak neighbourhood into something even more miserable; the grey ninestorey blocks seemed to dissolve into the mist, and the few passersby hurried about like ghosts.
What about the new school? Mum interrupted, fussing with her hair in the tiny mirror perched on the fridge. Cant you sort yourself out? Youre always hiding behind that shyness. Be a bit bolder and things will improve. She snatched up her battered leather handbag, giving herself a quick glance in the hallway mirror. It was so narrow two people could hardly turn inside itanother inconvenience of this cramped flat that I just couldnt get used to.
Ive got to head to work now. And dont expect me home for dinnerI’ve got plans with Ian.
The door slammed, leaving me alone with my cold breakfast and a fresh dose of uselessness. The flat fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking somewhere up the stairs. I dragged myself away from the table, washed the dishes mechanically, packed my battered backpack. I had no desire to walk to the new schoolnot a chance.
The new school was a threestorey redbrick building from the seventies, a carbon copy of the old one: the same sneering looks, whispered jokes behind backs, shoves in cramped corridors that reeked of cafeteria food and damp mop water. Only here it was worseno one knew me, no one wanted to. I was just a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! Whats the mums boy doing here? Come on, tell us how your dad left you! Those taunts chased me all day, bouncing off walls painted a sickly pale green, soaking into the scuffed linoleum. And at the last break, luck deserted me.
By the firstfloor toilet, in that perpetually dark corner where a bulb never seemed to work, three senior pupils cornered me. The tallest, a redhaired lanky lad nicknamed Tommy Tomato, grinned with freckles plastered across his nose and cheeks.
Alright, fresh meat, hand over some cash, he snarled.
Ive none, I muttered, trying to slip past. The air was cold, tinged with the smell of chlorine.
What do you mean none? One of his mates grabbed my frayed denim jacket by the collar, while Tommy rifled through my pockets. He pulled out a crumpled notea few pounds meant for groceries after school.
Last of it, I whispered, feeling a cold sweat trail down my spine.
Now its yours, Tommy laughed, shoving me against the wall. My back thumped painfully. Dont you think about complaining He jabbed me in the stomach, then another blow landed on my ribs, making my vision blur.
I skipped class. Staring at my reflection in the grimy school toilet mirrorwater dribbling from a leaky tapI made a decision. Enough. I couldnt take any more.
Climbing onto the roof took less than a minute. The old iron door was ajar, yielding easily. The wind tossed my hair as the city below roared with traffic, barking dogs, and children shrieking on a playground. I stepped onto the cold, rough concrete parapet.
Stop! a voice shouted, making me start.
The caretaker, a wiry old man in a sagging grey sweater, lunged faster than I expected, grabbing my jacket and hauling me back. His spotted, aged hands were surprisingly strong.
Then came a chorus of shouts. The headmistress, a stout woman in a strict suit, fidgeted with a pearl necklace. The school counsellor, a young woman with kind eyes, babbled about mandatory therapy and trauma work. My mum burst in, eyes rimmed with mascara, voice cracked with anger.
Youve gone mad! Trying to disgrace me? Ive enough problems already! Her words still ring in my ears.
The next day I dragged myself to school. The grey block loomed like a verdict. New insults piled on the old: psycho, suicidal, idiot. They ricocheted down the corridors, echoing endlessly. Still, I convinced myself Id find a way to finish what I started, and this time nobody would stop me.
I was so lost in the noise that I didnt notice someone stopping by my desk.
Mind if I sit here? a calm, slightly teasing voice asked, cutting through the chatter.
I looked up. A tall, thin boy with unusually light grey eyes stood there, dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed trainers.
Plenty of space, I grunted, gesturing to the empty desks.
Great, I like it, he replied.
I shrugged. Whats it to you?
Im Charlie, he said, extending a hand that was warm and dry.
Max, I replied.
Charlie became my first real friend.
One afternoon, sitting on the schoolyard bench as autumn sun filtered through old oak branches, he said, You know whats wrong with you? You let other people decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you weak you believed them. They said youre nothing you agreed. Decide for yourself who you are. He kicked at the damp earth, sending a spray of rainslick mud.
And who am I? I asked.
Youll have to figure that out yourself, he smiled, his eyes catching the sun like silver threads. Come on, I found something.
He led me to a tiny gym in the basement of a block of flats near the school. A peeling sign read Boxing Club.
I cant I began, eyeing the lads already training.
Just give it a go, Charlie cut me off.
I tried. It was brutal at firstmuscles screaming, body refusing to cooperate, sweat blurring my vision. The trainer, a stocky man with grey temples and a scar over his brow, barked like a drill sergeant. No one laughed at me there. Slowly, something changed. Not just my body, but me.
Charlie never trained; he perched on an old bench by the wall, watching me.
The real power isnt the punch, he told me one evening as we walked home through lamplit streets, puddles reflecting the lanterns. Its confidencein yourself, in your right to be you.
When Tommy Tomato tried to bully me again in the corridor, I met his starecalm, steady. He backed off, muttering under his breath.
See? Charlie said, smiling. Youve changed.
That night I finally spoke to Mum, who was sitting at the kitchen table, exhausted after a shift, a mug of lukewarm tea in her hands.
Mum, we need to talk.
Here we go again? she sighed.
Yes, because Im your son, I exist, and my problems arent just whims. My voice made her pause, and she actually looked at me.
Youve changed, she whispered, as if seeing me for the first time.
Yeah. I want us to be a family again. We talked for hours, really hearing each other for the first time in ages. She cried, mascara smearing her cheeks, spoke of her fears, of how hard this new life had been. I spoke of my loneliness, the bullying, the dark despair that led me to the roof. Somewhere amidst the tea and a packet of biscuits we found in the cupboard, the kitchenusually cold and foreignfelt warmer.
The next day Charlie didnt turn up. His desk sat empty, unnoticed by anyone. I asked classmates, teachersno one remembered a boy named Charlie. Hed helped me with algebra, worked on a biology project with me. In the gym, nobody recalled the tall, greyeyed lad whod shown up with me.
Later, sorting my backpack in my small roomnow plastered with a few posters and a photo from the gymI found a folded piece of paper. It read simply: Youll make it. I stared at the words, then smiled. My friend was rightIll make it.
Lesson learned: No one else can write your story; you have to pick up the pen yourself.
