Max, how many times do I have to tell you? mum huffed, tapping her knuckles on the kitchen table. The sound echoed around the cramped flat, bouncing off the bare walls. I told you not to bring that up again.
But Mum
No buts! she snapped, standing up so fast she nearly tipped the halfempty mug of tea off the edge. Ive got enough on my plate. Do you think its easy starting life from scratch? Finding a job? Paying the rent?
Max curled into a tighter ball, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggs on a plate dotted with cheap, wilting daisiesone of those sad bargains from the market. The yolk spread like a dull sun over the window, as grey and lifeless as the drizzle outside. The rain turned the drab council estate into a soggy painting: ninestorey blocks melting into fog, the few hurried pedestrians looking like ghosts.
Just the new school
What about the new school? mum interrupted, fiddling with her hair in the tiny mirror stuck to the fridge. Cant you actually talk to people? Always that shy little Max! Grow a spine and things will sort themselves out.
She snatched her battered leather satchel, glancing at herself in the hallway mirror. It was so narrow two grownups could hardly fit side by sideanother inconvenience of the cramped flat Max still couldnt get used to.
Ive got to get to work. And dont expect me back tonightmeeting Darren.
The door slammed shut, leaving Max alone with his lukewarm breakfast and a fresh wave of uselessness. The flat fell silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and, somewhere upstairs, a dog barking its lungs out. He trudged away from the table, mechanically washed the dishes, and packed his backpack. The thought of heading to school made him want to crawl under the floorboards.
The new school was a threestorey redbrick building from the 1970s, a carbon copy of his old onesame sneering glances, whispered gossip, shoves in the cramped corridors that smelled of cafeteria grease and damp mop water. Only here it was worse: nobody knew him, nobody wanted to. He was just a punching bag for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, Mums boy? Tell us how your dad dumped you! The taunts chased him all day, bouncing off walls painted a sickly pale green, soaking into the scuffed linoleum. The last break proved his luck had run out.
In the firstfloor bathroom, in that perpetually dim corner where a bulb was forever out, three senior pupils cornered him. One, a ginger giant nicknamed Tommy Tomato, his face flushed and freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks, grinned:
Alright, newbie, cough up some cash.
Ive got none Max muttered, trying to slip past. The wall was cold, the air reeked of bleach.
No cash? another lad grabbed his collar, tugging at his threadbare denim jacket, while Tommy rummaged his pockets. Whats this?
He yanked out a crumpled tenpound notemoney Max was supposed to spend on groceries after school.
Its the last one, Max pleaded, feeling cold sweat trickle down his spine.
Now its yours, Tommy laughed, shoving him into the wall. Max hit his back hard. And dont think about whining
A punch landed in his gut. Max doubled over, gulping air thick with dust and mildew. The second blow barely registered; his vision went black.
He missed the next lesson. Staring at his reflection in the murky bathroom mirror, where a leaky tap dripped incessantly, Max made a decision. No more. He couldnt take this any longer.
He scrambled up to the roof in under a minute. The old iron door was surprisingly unlocked, swinging open with a sigh. Wind tangled his hair, the city below roared with traffic, barking dogs, and kids shrieking on the playground. He stepped to the edge; the concrete parapet was cold and gritty under his palms.
Stop! a shout made him jump.
The caretaker, a wiry old man in a sagging grey cardigan, was surprisingly swift. He grabbed Maxs jacket, hauling him back from the brink. Agespotted hands proved surprisingly strong.
Then came a chorus of shouts. The headmistress, a plump woman in a stern suit, fidgeted with a strand of pearl necklace. The school counsellor, a young lady with kindly eyes, babbled about mandatory therapy and working through trauma. Maxs mother, who had rushed in from work, eyes rimmed with mascara, snapped:
Have you lost your mind? Trying to embarrass me? Dont I have enough problems already?
Maxs little outburst was smoothed overno one needed more drama. The next day he dragged himself to school, the grey building looming like a verdict. New nicknames joined the old: nutcase, suicidal, loony. They bounced off the walls and multiplied like echoing darts. No matterMax would figure out a way to finish what hed started, and this time nobody would stop him.
Lost in his thoughts, Max didnt notice someone pausing by his desk.
Mind if I sit here? a calm, mildly teasing voice cut through the classroom chatter.
Max looked up. A tall, wiry lad with strikingly pale grey eyes stood there. Faded jeans, a hoodie, scuffed trainersnothing special.
Theres a free seat, Max muttered, pointing at the empty desks.
Yeah, but I like it anyway.
Max shrugged. What difference does it make?
Im Sam, the boy said, extending a warm, dry hand.
Max.
For Max, Sam became his first real friend.
You know whats your problem? Sam said one afternoon on the schoolyard, autumn sun filtering through ancient oak branches, casting fanciful patterns on the grass. You let other people decide who you are.
What do you mean?
They called you a weaklingyou believed them. They said you were nobodyyou agreed. Try sorting that out yourself.
Max snorted, nudging the damp, rainsoaked ground with his sneaker toe.
And who am I then?
See? Sam smirked, his light eyes catching the sun like silver threads. I wont tell you. Youll have to decide. By the way, come on, I found something.
What? Max asked. Sam led him down a narrow stairwell beneath a block of flats near the school. A peeling sign read: Boxing Club.
I cant Max began, eyeing the lads already sparring.
Just give it a go, Sam interrupted.
And Max did. At first it was brutalmuscles screamed, his body rebelled. Sweat stung his eyes, and the coacha stocky man with silver temples and a scar over one eyebrowlooked like a drill sergeant. But no one laughed at him there. Slowly, something shifted. Not just his bodyhimself changed.
Sam also drifted into the gym, though he never joined a class, preferring to sit on an old bench by the wall, watching Max.
Its not about the punchs force, Sam said one evening as they walked home through puddlereflecting streetlights. Its about confidence. In yourself, in your right to be you.
One day, when Tommy Tomato tried to rib him again in the hallway, Max met his gazesteady, calm. The giant shrank back, muttering under his breath.
See? Sam grinned, watching. Youre different now.
That night Max finally sat down for a proper talk with his mum. She was slumped at the kitchen table, exhausted from her shift, a mug of lukewarm tea in her hands.
Mum, we need to talk.
Not again? she sighed, weary.
Yes, again. Im your son, I exist, and my problems arent just whims.
Something in his voice made her pause, really look at him.
Youve changed she whispered, as if seeing him for the first time.
I want us to be a family again.
They talked until the kitchen lights flickered low. For the first time in ages they truly heard each other. Mum cried, mascara streaking her cheeks, sharing her fears, the weight of this new life. Max spoke of his loneliness, the bullying, the dark despair that had driven him to the roof. Somewhere amid the conversation they brewed tea, found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard, and the usually stark kitchen suddenly felt a shade warmer.
The next day Sam didnt turn up at school. His desk stayed empty, and oddly, no one seemed to notice. Max asked classmates, checked with teacherseveryone looked baffled, as if the boy whod helped with algebra and built a biology project had never existed. The boxing club, too, seemed to have no memory of the tall lad with pale eyes whod shown up with him.
Later, rummaging through his backpack in his modest bedroomwalls now sporting a couple of posters, a photo from the gym on the deskMax found a folded note. It read, simply: Youll make it. He stared at the words, then smiled. Sam was righthed make it.
