Barcode.
Two.
I tend to hate the first lesson of the day. It’s breaking into the morning when lethargy hasn’t quite gone away; you feel as though the bulk if the cereal you’ve just eaten has turned to mush and is clogging up your bloodstream, making every reaction slower, every movement less effortless and every word the teacher says drawl on even longer. If you tend not to sleep for more than four hours a night, that is.
Today is Monday, and I’m in a class of brains in desperate need of caffeine, all slowly being pulled away to somewhere in their imaginations as the school’s central heating overcompensates for the snow outside. January exams are over and so we’re starting a fresh module in most subjects – except for English Language, that is, where the only exam is in May and you spend the entire year analysing Greenpeace leaflets and articles on the Prime Minister’s fuck-ups and posters advertising the latest accessories for your Sony Ericsson K800. Over and over and over.
Today is no different, except for the fact that today is Imogen’s birthday and I’ve got to devise a way of escaping her company in the next free period to get her a present, ready to give to her later on. It’s probably best if I just make a break for it as soon as the bell goes. After every English lesson I have she’s always outside, waiting for me so we can walk together to the next class, or to find a quiet spot to sit - not that you’d find one in this dull building crammed full of children. I dig my phone out of my pocket, squinting in the harsh winter sun that’s dying my eyelids red, and attempt to dodge my teacher’s eagle-eyed glare.
I fail.
“Oliver, you look as though you know the answer,” she snaps, and I quickly avert my gaze to the papers on my desk. “What’s the purpose of Text D?”
The only two people to call me by my full name are my English teacher and my social worker. “To persuade, Miss.”
She readjusts her prepared expression for my predicted wrong answer. Even she finds this period dragging, and now I’ve just spoilt her excuse for telling someone off and adding a bit of excitement to it. “Correct. I see your expertise at scanning pages and quick guessing is not diminishing along with your attention span.”
I smile apathetically at her, and once she focuses those jabbing pupils on somebody else, I glance back down at my phone. There’s a message from Imogen – she’s having coffee with friends and opening presents, and do I really want to join them? I raise an eyebrow to myself, and jab the handset buttons in reply. She knows I think her friends are high-street mannequins, to some degree. Just like I know she dislikes the fact that most of my friends are just casual ones, too preoccupied to really hang out with a kid that isn’t interested in spending lunch hour in a music studio or on a windy sports field. I’m not one for sport or instruments, anyway, even if I could afford to take either of them up.
I send the reply back to Imogen, and suddenly there’s a whining creak as a gust of ice breaks the vacuum of stifling air. I shiver and look up, and standing at the door is a mess of fair hair, balanced on top of a pale face with numerous clips to hold it in place. A girl peeks in at us all through huge glasses with thick orange frames. Orange. Who the hell wears orange glasses?
“Yes, young lady?” Mrs Smith sniffs, giving the newcomer a glaring look, as if she’s wishing to scour her with it.
“Hi, my name’s Eva…” the girl squeaks in a strong Irish accent, pushing her luminous glasses up her nose. Someone giggles. “I was sent here by the other English Language teacher, Mr Hopkins. I was wondering if I could join your class – he and I, um, don’t get on.”
And this rainbow girl assumes she’d get on better with the iron-creased, pinstriped Mrs Smith? The latter gives her a last glance from head to toe and jerks her head sharply towards the free set next to me. “You’d better sit down then… Eva.”
Eva lets the door fall shut as she scuffles towards the third row, her bag heavily pregnant with files and books and looking as if it won’t close an inch. The heads on each row follow her, turning back to the whiteboard only when her black shorts and sky blue tights are out of their lines of sight. I didn’t think hosiery of that colour was even made.
She pulls her chair out with a screech and thunks her bursting satchel on the desk, and as she flops down next to me, I get a whiff of something that smells like Mary’s spice cupboard back at Hollingwood. She yawns widely, raising a hand to cover her mouth, and the contents of a whole Indian jewellery stall clink together along a wrist which looks like something I could easily snap. She tugs out a grey folder and places it on the desk, dropping her bag at her feet and leaning back on her chair.
She must have been here from the start of the academic year because it makes no sense to move schools or house in the middle of exams – and she did say she was in another English class before today. But I don’t know how I’ve never noticed that blonde beehive against the backdrop of the grey brick school walls before, even if the sixth form here does have hundreds of students. Nothing about her fits in and nothing about her really goes together; it’s like a branch of Oxfam and a box of poster paints have been in a high speed collision. I suddenly realise I’m staring when she turns her head and raises an arm to scratch her neck. She hasn’t looked at me, and I turn back to face the front.
-
It’s raining. Fat water droplets bombard me as I run through the town centre, dodging the metal spikes of umbrellas as I make my way towards the shopping centre. Wetness is crawling up my jeans like rapidly growing mould as my feet splash in baby rivers, and I swear under my breath because I haven’t got a proper coat or a hat. I shake my head irritably to remove spikes of sopping hair from my eyes, hugging my hoodie tighter round my waist and wishing I’d just stayed at school, up in the common room with a hot drink machine and a radiator. I could’ve gotten Imogen to come back to school after her bunk down town for coffee and just told her I’d forgotten. Not bothered to get her a package of materialistic affection to make her squeal and hug me and drag me to her bedroom after school tonight.
But a good boyfriend doesn’t forget his girl’s seventeenth birthday, and so this is why my ribcage is heaving as I stumble through crowds eager to feast on what the January sales have to offer. I dodge through lanes and fly round corners until I reach an accessory shop packed full of people. Perfect.
Everywhere I look is silver. Silver plated this, mock silver that. I wouldn’t be surprised if the name of the shop was Silver. Someone complains as I push past them, my dripping coat dampening their dress as I fight to reach a wall of bracelets, and guess what colour they are? Just the right one to match the sheen of Imogen’s hair and the glint of the crystal in her tooth. There are bangles, chains, linked ones, charm bracelets… Jesus. I knew there was a reason I don’t come shopping with her – not even I can decide which one I like best and I don’t even wear the damn things.
But she owns a lot of jewellery decorated with hearts and I guess this means she likes them, so I pick up a dainty little thing with the different sized shapes dangling from it. The price tag reads £40 – I’m surprised these things aren’t locked behind a glass case. Even so, I decide that this will have to do and when the woman next to me turns away, I slip the hand with the bracelet into my pocket and simply walk out of the shop.
I can feel my heart knocking on my breastplate but I ignore it. Once I’m in safe distance from the store I raise the bracelet to my teeth and tug, breaking the plastic loop binding the price tag to it. I’ll have to tell her I had no time to wrap it, no time to present it in a better fashion than in its nudity – that’s if she doesn’t guess I’ve gotten it today. My fingers twist round the item in my pocket as I sigh triumphantly, feeling the adrenaline course through the capillaries close to my skin, and I walk towards the coffee shop she said she was meeting her friends in. A customer opens the shop door and I can hear shrieks of laughter from inside, and I know they’re still there.
“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” I mumble to Imogen’s temple, her friends cooing and looking away as I sneak up behind her and wrap my arms round her slender waist.
“Ollie, you’re soaking!” she protests, wriggling. I simply tighten my grip to annoy her and grin. “I thought you weren’t coming down?”
“Couldn’t go a whole day without seeing you before tonight, could I?” I sigh, planting another kiss on her peachy cheek. She smiles. I look down at the table, cluttered with scraps of wrapping paper and ribbon among coffee cups and crumb-coated plates, and then glance around at the four other girls gathered round the stable, all trying to pretend they’re not staring at us. One of them takes the hint and gets to her feet and the others follow like sheep, making a racket as they gather their things and wish Imogen a pleasant afternoon.
“So… do I have to wait for tonight to get my present?” she giggles as I pull up a recently vacated chair, leaning in close so I can almost taste the mint on her breath. Her lips are pulled back over her teeth as she smiles expectantly, the sunlight catching the gem in her mouth and the gloss on her lips. Silver.
“Well, maybe,” I mutter teasingly, “but if you’d rather have it now, I can always give you another little something later on…”
She’s pleased with the innuendo in my tone and doesn’t even let me kiss her properly, choosing to squeal excitedly instead. I dig inside my hoodie and hook the charm trinket round my finger, pulling it up from the cotton pocket and in front of her face. Her lips pucker into a ring of surprise as she almost snatches it from me, laying it out in her palm and gasping.
“Oh my god, Ollie… it’s – it looks…” Expensive? Yes, I know.
The look in her eyes and the battle on her face shows that she knows. Does she kick up a fuss about how I haven’t spent any money on her present, or does she let it lie because she knows why I’ve done it? I know what she’ll do, to a tee, and somehow this bothers me. Go on, Imogen. Contradict me. Tell me I’m a thief. Tell me I’m a good-for-nothing who won’t even save the little money he has on a present. Tell me I shouldn’t do it no matter where I live. Tell me I need to stop my filthy habit before it gets me into trouble.
But she doesn’t. I’m tackled as her arms fly round my neck and her sleek, chestnut hair pelts its strawberry scent up my nose. She grips my shoulder blades with her manicured nails and there’s that giggle again, that same expression of glee that sounds whenever she bends to whatever I do, whatever I say and whatever I want. I sigh into her collar, overcome by her perfume, and for a split second I wonder why a girl like this ever decided to charm a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing like me.
Maybe I should have just not bothered with the bracelet. Just to see if she’d react for once. Just for kicks.
Today is Monday, and I’m in a class of brains in desperate need of caffeine, all slowly being pulled away to somewhere in their imaginations as the school’s central heating overcompensates for the snow outside. January exams are over and so we’re starting a fresh module in most subjects – except for English Language, that is, where the only exam is in May and you spend the entire year analysing Greenpeace leaflets and articles on the Prime Minister’s fuck-ups and posters advertising the latest accessories for your Sony Ericsson K800. Over and over and over.
Today is no different, except for the fact that today is Imogen’s birthday and I’ve got to devise a way of escaping her company in the next free period to get her a present, ready to give to her later on. It’s probably best if I just make a break for it as soon as the bell goes. After every English lesson I have she’s always outside, waiting for me so we can walk together to the next class, or to find a quiet spot to sit - not that you’d find one in this dull building crammed full of children. I dig my phone out of my pocket, squinting in the harsh winter sun that’s dying my eyelids red, and attempt to dodge my teacher’s eagle-eyed glare.
I fail.
“Oliver, you look as though you know the answer,” she snaps, and I quickly avert my gaze to the papers on my desk. “What’s the purpose of Text D?”
The only two people to call me by my full name are my English teacher and my social worker. “To persuade, Miss.”
She readjusts her prepared expression for my predicted wrong answer. Even she finds this period dragging, and now I’ve just spoilt her excuse for telling someone off and adding a bit of excitement to it. “Correct. I see your expertise at scanning pages and quick guessing is not diminishing along with your attention span.”
I smile apathetically at her, and once she focuses those jabbing pupils on somebody else, I glance back down at my phone. There’s a message from Imogen – she’s having coffee with friends and opening presents, and do I really want to join them? I raise an eyebrow to myself, and jab the handset buttons in reply. She knows I think her friends are high-street mannequins, to some degree. Just like I know she dislikes the fact that most of my friends are just casual ones, too preoccupied to really hang out with a kid that isn’t interested in spending lunch hour in a music studio or on a windy sports field. I’m not one for sport or instruments, anyway, even if I could afford to take either of them up.
I send the reply back to Imogen, and suddenly there’s a whining creak as a gust of ice breaks the vacuum of stifling air. I shiver and look up, and standing at the door is a mess of fair hair, balanced on top of a pale face with numerous clips to hold it in place. A girl peeks in at us all through huge glasses with thick orange frames. Orange. Who the hell wears orange glasses?
“Yes, young lady?” Mrs Smith sniffs, giving the newcomer a glaring look, as if she’s wishing to scour her with it.
“Hi, my name’s Eva…” the girl squeaks in a strong Irish accent, pushing her luminous glasses up her nose. Someone giggles. “I was sent here by the other English Language teacher, Mr Hopkins. I was wondering if I could join your class – he and I, um, don’t get on.”
And this rainbow girl assumes she’d get on better with the iron-creased, pinstriped Mrs Smith? The latter gives her a last glance from head to toe and jerks her head sharply towards the free set next to me. “You’d better sit down then… Eva.”
Eva lets the door fall shut as she scuffles towards the third row, her bag heavily pregnant with files and books and looking as if it won’t close an inch. The heads on each row follow her, turning back to the whiteboard only when her black shorts and sky blue tights are out of their lines of sight. I didn’t think hosiery of that colour was even made.
She pulls her chair out with a screech and thunks her bursting satchel on the desk, and as she flops down next to me, I get a whiff of something that smells like Mary’s spice cupboard back at Hollingwood. She yawns widely, raising a hand to cover her mouth, and the contents of a whole Indian jewellery stall clink together along a wrist which looks like something I could easily snap. She tugs out a grey folder and places it on the desk, dropping her bag at her feet and leaning back on her chair.
She must have been here from the start of the academic year because it makes no sense to move schools or house in the middle of exams – and she did say she was in another English class before today. But I don’t know how I’ve never noticed that blonde beehive against the backdrop of the grey brick school walls before, even if the sixth form here does have hundreds of students. Nothing about her fits in and nothing about her really goes together; it’s like a branch of Oxfam and a box of poster paints have been in a high speed collision. I suddenly realise I’m staring when she turns her head and raises an arm to scratch her neck. She hasn’t looked at me, and I turn back to face the front.
-
It’s raining. Fat water droplets bombard me as I run through the town centre, dodging the metal spikes of umbrellas as I make my way towards the shopping centre. Wetness is crawling up my jeans like rapidly growing mould as my feet splash in baby rivers, and I swear under my breath because I haven’t got a proper coat or a hat. I shake my head irritably to remove spikes of sopping hair from my eyes, hugging my hoodie tighter round my waist and wishing I’d just stayed at school, up in the common room with a hot drink machine and a radiator. I could’ve gotten Imogen to come back to school after her bunk down town for coffee and just told her I’d forgotten. Not bothered to get her a package of materialistic affection to make her squeal and hug me and drag me to her bedroom after school tonight.
But a good boyfriend doesn’t forget his girl’s seventeenth birthday, and so this is why my ribcage is heaving as I stumble through crowds eager to feast on what the January sales have to offer. I dodge through lanes and fly round corners until I reach an accessory shop packed full of people. Perfect.
Everywhere I look is silver. Silver plated this, mock silver that. I wouldn’t be surprised if the name of the shop was Silver. Someone complains as I push past them, my dripping coat dampening their dress as I fight to reach a wall of bracelets, and guess what colour they are? Just the right one to match the sheen of Imogen’s hair and the glint of the crystal in her tooth. There are bangles, chains, linked ones, charm bracelets… Jesus. I knew there was a reason I don’t come shopping with her – not even I can decide which one I like best and I don’t even wear the damn things.
But she owns a lot of jewellery decorated with hearts and I guess this means she likes them, so I pick up a dainty little thing with the different sized shapes dangling from it. The price tag reads £40 – I’m surprised these things aren’t locked behind a glass case. Even so, I decide that this will have to do and when the woman next to me turns away, I slip the hand with the bracelet into my pocket and simply walk out of the shop.
I can feel my heart knocking on my breastplate but I ignore it. Once I’m in safe distance from the store I raise the bracelet to my teeth and tug, breaking the plastic loop binding the price tag to it. I’ll have to tell her I had no time to wrap it, no time to present it in a better fashion than in its nudity – that’s if she doesn’t guess I’ve gotten it today. My fingers twist round the item in my pocket as I sigh triumphantly, feeling the adrenaline course through the capillaries close to my skin, and I walk towards the coffee shop she said she was meeting her friends in. A customer opens the shop door and I can hear shrieks of laughter from inside, and I know they’re still there.
“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” I mumble to Imogen’s temple, her friends cooing and looking away as I sneak up behind her and wrap my arms round her slender waist.
“Ollie, you’re soaking!” she protests, wriggling. I simply tighten my grip to annoy her and grin. “I thought you weren’t coming down?”
“Couldn’t go a whole day without seeing you before tonight, could I?” I sigh, planting another kiss on her peachy cheek. She smiles. I look down at the table, cluttered with scraps of wrapping paper and ribbon among coffee cups and crumb-coated plates, and then glance around at the four other girls gathered round the stable, all trying to pretend they’re not staring at us. One of them takes the hint and gets to her feet and the others follow like sheep, making a racket as they gather their things and wish Imogen a pleasant afternoon.
“So… do I have to wait for tonight to get my present?” she giggles as I pull up a recently vacated chair, leaning in close so I can almost taste the mint on her breath. Her lips are pulled back over her teeth as she smiles expectantly, the sunlight catching the gem in her mouth and the gloss on her lips. Silver.
“Well, maybe,” I mutter teasingly, “but if you’d rather have it now, I can always give you another little something later on…”
She’s pleased with the innuendo in my tone and doesn’t even let me kiss her properly, choosing to squeal excitedly instead. I dig inside my hoodie and hook the charm trinket round my finger, pulling it up from the cotton pocket and in front of her face. Her lips pucker into a ring of surprise as she almost snatches it from me, laying it out in her palm and gasping.
“Oh my god, Ollie… it’s – it looks…” Expensive? Yes, I know.
The look in her eyes and the battle on her face shows that she knows. Does she kick up a fuss about how I haven’t spent any money on her present, or does she let it lie because she knows why I’ve done it? I know what she’ll do, to a tee, and somehow this bothers me. Go on, Imogen. Contradict me. Tell me I’m a thief. Tell me I’m a good-for-nothing who won’t even save the little money he has on a present. Tell me I shouldn’t do it no matter where I live. Tell me I need to stop my filthy habit before it gets me into trouble.
But she doesn’t. I’m tackled as her arms fly round my neck and her sleek, chestnut hair pelts its strawberry scent up my nose. She grips my shoulder blades with her manicured nails and there’s that giggle again, that same expression of glee that sounds whenever she bends to whatever I do, whatever I say and whatever I want. I sigh into her collar, overcome by her perfume, and for a split second I wonder why a girl like this ever decided to charm a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing like me.
Maybe I should have just not bothered with the bracelet. Just to see if she’d react for once. Just for kicks.