Let Me In

"Westley! Good to see you, mate!" cried one of Westley's friends as the new Head Boy patrolled the corridors. He raised a hand in reply, but didn't stop to talk. He had grown tall, and his hair had lightened over summer. His teeth were perfectly straight, and his sinewy body wore his new school jumper and Head Boy badge with pride.

"Hey, Westley," said a breathy voice close to his ear. It was Janey Spencer, this year's Head Girl. Westley had been kind of pleased to see she would be his female counterpart last year, but she had completely changed over summer.

What happened to girls, Westley Marks wondered. They would be pretty, and normal, in Year Ten, but as soon as they hit Year Eleven they would morph into total tarts. Janey, last year, had worn smart black glasses and clear lipgloss, and now the glasses had been replaced with contact lenses, and her newly-revealed eyes were coated in eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara. The foundation was caked on her face, and her hair was curled majestically. With short skirt, black patterned tights and blouse undone at the top, she was officially one of them, ie the scary, intimidating Year Eleven girls Westley had been so afraid of a couple of years ago.

"Hello, Janey," Westley replied, his voice older. "Congratulations on getting Head Girl."

"Thank you," Janey smiled, fluttering her eyelashes. "You too, on Head Boy. No glasses this year."

"I noticed," said Westley. "Looks... different." Janey beamed, but Westley was not in the mood for flirting. Instead, he was distacted, looking for the one face he had yet to set eyes on this year...

Last year, Frank Smith, a Year Eight, had been withdrawn and quiet. He'd wised up a bit, got a new haircut, wore trainers instead of school shoes, but as far as Westley could tell, those kids still picked on him. Westley and Frank frequently passed each other in the corridors, and at first they had smiled at each other, but it was more usual now for Frank to ignore Westley, as though that day in the toilets had never happened...

Suddenly Westley spotted a familiar hoodie slipping out of the door. Frank.

"See you later, Janey," Westley said quickly; and, without a moment's thought, he followed Frank Smith out of the door. It was a cold September day, the sort where you couldn't see five feet in front of you for the mist, and the pavements were damp with cloud. Westley pulled a pair of black gloves from his pocket and put them on, shivering. He rubbed his badge for courage, and made his way around the back of the school, where the large bins were, and the warm vents from the canteen kitchen. There, huddled on the railings, was a group of boys younger than Westley, but twice as intimidating.

Westley scanned his eyes around the gang. There was the leader, a tough Year Ten with a shaven head of ginger hair and an eyebrow piercing, who had a cigarette stuffed between his plump lips. There were some other boys too, all smoking or chewing gum, ranging in age - there was even a Year Seven there, with a menacing grin all of his own - and, right at the edge of this gang, was Frank. He stood out, with no jumper on, only a hoodie loosely slung over one shoulder. He'd had a shock growth spurt, and was almost Westley's height, only he hadn't filled out, so he was absurdly skinny. He had hollows under his eyes and scars up his forearms like fishnets. An earphone was plugged in his ear defiantly.

"Boys, you should be in school," Westley said to them, looking only at Frank.

"As should you be, Head Boy," said the leader of the gang, whose name was Robert Fisher.

"If you don't put out those cigarettes and go to your lessons I will tell your respective heads of year," Westley said firmly. Frank wouldn't meet his eyes. "Frank?" Westley appealed, moving a step closer.

"Get lost," Frank said, still refusing to look at Westley.

"I'm trying to help you," Westley said.

"Tell me the fuck why," Frank yelled. "You don't even know me, do you, you fucking loser! Get any closer an' I'll smash your pretty face in!"

"That's a detention, Frank Smith," Westley said, partially lost for words.

"As if I care," Frank said insolently.

"I'm surprised they let you join their gang," Westley said hotly. "After what they said to you a couple years back."

"You dunno what you're talkin' about," said Fisher, getting closer to Westley. He was a few inches taller than Westley, and it was evident who had control of the situation.

"Go to class," Westley said, through gritted teeth. He was failing. He reached up to his chest and touched his badge, feeling the icy metal through his glove.

"Run off to teacher, little Head Boy, and jerk off over your badge," hissed Fisher, who'd noticed the movement of Westley's hand. "You fuckin' fag."

"That is discriminatory," Westley said faintly.

"But true," mocked Fisher.

"Leave us alone, Westley, you're out of your depth," Frank said tiredly. Westley looked past Fisher's shoulder and met Frank's cool gaze. Frank nodded imperceptibly, and Westley accordingly took a couple of steps back. Fisher grinned and also retreated.

"That's what we like to see," he said. "Go on. Run along and we'll forget all this ever happened, right?" Westley gave no sign of assent; but he turned quickly and walked away, hating himself for failing to keep Frank from becoming a part of Fisher's gang. Meanness didn't suit Frank. Westley had seen the uncertainty in his eyes. But Wetley owned this school. He knew what would have happened to Frank if he wasn't one of them. In this school, it was either join them or die.