Edenham Comprehensive

Scuffing the toe of her worn black pumps on the pavement, Casey trudges down the familiar road, past the raucous kids at the bus stop, past the withered old tree at the end of the road that has been there for as long as she can remember, past the row of terraced houses badly in need of regeneration, all the way to the council estate not a stone’s throw away from the school.

Kenilworth Estate, Casey thinks distastefully, surveying it from the broken gate. Oh how I missed you.

She makes her way carefully past the group of chavs lurking by the entrance, who shout out lurid comments as she passes them. One of them grabs for her arse and she flinches away, her normally pale face turning beetroot. As she scuttles away from them into the comparative safety of the building, she can still hear their mocking laughter ringing in her ears.

The old Casey wouldn’t have let them get away with it. The old Casey would’ve barked out a scathing put-down, smooth as you like, which would’ve put them in their place. She’d probably even have got a phone number or two out of it.

But that’s the old Casey. The new Casey is just a shadow of her; she's shrunk so far into herself she can’t muster up the will to care.

She forgoes the lift; the ‘Out of Order’ sign hung across it crookedly is wispy with cobwebs and peeling at the edges. Instead, she heads up the stairs, adjusting the straps of her bag to minimise her discomfort.

It doesn’t do much. By the time she’s reached her floor, several staircases after, there’s an ache in her lungs and she’s panting and wheezing for breath. Fumbling with her keys, she pushes the door open and lets herself inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.

It’s obvious there’s no one in the flat; the silence has settled on the furniture like dust. Sure enough, there’s a note by the phone in her mum’s distinctive handwriting: Working late. Will be back at about 9pm. There’s pizza in the freezer.

Casey snorts and crumples it, throwing the note carelessly behind her. She’s always working late. The flat hums with unspoken words, bitter resentment, and bottled up anger. When her dad left, it felt like she'd lost both her parents. Sometimes, it still does.

Brushing her thoughts away with the dust on the scratched coffee table, Casey hauls her bag off her back and drops it to the carpeted floor with a quiet thud.

Hugging her arms across her chest, she trudges into her bedroom, right at the back of the flat, shutting the door firmly behind her. She shrugs off her blazer, tugs off her jumper and starts unbuttoning her blouse. She strips to her underwear and steps in front of the full-length mirror, peering closely at her reflection.

She isn’t bad looking, she supposes. She was quite pretty before, back when she bothered with hair and makeup and all the things teenage girls are supposed to care about. Now, her bare, plain face looks pinched with tiredness, the look only exacerbated by the bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her grey eyes no longer sparkle with feisty zest; they’re just dull splodges on an otherwise blank canvas. Her lips are chapped and pale from nervous nibbles by feverish teeth, a problem easily fixed, so she rummages in a drawer for some Vaseline and smoothes it on her parched, dry lips.

When she returns to the mirror, she examines the rest of her body. She’s skinny, almost unhealthily so, her ribs protruding slightly from her chest. Her legs are like sticks, veins twisting across the surface of her skin. She’s fairly flat chested, always has been, and even when she pushes at her bra, she still doesn't have much of a cleavage.

“Beautiful, Casey,” she mutters to herself, sarcasm dripping from her words. “Just bloody beautiful.”

Hauling her wardrobe open, she assesses the contents. It takes her a few seconds to choose a pair of jeans and a baggy hoodie that’ll do nothing for her non-existent curves, but she’s long past caring about trivialities such as that. There was a time when Casey wouldn’t have set foot outside without her hair done, her face on and a knock-‘em-dead outfit on.

She can’t help but laugh softly at the irony as she pulls on the clothes and slips a belt onto her jeans to keep them at her narrow hips. Slinking back into the empty living room, she lies on the lumpy grey sofa, half listening to the sounds of the flat next door. She can vaguely hear the buzz of a television, someone clattering around, some music playing softly.

Casey sighs, raking her hands through her hair. The walls are papery thin, the paint peeling, stained with dirt and memories. Welcome to the Kenilworth Estate, home to junior delinquents, single mothers and teenage misfits, she thinks with a wry smile.

Suddenly, she can’t bear the screaming silence any more. Rolling off the sofa, she locates her battered black trainers, slipping them on and tying the laces up tight. There’s only one place she can go, only one place where the silence won’t suffocate her and she can feel at home.

She grabs her keys and her iPod, plugging in the earphones and stashing it safely in her pocket. Careful to lock the door behind her, she takes the stairs; it’s much easier on the way down. She walks past the same group of chavs who wolf-whistle as she passes, but she ignores them, quickening her pace until they’re out of earshot.

She’s heading for the park. Well. That’s a bit of a loose term. There are a few swings and a slide, mercilessly graffitied to within an inch of their lives. There are a few scarily young mothers pushing prams around, a couple of dogs barking, walking their owners, but apart from that, there isn’t much.

There is, however, a small stretch of field, usually only inhabited by boys playing football. Casey walks past a game, a smile creeping involuntarily onto her face. It never ceases to amazes her how little kids can get so much enjoyment from kicking a ball around. Oh, to be ten years old, where your thoughts don’t stretch beyond your own personal bubble, she thinks, sighing a little.

Glancing around her guardedly, Casey slips behind a clump of trees, cleverly obscuring what lies beneath. Or rather, what lies behind. It’s just an old shed, which Casey commandeered a few years ago, but it’s her shed, and she doesn't want anyone finding it.

Pushing the door open and stepping inside, she surveys her sanctuary with a touch of pride. When she first stumbled upon it, a few years back, it was old and musty and falling apart. Now, there’s a soft rug she found at the market for a bargain price, curtains shielding the afternoon sun, a blanket to curl up in and a stack of books in the corner. Posters adorn the walls and a rug is thrown casually across the floor. Casey doesn’t think anyone knows about it but her, and that gives her a certain amount of satisfaction.

Collapsing in the corner, she pulls the blanket round her, grateful for the warmth, and reaches for a worn paperback. As she opens it to the marked page, the book draws her into its world, whispering sweet nothings in her ear and promising her peace. For a few hours, she loses herself in another world, a better world, where she can pretend she’s something more than a mixed up fifteen-year-old girl with a screwed up past, a worse present and no future to speak of.

She devours the book in two and a half hours, left desperate and hungry for more. She hates finishing books; the endings are always the worst part of a story. Stifling a yawn, she checks her watch and leans against the wall, pulling the blanket closer around her.

She’s still got ages until her mum gets back, but it’ll be getting dark soon and it isn’t wise to be alone late at night, especially not on the Kenilworth Estate. Reluctantly, she puts the book back and gets to her feet.

By the time she emerges, it’s still pretty light out, but sunset is some way off yet. Nonetheless, the boys playing football have abandoned their game; they’re probably wanted home early. They only looked about ten to Casey.

Humming under her breath to the song playing, she shoves her hands in her pockets to keep them warm and heads for the path leading back to the estate.

But no sooner has she rejoined it than someone barrels into her, knocking her sideways. Their hood is up so she can’t see who it is, but she’s guessing it’s just another ASBO’d chav off the estate.

“Oi!” she cries after him. “Watch where you’re going!”

To her surprise, the boy turns around, flipping their hood back off their face. What’s more surprising is she recognises him. It’s Reuben, the new boy.

“Sorry,” he apologises, looking furtively around him.

“It’s okay,” Casey muttered, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her knuckles. “Who’re you running from?”

He looks taken aback. “I’m not running from anyone,” he replies uncomfortably.

But Casey can tell he’s lying. She’s become quite good at doing that in the past few years. This boy can’t lie to save his life.

“Right,” she replies sarcastically. A thought occurs to her and she shivers. “It isn’t Tyler, is it?”

Reuben frowns, confused. “Tyler? No.” He looks at her closer, and his eyes widen with realisation. “You’re- you’re from my school.”

She nods. “Yup. I’m in your form. I’m Casey, by the way.”

“Reuben,” he replies with a smile, “but I guess you already knew that. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she concurs. “So who are you running from?”

She notices him hesitating, weighing up whether to tell her or not. He decides not. “No one,” he insists lamely. “I’m- I’m going to be late back.”

“Right, then you’d better get going,” she replies, irked. She doesn't like being lied to, even by people she’s only just met.

“You live on the estate, right?” She nods. Encouraged, he continues. “What floor?”

“Sixth,” Casey replies shortly.

“I’m third,” he informs her.

“That’s good to know,” she says blandly, turning to leave. “I guess I’ll see you at school.”

“Casey!” Reuben called after her. Sighing, she spun round, a questioning look on her face. “Let me walk you home.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really,” she says quickly, looking at him strangely. “It’s not even dark yet.”

“I wasn’t worried about you,” he says quickly. “I reckon you could probably take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, I guess,” she replies a little uncertainly.

“I don’t like walking on my own, though,” he admits, looking a little embarrassed.

“Scared of the dark?” she asks lightly.

“Kind of. It’s… complicated,” he says, squirming.

“Its okay,” she assures him, smiling in what she hopes is a friendly way. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He smiles tightly, his hands in his pockets. They start walking in silence; there are no words to say. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, though. It’s just a silence.

They walk past the same group of boys – don’t they have homes to go to? Casey thinks to herself – but this time they call out derogatory comments. Racist, derogatory comments. Beside her, Reuben tenses.

“Ignore them,” Casey advises quietly, as they head inside the building. She thinks she has a fair idea why he doesn’t like walking home alone.

He visibly relaxes when the door shuts behind them, muting the gang’s harsh, insulting words. They traipse up to Reuben’s floor in silence, and Casey offers him a brief smile before continuing up to hers. Leaning against the wall, Reuben watches her go, watches her jeans-clad legs disappear up the stairs, before turning to his flat.

He wanted to tell her. He really did. But he barely even knows her. He can’t trust her with his secret. The evidence burning a hole in his pocket is bad enough.

With a sigh, he lets himself into his flat, shutting the door behind him.