The autumn term loomed like a prison sentence.  For Will, the summer break had passed uneventfully; no foreign jaunts, not even a camping holiday in Bognor or Swanage to enliven the six long weeks. The inauguration of his bedroom cinema had been the undoubted highlight. And now, there were five predictably miserable days to endure before the weekend’s brief respite.

Will sat at the dining table in his school uniform; black trousers sharp with last night’s creases, a grey V-neck jumper that always itched at the collar, and the burgundy tie that seemed far too formal for a failing comprehensive.

In front of him lay a huge mail-order catalogue, splayed open. Super 8 cameras, enormous tripods, expensive accessories he couldn’t name but instinctively wanted. He turned the pages slowly, as if silent awe might conjure the necessary funds.

At the other end of the table, Debby examined her porridge with forensic interest. She plunged the spoon into the middle and watched it stand upright, perfectly still. Excalibur in a bowl of beige muck. She gave the spoon a flick, then pushed the whole thing away.

Through the open serving hatch came Maureen Sheridan’s head and half her torso. Forty-one, blonde, frazzled, her features organised around a constant low-level irritation.

“Get a wriggle on, you two. It’s almost eight o’clock.”

Will didn’t move faster. He turned another glossy page. A camera with a motorised handle smiled up at him.

Shane wandered through the dining room wearing yesterday’s denims.

“What’s he still doing here?” Will asked, not looking up.

“Stayed over, didn’t I?” grinned Shane, easing into a chair.

Debby shot him a pointed look.

“In the spare room,” Shane added quickly.

“Dad won’t be happy,” Will said, eyeing the near-empty cereal box Shane was keenly attacking.

Maureen entered the room in her entirety, holding a sealed envelope. She placed it in front of Debby with a ceremonial flourish. “This just arrived for you– from Düsseldorf!”

Shane grinned. “Your Nazi pen friend?”

Debby nudged the envelope away with a single finger.

Will grabbed the cereal box from Shane before he drained it entirely. Only a measly scattering of puffed wheat rolled into his bowl, accompanied by a cellophane-wrapped toy.

“Where is Dad?” Will enquired. “At the allotment?”

“He’s at work already,” Maureen said.

Will sank back, a small ache settling beneath his ribs. “I haven’t seen him in days.”

“Working all the hours, isn’t he?” Maureen replied, already on her way out. “Someone’s gotta keep you in Sugar Puffs.”

 

Will passed through the school gates with a sense of dread, helplessly swept up in a churning mass of blazers and backpacks, his rowdy peers and elders spilling in with the energy of creatures just released from captivity.

The sign over the entrance read Great Harpingdon Comprehensive School, the name almost entirely obscured by graffiti; crude, unimaginative, and worse still, grammatically incorrect. It looked as if nothing had improved since his second year.

The first class was Media Studies. In theory, this should’ve been one of Will’s favourite subjects, but in practice it was rendered insufferable by Mr. Henderson’s dreary presentation and unwavering monotone. He wheeled in a TV strapped to a trolley and a news report eventually flickered into life: the Sinclair C5 gliding across the screen like a futuristic pram.

Will sat at the back, beside his ‘best friend’ Geoff Lord. This wasn’t a term that either of them cared to use, but it was implicit all the same. Geoff’s lanky build and spotty face did little to dent his obvious confidence. Outside of school, he was busy and industrious and had a much fuller social life than Will, routinely meeting up with boys from the primary school who had passed the 11 plus and were now at the local Grammar. But within the confines of their unloved Comprehensive, Geoff was as much an outcast as Will, scoffed or sneered at by the most popular kids, and largely ignored by everyone else.

“You don’t need a driving licence,” Geoff whispered. “Soon as I turn fourteen, I’m getting one.”

“How? They cost four hundred quid,” Will murmured.  

Mr. Henderson paused the video. A white stripe scrolled wildly up the screen.

“So,” he began, “taking inspiration from the Sinclair C5, I’d like you to design your own alternative fuel vehicle. Does it use an electric battery, like the C5? Perhaps it relies on solar or wind power–”

A loud rippling noise cut through the room. Tim O’Malley laughed at his own flatulence. He could summon a noxious fart at the drop of a hat; an infamous talent that caused him no visible shame.     

Mr. Henderson heaved a weary sigh. “Very droll, Timothy. Stay behind after class.”

Exercise books opened reluctantly. Pens scraped. Daydreams resumed.

Jodie Fawcett, the new girl, sat two rows ahead. Heavy horn-rimmed glasses, hair pinned back, a presence that pulled at the air. She whispered something to the girl next to her, lifting the oversized, oddly suggestive pen she wrote with. They laughed together, a quick flicker of shared intelligence.

Will felt it like a warm rush behind the ears.

“I’m on commission at Godfrey & Partners,” boasted Geoff. “Sold my first house the other day. Nice little semi.”

He followed Will’s gaze and saw that his attention was elsewhere. “Not that kind of semi!”

Will blinked. “What?”

“The new girl. Tickled your fancy?”

Will attempted a nonchalant shrug. “She’s all right, I s’pose.”

Geoff grinned. “You’re tragic.”

And maybe Will was. But he watched the way Jodie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and felt something quietly rearrange itself inside him; something he couldn’t name yet, but recognised all the same.