Outside of the classroom, he’s hardly ever to be found, although I did spy him yesterday up on the field, all alone and as far away from the school building as he could get. I wonder what his deal is.
Everyone on the bus has been wondering too.
Mum and Dad couldn’t shed any light on why he’s no longer at boarding school – or any other private school, for that matter. Nor could Becky’s parents.
Despite his lack of interest in any of us, Theo Whittington has all of us talking.
He brings his cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply, seemingly in no rush whatsoever, and as the bus pulls to a stop, he stares straight at me through the window. I don’t know what compels me to, but I hold his gaze. His blue eyes penetrate mine for several seconds, and then the bus doors whoosh open and he throws his cigarette to the ground, breaking eye contact as he watches it fall. He boards the bus to the sound of unimpressed tutting from the bus driver.
‘Morning, Pretty Boy!’ Pete calls from the back.
Theo ignores him as he always does.
Good manners command me to drag my rucksack onto my lap, freeing up the seat next to me, but whether Theo considers the action an invitation or even notices, I don’t know: he sits down beside me all the same.
I continue to stare out of the window, but I’m tense. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him unzip his army green rucksack, and I realise then that he has a rucksack – a rucksack like the rest of us instead of a monogrammed leather satchel. Maybe he does want to fit in.
He pulls out a packet of Spearmint Extra and nudges a shiny white nugget out of the end, popping it into his mouth.
His fingers are filthy, not only stained with nicotine but grubby around and under his fingernails. Sensing me watching, he offers the packet of gum to me.
‘Ta,’ I mumble, taking one from him, my cheeks warming at being caught looking, even if for a different reason to the one he’s maybe assumed.
He puts the packet back into his rucksack and goes to zip it up, then hesitates.
‘Oh shit,’ he mumbles.
I glance at him sideways as he rummages around in his bag, rifling through his textbooks. I spy an intricate-looking pencil drawing on the back of one, but he’s moved on to the next before I can see it properly.
He groans and his shoulders slump in defeat as he stares straight ahead.
‘You all right?’
He glances my way. ‘Forgot my Maths homework,’ he deigns to explain, his dark hair swinging forward as he dumps his bag at his feet.
‘It was due yesterday,’ I point out.
We’re in the same class: top set.
‘I know. Which means I’m getting a detention today.’
‘Oh.’
We fall silent. I kind of want to keep him talking, but I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he wants to talk to me anyway—
‘Where’s your friend today?’ he interrupts my train of thought.
‘Becky? She’s not feeling well.’
He jerks his head in Joanne’s direction. ‘You’re not in your usual seat.’
‘Nope,’ I reply sullenly.
He slides his eyes away from mine, his jaw working away on the gum. The air is pungent with warm, cigarette-smoke-infused mint.
The bus trundles on, taking corners at speeds that should be reserved for lighter, faster vehicles. I stare out of the window as the fields flash past and the bus fills up. Drystone walls, brown and white spotted cows, grassy verges alight with daffodils, newborn lambs frolicking with each other…
‘Oi, Pretty Boy,’ Pete calls as the bus squeals to another stop.
Theo sighs. Pete stomps down the aisle and slides into the seat opposite him while the driver is distracted.
Pete is heavyset and solid. He has a face full of freckles, small wide-apart eyes, and a reputation for acting up in lessons. He’s always been decent to me, but I don’t go out of my way to spend time in his company.
‘Oi, Pretty Boy,’ Pete says again, looking at Theo directly. ‘Can I scrounge a cigarette?’
Pete’s friend Dave has followed, flopping into the seat behind us. He’s taller than Pete, but lankier. There’s something about the pair of them together that reminds me of naughty goblins.
‘Come on, Fancy Pants, I’m sure you can spare a couple.’ Pete reaches over and scuffs up Theo’s hair.
‘Fuck off,’ Theo snaps, glaring at him.
‘Ooh, it speaks!’ Pete says with cruel delight, grinning around at others in the vicinity. ‘Where’d you get your accent, Posh Lad? Why aren’t you at boarding school anymore? I’m talking to you,’ Pete says nastily, ruffling Theo’s hair again.
Theo angrily slaps him away. ‘I said, fuck off,’ he warns menacingly.
‘What’s going on back there?’ the bus driver shouts.
Ice trickles down my spine at the murderous look on Pete’s face.
He glances at Dave and, a second later, nods as if in silent agreement. The tension is unbearable for the rest of the journey.
* * *
At lunchtime, there’s talk of a fight. Theo is nowhere to be seen. It’s hardly unusual as he’s kept to himself since he arrived, but Pete is incensed, all worked up with nowhere to expend his energy.
We have Art together as last period, and Pete, Dave and a couple of their mates keep making clucking noises.
‘Hiding out at lunchtime, were you? Chicken,’ Pete spits at one point when the teacher is out of earshot.
It occurs to me that Theo was probably serving his detention, rather than purposefully trying to avoid an altercation, but he doesn’t explain himself.
When the final bell rings, I assume he will get up and make a dash for the bus, but instead he takes his time packing away his things, looking as though he hasn’t a care in the world.
Unable to tear myself away from the car crash waiting to happen, I slow down the packing of my own bag and am one of the last to walk out of the classroom behind Theo.
Pete and his cronies are waiting in the otherwise empty hallway. There’s a scuffle, Theo’s rucksack is torn from his back and upended on the floor. Pete, grinning, reaches down and swipes the packet of cigarettes. As he goes to pocket them, Theo launches himself forward and shoves Pete’s chest.
Pete stumbles backwards, almost falling over. The look of surprise on his face is comical, but it quickly transforms into rage.
It all happens so fast. One minute they’re apart, the next Pete and Theo are flying at each other, a mass of fists and fury. I’ve seen punch-ups before, but the violence of this one shocks me.
They’re so entangled that the punches they land are mostly on each other’s arms and torsos, but then Pete wrestles some distance between them and thumps Theo squarely on the face. The raw starkness of fresh blood is startling – Theo’s lip has split, right down the centre: an oozing crack of glossy red.
All motion ceases – even Pete is frozen for a couple of seconds – and then Pete seems to deflate, the fight visibly going out of him. I feel a spark of relief as he takes a step backwards – it’s over.
But then Theo does something unexpected.
His white teeth rimmed with scarlet, he laughs.
Pete stares at him.
‘You punch like a pussy,’ Theo says.
He’s grinning. Like a madman.