PROLOGUE
KYLE
Being in year thirteen has its perks, like not having to wear a uniform and being able to leave school grounds whenever I feel like it. Well, maybe not whenever I feel like it. I should be in resistant materials with Mr Andrews, but I can’t be bothered, so I’m sacking it off and going to buy snacks. I need fuel for rugby practice after school.
It’s lunch for some of the lower school years, so I have to navigate my way around kids in uniform. Rather than going through the main building, where I could run into a teacher who knows I’m supposed to be in a lesson, I go around the back via the bike shed.
Smack.
A muffled sob.
Oh heck. I could keep walking and pretend I didn’t hear anything, but I did. I swing into the bike shed and walk through rows of locked-up bikes towards the hushed noises. A group of four boys in uniform surround a smaller one. Judging by their baby faces, they’re in year seven. Maybe year eight. Sadly, their behaviour doesn’t align with their innocent faces. The smaller boy’s hands are protecting his head and face.
“What have we here?” I cringe at my choice of words. In my defence, I’ve never done this before.
The bullies spin around.
“Nothing. We’re just messing around, right?” A lanky boy with sandy hair squeezes his victim’s shoulder.
The boy lowers his hands enough to stare at me for a moment. The skin around his left eye is darkening into a bruise. “Yes.”
I stride closer, fold my arms, and glare at the group. “Doesn’t look like messing around to me. Fuck off, the lot of you, before I fetch the principal.”
They scamper away like puppies with their tails between their legs.
“Not you.” I catch hold of the small boy’s shoulder.
He shivers beneath my touch.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me if I don’t believe you. You should ask for a cold pack.”
He touches the bruise and winces. “It’s okay.”
“You don’t want to answer questions about how you got a black eye.”
He shakes his head.
“Unless you’re going to skive the rest of the day, your teachers are all gonna notice. It’s getting more obvious by the second. What were they bullying you about anyway? Or are you going to tell me they weren’t?”
“They said I should go home.”
I widen my eyes. “Home?”
“Korea. Their words weren’t as nice.” His soft, round chin quivers.
“Ugh. They’re punks. Do you know their names?”
He nods.
“Then we should report them.”
“No.”
I get it. He’s scared. Does he think the bullying will get worse if he tells on them?
