Marty didn’t actually see the stick coming. The aim was pretty spectacular, even he had to admit that. It jammed into the spokes of his wheels and sent Marty flying, the two bags of rubbish sailing through the air past his ears and bursting like trashy water bombs all over the road. His chin skidded across the gravel, the spiky pain of blood held off a moment by shock. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened. The new-sneaker kids laughed, and filmed Marty sitting in the middle of the road, shock on his face and rubbish all around him. Something inside Marty snapped. He got up and almost without even realizing what he was doing, he walked toward Gerry and hit him hard in the face. Gerry promptly cried, then got back on his bike and cycled home to tell his mum, followed by all the others. Marty stood there a moment, his chest heaving, anger coursing through his blood before becoming aware of a droning sound, a nagging voice, someone shouting angrily. It was getting nearer and nearer. It was the weaselly dump man shaking his fist and shouting at Marty to clear up the mess.

Marty had never been in the head’s office before. He knew it was coming even before he came to school. It was inevitable really. And then he saw Gerry sitting outside the head’s office, a bruise on his face, sitting next to his protective mum, her arm around him. There was no point lying. Miss James looked at him, her bored eyes speaking of someone who had been a head teacher far too long. All the teachers were terrified of her, the younger ones especially. She had an uncanny gift for squashing any fresh-faced enthusiasm they displayed. She exterminated new ideas before they got started, abhorred any creativity, and made the teachers themselves write actual lines as punishment if they disobeyed her. Marty had often wondered how old she was. Gracie had guessed at around ninety; Marty had thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, but now that he was close to her, he wasn’t so sure. She had a weary slowness about her that made her look like some kind of ancient owl. She looked at him as if he were a mouse in her talons that she was about to casually rip apart.

“I really am disappointed with you, Marty,” she began.

Marty was surprised that she even knew his name. He wasn’t on the soccer team, was never up for any awards. To be honest, apart from Mr. Garraway, Marty doubted if anyone at school knew he even existed. Her eyes took in his scabby chin. He’d dunked it in water when he got home. Told Mum he’d fallen off his bike, which was actually technically true. It still felt tight and sting-y even though it had started to scab over.

“Very disappointed indeed.”