Gran bathes my face and puts lotion on the bruises that have appeared on my back and arms. My scalp starts to bleed again and Gran shaves the hair around the cut and puts some of her lotion on that too. She does all this in silence once I’ve told her whom I’ve been fighting.

I look in the mirror and have to smile despite my fat lip. Both my eyes are black and there are other colors too—purple, green, and yellow—coming out. My right eye is swollen shut. My nose is puffy and tender but not broken. My hair is shaved above my left ear and the skin covered with a thick yellow lotion.

Gran allows me to miss school until my eye heals. Thankfully by then my bald patch has begun to grow over.

On my first day back Annalise sits next to me as I paint. She whispers, “They told me what they did.”

I have been thinking about Annalise and her brothers a lot in my days at home. I know it would be sensible to ignore her, and I’m fairly sure that if I ask her to she will avoid me. I have a little speech about it worked out, something along the lines of, “Please, don’t talk to me anymore and I won’t talk to you.”

But Annalise says, “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

And the way she says it—the way she sounds like she is sorry, like she is genuinely upset—gets me angry. I know it isn’t her fault and it isn’t even my fault. And I forget my crummy speech and all my crummy intentions and instead I touch her hand with my fingertips.

Annalise and I spend the art lessons whispering and looking at each other, and I build up to well over two and a half seconds. I want to stare in private, though, and so does she. We begin working out how we can spend time together, alone.

We devise a plan to meet at Edge Hill, a quiet place on Annalise’s way home from school. But every time I ask if today is the day that we can meet, Annalise shakes her head. Her brothers are guarding her, sticking close to her whenever she is out of classes and out of school.

Annalise isn’t the only one being guarded. Once I am back at school, Arran and Deborah make a point of staying with me from the bus to the classroom. Arran escorts me home and misses lunch to be with me.

School is becoming unbearable, despite Annalise. The noises in my head are still there, and although I do my best to ignore them, sometimes I want to rip them out of my head and scream in frustration.

A few weeks after my beating, my head is hissing. It is Computer Technology and I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing, I’m not interested, I don’t care. I make an excuse that I need the toilet, and the teacher doesn’t seem to mind as I walk out of the classroom.

The quietness of the corridor is a relief, and with nothing better to do I amble to the toilet.

I walk in just as Connor is coming out of a stall.

I take less than a second to register my chance and launch at him, landing a flurry of punches, and when he sinks to the floor I put in a few kicks.

Connor does nothing but try to protect himself. He never even tries to hit me. My attack isn’t stopped by him but by Mr. Taylor, a passing history teacher. He drags me off Connor and I am swamped in Mr. Taylor’s sweaty chest, where he keeps me tight while Connor writhes on the ground, whimpering for all he’s worth.

Mr. Taylor tells Connor, “If there’s something seriously wrong with you, stay still. If not, get up and let’s have a look at you.”

Connor stays still for a few seconds before getting up.

He doesn’t look too bad to me.

“Come with me. Both of you.” It isn’t a request or even an order, more of a resigned comment.

Mr. Taylor has a grip on my wrist so tight that blood is cut off from my hand. We head down lots of empty, squeaky corridors at speed and abandon Connor at a medical room I never knew existed. Then Mr. Taylor swerves me in the direction of the headmaster’s office and we come to a carpeted stop in front of the secretary’s desk.

Mr. Taylor explains the situation to the secretary, who nods, knocks on the headmaster’s door, and disappears inside. We only have to wait a minute before she reappears and tells us we can go in.

Only when I am standing in front of Mr. Brown’s desk does Mr. Taylor let go of my wrist and sit down heavily in the chair by me. The chair creaks.

Mr. Brown taps on his keyboard and doesn’t look up.

Mr. Taylor explains that he has found me fighting.

Mr. Brown continues to tap on his keyboard throughout the story of my fight and then for a while more. He seems to be reading what is on his screen. Then he takes a deep breath, turns to Mr. Taylor, and thanks him for his vigilance.

Mr. Brown takes another deep breath and looks at me for the first time. He gives me instructions about acceptable behavior, instructions about my detention, and instructions to go back to my class. He’s obviously done this before and rattles through the whole procedure in less than five minutes.

I have to go back to class. Computer Technology will still be going on.

“No.” The word comes out of my mouth before I even think it.

Mr. Brown says, “What?”

“No. I’m not going back to that class.”

“Mr. Taylor will escort you back.” Mr. Brown says this with finality, and turns back to his computer.

Mr. Taylor starts to grunt as he rises from the chair.

I shove him back down.

“No.”

I turn and snatch Mr. Brown’s keyboard from under his hands, which are left poised above the bare desk. I smash the keyboard into the side of the computer and push the whole lot of it onto the floor.

“I said, ‘No.’”

Mr. Taylor is still sitting down, but he grabs hold of my wrist again and pulls me to him. I don’t resist but use his momentum to turn and slam into him, and we topple backward. Mr. Taylor flaps his arms in an attempt to fly us back upright. It isn’t going to happen. But I am now free and, unlike Mr. Taylor, I have a soft landing.

I get to my feet and walk out of the office.

I’m not sure that I’ve done quite enough for expulsion, so I grab the secretary’s chair and throw it through the window then head to the front exit, setting the fire alarm off on my way out. Just to make sure, I smash the windshield of the headmaster’s car with the secretary’s chair that has handily landed nearby.

The police are waiting for me when I get home.

I have to go back to the school, but only once, when I have to formally apologize to Mr. Brown and Mr. Taylor. For some reason, I don’t have to apologize to Connor. Gran complains about paperwork and the visits from the Community Liaison Officer. I have to do fifty hours of community service.

There are four of us doing community service, cleaning the sports center. I think the days might pass more quickly if we do something—even clean—but Liam, the oldest and most experienced in terms of repaying the community, won’t have any of that. We spend the first hour pretending to look for mops and brushes; at least I pretend but Liam just wanders around. Then we go outside for a break and a smoke. I have never smoked before, but Joe is an expert and can blow rings, and rings through rings. He teaches me all he knows.

Occasionally the muscular young man who works on reception at the sports center comes out and tells us to go back inside and clean. We ignore him and he goes away.

I spend most of the time sitting out the back, smoking and listening to the others talk.

Liam has been caught stealing many times. He takes anything, valuable or valueless, useful or useless. Stealing is the point, not the thing being stolen. Joe has been caught shoplifting, and Bryan crashed while joyriding and still has his neck in a brace.

When we aren’t sitting smoking, we wander the sports center. I sometimes carry a mop. Saturday mornings are the busiest. Joe and I like to watch the karate class. It’s for children, from beginners up to black belts. Afterward we go out back to practice our smoking.