Noah was in a locker again.
Seriously, how many times could you get shoved into a locker over the course of one week?
He pushed against the door, but a heavy body leaned against it, and no matter how hard he shoved, it wouldn't budge. Muffled laughing and calls of "good job, Brad" echoed through the tiny rectangular vents. He shuffled around in the cramped space, pushing his glasses up on his nose and brushing his curly brown hair out of his eyes. More laughter. It smelled awful in here, even with a mask on. Something squished under his shoe, and he winced, backing up as far as he could against the locker door. Don't be a baby, don't cry, don't cry, he thought, blinking back oncoming tears as hard as he could.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Noah fell down onto hard, waxed hallway floor.
"Look! The little pussy's crying!"
Well, shit. That plan failed.
He tried to struggle to his feet, only to be kicked back over and have his backpack thrown at his face. Hitting the ground again, his glasses flew off and he heard a crack.
Well, this day was going just wonderfully so far.
Noah turned his aching head up towards the bright lights of the school hallway, with heads peering at him; surrounding him in a big circle, all laughing. And through his blurry vision, a big, fat shape leaned down towards him. He made out an ugly, dirt-covered face with lips shaped in a horrible grimace (his green WASH YOUR HANDS mask was only covering his chin), with bright blue eyes and tousled blond hair, that most girls found 'hot', but to Noah it mainly looked like he'd lost his hairbrush and substituted it for a thistle.
"How's it going down there, wimp?" Brad purred.
"Not great," Noah squeaked.
The older boy laughed, kicking him in the stomach. The sophomore let out an oof through his mask, and curled backwards on the floor, clutching his backpack to his chest. Brad walked away, his crowd of goons following him, shooting insults over their shoulders.
Noah lay there, eyes closed, for a few seconds, or minutes, he didn't know. A foot nudged his leg, and he tensed up, but when he opened his eyes it was just his friend, Theodore.
"You okay?" Theo asked, peering down at him. "Someone needs to teach those bloody shitheads a lesson one day, y'know?"
Noah groaned. "You up for the job?"
"One day," he said, which summoned a laugh from the boy on the floor. "You?" Noah asked. "I'm not trying to be rude, but you're not exactly the strongest kid in class." Which was an understatement, of course. Theo was rather chubby, and preferred to sit down playing video games and eating chips all day than lift weights like Brad did.
"What, do you think you'd be any better, skinny boy?" his friend joked. "I can see your ribs through your shirt." He reached out a hand. Noah took it, standing up with a few wobbles.
"Where are my glasses?" Everything was quite fuzzy. Theo's blurry shape walked a few steps ahead and bent over.
"Uh, bad news, mate," he called back.
"Let me guess," Noah muttered, remembering the sick crack after he'd fallen over.
"You can still wear them!... I think."
Noah sighed, going over to pick them up. If he brought them close to his face, he could see that one of the arms was damaged, and if he tried to put them on they would sit rather crookedly. "Well, I can still wear them, at least," he said, placing them on his nose. "How do they look?"
Theo was about to reply as the loud, echoing bell rang, and students began rushing out of rooms and heading in one direction.
"That's our lunch," Noah said, pushing up his broken glasses.
The two boys hurried through the crowd of people, trying to keep their distance as much as they could through the sea of masks and clothes and backpacks of all different colours.
TO BE CONTINUED
