CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | rewriting

06: WORM-BRAINED

            Nicolás is sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Why can't he ever pretend it didn't happen and move on? But no, he always has to fucking "apologise". What if I don't want to be apologised to?

What if I climb out through the window? Wouldn't be the first time.

But Dictator Brother won't let me keep my shoes on inside which means climbing out the window would have me going to school shoe-less. I should take them up to my room in the future.

Best option is to leg it. I rush down the stairs quick enough that Nicolás only has the chance to respond when I'm past him.

'I made you breakfast–'

'Not hungry.'

Another thing that makes Nicolás unbearably annoying is his obsession with a balanced breakfast. (It's poisoned.) Full four-course meal or summat. Protein this, fibre (What if it's poisoned?) that. What's wrong with good old cigarette and energy drink?

I shove my trainers on without undoing the laces.

Nicolás understands the urgency, quits trying to ease into it. 'Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I was worried but I shouldn't have yelled and I shouldn't have said owt I did. I just really would appreciate it if you–'

'I actually prefer yelling to whatever this is.'

He blinks. I swear this bloke lives in some rainbow fantasy land. What is it with these people and wanting to talk about their fucking feelings?

Nicolás thumbs the corner of the paper he's holding, curled in on itself from his fidgeting. He hands it to me. 'Here's the extracurricular list from Cobham... D'you want me to drive you?'

When have I ever wanted him to drive me? Not once in eight months of living with him.

I don't humour him with a response before I step into the rain.

            Soul Glo screams in my ears while the burgeoning sunrise blinds me. I bite down on my fag as I jump the curb and shortcut around the truck delivering supplies to Tariq's Halal Butchers, drop to the adjacent road, and kick for more speed.

The warning bell rings just as I powerslide to a stop in front of the gate to Isaac Evans Community Academy. I dawdle on the street outside school property to finish my fag while Apostolou, who's on gate duty, watches unamused. A sacrifice I pay for when I have to run up the stairs two at a time, the chains on my trousers rattling against my thighs.

Pathirana struggles to keep surprise off her face when she marks me off the attendance list for form. Those who attend every morning—i.e. everyone else—already have favourite seats and beeline directly to them. I'm stuck at the desk at the centre of the second row, right behind Diwa.

Perfect. Nothing makes my morning like her lovely presence.

Pathirana starts to talk about goals, goals that we're supposed to set now that mocks are coming up because "university applications will arrive much sooner than we think". She's among the last teachers who still have faith we can make summat of ourselves, that we've got futures brimming with potential instead of retail jobs and convictions.

I dig out a notebook and one of the dozen loose pens at the bottom of my bag to sketch to the rhythm of Chikiwata.263 currently playing in my earbuds. The threat of being caught (locked in) is all I can think of (locked in), and I mean all (locked in)—a spool of barbed wire that reels (locked in) and reels in my mind.