Misdemeanor (Responsible Adult #1)

4: With Friends Like These

Micky had lived his whole life in Heathwood, a relatively small town sidled away against the A1M motorway heading out of London and into England's leafy home counties. Many secondary schools, Micky's no exception, even studied the town as part of their local history, Heathwood being considered the first new town, built and populated after the Second World War to accommodate all those families who wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Houses were arranged in neat little rows, in neat little suburbs, separated by neat little roundabouts and surrounded by neat little cycle and pedestrian paths. According to the marketing spiel, Heathwood had been impeccably planned out and impressively thought through—a town fit for idyllic family living. And, of course, for those with a not so idyllic family setting. Like Micky O'Neill's.

All of which also meant everyone living there was about three people away from everyone else knowing their business. Something Micky knew all too well. Just three secondary schools monopolized the town, none of which provided any post-sixteen courses, meaning all the late teens ended up at Heathwood College, that art-deco new build college just off the main town square, to stay out their compulsory education, making it a breeding ground for gossip, gangs and the Heathwood future.

Micky hated it. But he was there to dig himself out of the shithole he'd gotten in four years ago by fucking about on the streets rather than studying for his exams. He was enrolled on his second lot of A Levels, having had to resit the GCSEs he failed at school, in the hope of getting enough of an education to take him and Flynn out of Heathwood and away from the authorities who tailed his every move.

It meant that on quietly opening the door to his English Literature class, he was the oldest in his class by at least three years. The lesson had already started and all those beady young eyes who turned in their seats to watch Micky sneak in knew pretty much everything there was to know about him. Including why he was late, every single day. Or so they thought they did.

"Mr. O'Neill," the bald-headed, spectacle-wearing, tweed-jacket-donning teacher, Mr. Clarkson, huffed out while writing with a blue marker on the whiteboard at the front of the class. He had his back to the door but always sensed it was Micky creeping in almost forty minutes late. "Perhaps we need to start this lesson at ten o'clock, instead of the usual nine?" he asked, elevating his voice along with his bushy eyebrows. He finished scrawling his sentence across the board and popped the lid back on the pen, making the click echo around the hushed classroom. He finally turned to face Micky. "Maybe you would make it for the start at least once, then?"

Micky scanned the room for an empty seat, finding one at the back next to Melanie, who always sat alone. Her long jet-black hair covered her face in true emo style.

"Yes, sir," Micky replied, scooting through the rows of tables toward her desk. "That would be great. Thanks."

"I was being facetious, Mr. O'Neill," Mr. Clarkson said, folding his arms across his chest, watching Micky slide his bag on top of the table next to Melanie.

"Yes, sir. I got that," Micky countered, pulling out his chair to sit down. "So was I."

"I'm surprised you would even know what the word means," Mr. Clarkson retaliated. "How many full English classes of mine have you actually sat in?"

"Luckily, it starts with an F," Micky replied, completely unfazed, pulling out his books from his bag. He looked up to catch his teacher's eye. "I've only missed all the A to E words."

There were a few sniggers, which Micky ignored while Mr. Clarkson glared at each of the culprits. Micky rooted around for a pen and Melanie pushed her notes across the table. He smiled and nodded a grateful thanks. She probably smiled back, but Micky couldn't see through her dark locks.