The Hopeful, The Hardheaded and the Homework

Chapter One: Any Ordinary Day : Enoch

The sixteen year old boy hefted the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, completely neglecting the second strap and leaving it hanging from one shoulder. The front gate swung on its barely attached hinges with a sickly squeak as it closed behind the boy.

Typical for the city of London, the sky was filled with grey clouds, threatening the chance of rain later, hardly unusual at the best of times. Cars driven by daily commuters passed by as ordinarily as the weather was at the beginning of a thoroughly plain and normal day for London citizens.
It was a brisk October morning, and the gravel and dirt crunched beneath the teenager's black lace up shoes as he trudged along the edge of the pavement towards the bus stop. No sooner had he reached it than the large yellow school bus drew up at the curb, its brakes squeaking and in clear need of a service, a less than reassuring thought in regards to a vehicle designed to transport school children.
The term was barely a month in and Enoch O'Connor had already had enough. It had become a chore already to drag himself out of his bed, into a uniform, and worst of all a tie, and onto the bus to his sixth form school and year twelve education.
The doors opened with a grind and Enoch stepped onto the bus. The driver paid him little heed as he did so, no more thrilled with his job than Enoch was about school. He cast a cursory glance around the seats, half full of boys and girls his own age before trudging down the narrow aisle towards the empty, furthermost back row. He dropped into the window side and set his backpack firmly beside him, a clear indication that he didn't care for anyone sitting beside him. Just as the bus began to move, Enoch pressed his headphones into his ears, turned up his music loud enough to drown out the dull chatter of the other students, and rested his elbow against the narrow space between window and wall.

Enoch was only stirred from his vacant staring out the window by a dainty hand with long fingers waving in his face.
"What?" He grumbled, impatiently tugging one head phone free from his ear and raising a dark eyebrow at the girl who had been trying to get his attention from the seat in front of him. The hand belonged to Olive, a fellow sixth former with red hair that fell just past her shoulders and a fringe that just covered her eyebrows. He hadn't even seen her get on the bus. She, unlike many of the other year twelve students he had anything to do with, had come from a different school before sixth form. He had only known as much as her name for a month and already, to his vague annoyance, she was far friendlier with him than he was inclined to be with anyone.

"I said, did you finish the maths homework for Mr. Barron? He'll have your head if you don't hand it in again, Enoch."

Enoch just stared at her, his nose slightly wrinkled as if he couldn't believe she'd even bother to ask him that. He voiced as much.
"'e don' like me anyway. Yes I did, what's it got to do wiv you?" He snipped, his Cockney accent leaking prominently through.

The girl flinched slightly at his tone and she drew back her hand where it had been resting on the back of her seat between them. Her blue green eyes lowered and she pursed her lips slightly before turning around and facing forward again. "I was just trying to be nice, Enoch."

"Whatever." Enoch rolled his eyes and without paying any attention to how her chin quivered slightly, plugged his ear phones back in and turned his music back up.

Enoch O'Connor had never liked school. He'd never had many friends throughout his years of schooling and his primary years had been far worse for him socially than academically. Evidently being the son of an undertaker and living down the road from the funeral parlour which his family had owned and run for generations, was not a conversation starter. As a young boy of eight or so, Enoch had been on the receiving end of many a schoolyard tormenting and more often than not had gone home with less in his backpack ,or far more bruises, than he'd arrived at the school with.

It had lessened in his teenage years, slightly, if only for the fact that Enoch had shot up in height and stature and developed such a thoroughly unpleasant attitude to other people. Now Enoch could give as good as or better than he got, he was much the subject of muttered jeers in the corridor and less the subject of schoolyard challenges and circles of chanting students.