Every Forty Seconds

Chapter one

I am a liar. I lie often, to everyone. All the time. I'm sorry, but it's true. I'm sitting on the bus as I realise this. My headphones covering my ears, and the world passing by in a vibrant blur of blues, greens and browns. A kaleidoscope. People around me are throwing paper and yelling over one another like animals competing for dominance. As I scan the room, I see a boy try to stand up, only to immediately fall back down again against the blue and yellow patterned seat. Blue and yellow - the school colours. Everyday I get this bus, and everyday it is the same.
Ten or so minutes later, my dirty white converse finally touches the even dirtier pavement that leads to my school. The building is a simple brick rectangle that sits between two slightly smaller, adjoining rectangles; grey windowsills stick out every few metres, symbolising a new room. The sign at the front doesn't help the architectural disgrace. It stands before the staircase, and reads "Freyport High." As soon as both of my feet touch the ground, my three friends surround me. Chris, Vi and Jen. Vi and Jen are sisters, Vi young younger than the rest of us. But me and Chris could pass for twins, with our short, wavy brown hair and grey-green eyes. Except, he pulls it off better. They talk among themselves, and I only manage to catch a few phrases before I zone out completely.
"Miles!" a voice says suddenly, snapping me out of my day dream. It's Chris . He's waving a hand in front of my face, his brow creased in worry.
"Dude," he says, then continues, "did you do the essay? I'm so screwed."
"Oh yeah," I say, taking my black backpack from my back. I slip a hand in, rummaging around the various sheets and gum packets. "Yeah, it's right... here." and then, like the gentleman I am, I flip him off, and continue to walk away. Jen and Vi laugh and I grin triumphantly. But Chris just sighs. So I end up giving him the essay, and he proceeds to type up his own version on his tablet.
That's the thing about Chris- he's smart, he's quick, but he's lazy. And sometimes- just between me and you- I wish he wouldn't keep getting away with it. Maybe it'd cause him to try.
I walk past my English teacher- a lanky, scottish man- who is standing in front of his classroom, waiting for first bell to ring.
"Alright, laddy?" he asks in a strong accent, and I just nod. My most frequent lie, and maybe even my most obvious one.
"What class do we have?" I ask Jen, who takes a piece of paper from her pocket. She proceeds to unfold it, glance it, then put it away again. As she does, I see hearts and stars around our math class.
It's not what you think. She just really loves math.
Then, she turns to me. "History," she answers. I look over at Chris , but he's gone. Even though he isn't here, his panic still lingers in the halls and travels through the vents. Vi says goodbye, and heads off to her class, leaving me and Jen to walk down the halls alone. Inside the school, the walls are made from white painted brick. But they are barely visible, covered by what seems to be thousands of blue lockers that stream down one side. And on the other side, there are various different award cabinets for sports, music, even dances.

In the classroom, children file in one by one, and we go in with them. Our teacher stands at the front, writing on the chalkboard. Mr. Reynolds. He is stout, and resembles the inside of a tomato- red and moist. It's a widely suggested theory that instead of blood vessels, his blood swims in his cheeks. And even on the coldest days, his shirts are soaked with sweat, his stomach almost always threatening to erupt from the buttons. Finally, when he talked, he ran out of breath, causing him to leave gaps between his words. When everyone is seated, he turns towards us.

"Hello... class," he says.
"Welcome back... for... another... semester." He turns back to the board, still gripping the small piece of chalk that almost disappears between his large fingers. On the board, he has written: discovering our own past.

"First things... first," he says, gesturing to a cabinet by the door, "everyone who.... Has... completed... the essay... please set it there... before leaving... the room..." His beady eyes seem to look at each and every one of us. "And..." he continues, "anyone... who... has not... completed it... please see me... for a detention slip... Anyone who... lies... receives... one week of... detention." Groans of annoyance and sounds of rebellion start to surface, so he holds up one hand. I look behind me to Chris , who winks at me, holding up two sheets of paper. His essay. I roll my eyes, and look back to the front.
"Now..." Mr. Reynolds starts. Bored, I lay my head on my arms and close my eyes. Before I know it, I start to drift off.

I wake up sometime later to the sound of a banging. Alarmed, I sit up, eyes wide. My face feels hot from when it had been pressed against my jumper sleeve. I pull the sleeve up, and, unsurprisingly, see a red circle indicating my head had laid there. Then I face forward, and see the tomato-red face of Mr. Reynolds directly in front of mine. On the desk is a large textbook, the source of the noise.
"Mr. Novum," he says, his hot breath fanning my face. I resist the urge to gag. "Perhaps... a trip... to ....the principal's... office ...will ...wake ...you up," he suggests, and I sigh. Slowly, I pick up my bag and head out the door. Before I walk out though, I catch a glimpse of Jen, and I wink at her, as if to say it's okay.
I head back down the white halls, passing classroom after classroom. Some rooms are chaos, people yelling and the teacher either too tired or too hungover to teach. And others are calm, the students sitting and studying. In reality, it shows who the people who are going to do well in life are. Too bad I can't be one of them- it's too late to get better now. Soon, I reach the principal's office. The door is different to the others- made from wood with intricate designs on the panels. On a piece of golden metal (our school couldn't afford real gold) the name of the office is engraved. I knock once, but after no reply, I just walk through. I sit on a brown leather armchair, and drop my bag on the ground. Mr.Tye is behind the desk, shuffling papers and reorganising them. He is tall, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Although a dark grey colour, his hair could still be described as young looking. For a while, neither of us speak. He shuffles and signs papers, and I sit awkwardly, wondering if he can hear my breathing. Then, he stands up from his chair and walks around the desk. He leans against it, crossing his ankles and clasping his hands together. His phone vibrates on his desk, and he glances at the screen before clearing his throat. I sit up slightly straighter than before.

"Miles," he says in a deep voice. "How was your nap?" he asks. Even though I know in my mind it is a rhetorical question, I still mumble "alright" in response.
Except it comes out sounding more like "alight."
Mr.Tye shakes his head slightly.
"Miles," he says again, and gives me the look. You know the one. That look people give you when they think they can sympathise with you, but really they just feel sorry and pity for you. And I know that some people like being pitied. They enjoy the attention they get and all the love and warmth that comes from it. ButI don't. Because I know that they can't truly sympathise with you. That you- I'm- alone in this.
"I know last semester was tough for you," he starts, taking his glasses off, and placing them on his desk. "And I was surprised to see you back here so soon. But it does not give you a reason to act out and be disrespectful to staff." The look of pity hardens into something closer to anger or annoyance.
"Yes, sir"I mumble.
"You're better than this, Miles," he says, and although I know he's wrong,I don't correct him. But the fact is, I'm not better than this and I probably never will be. And that's the harsh truth. Mr.Tye sighs before saying, "I'm letting you off with a final warning, Mr.Novum." I thank him, and walk outside.
As soon as I get out, my friends crowd around me. Chris slings an arm around my shoulder, Vi next to him and Jen next to me.
"Dude," he says "I thought you'd never get out." He guides me towards the direction of the front door of the school. It's lunch already.
"Dude," I say mockingly shrugging his arm off of me. "What did you think they were going to do? Hold me hostage?"I face him, and he shrugs, responding with "weeeell...."I manage to keep a resting expression of annoyance, but when he smiles at me all goofily and proud of himself, I shake my head and chuckle slightly.

* * * The rest of the day flies by. So, soon,I am riding the bus back home. It's quieter now. People are more tired, but it's still chaos. So as always, when my feet touch the ground leading to my house, I feel a sense of relief.
That is, until I realise I actually have to go home.

I walk up the street, passing a few trees on my way there. I've always thought that if it wasn't for these few trees and bushes, our small town of Freyport would have suffocated. All we have is a small park, and a lot of pollution, cars and motorbikes. Then, I walk up the two cracked stairs that lead to my home. My house is very simple- two storeys, made from brick. The windowsills are simply white, and there are vines growing up the walls. The reaching chimney gives it a cottage look, but the overall design could blend in on any street. As soon as I open the door, the smell of food hits me hard and I can hear the tv and my mom in the kitchen."Miles, honey? Is that you?" she calls out."No, mom,"I yell back, "I'm a robber who happened to have keys to the front door." Sarcasm oozes from every word as I kick off my shoes and hang my jacket on the coat rack. Then I walk up the carpeted stairs to my room. "Haha very fun-" before she can finish, I've closed my door, blocking all sound. I feel sorry for her. My mom. She tries, she really does, but I just can't. I can't stand there and pretend that her little delusion of a happy family is true, and that what happened hasn't happened. Because it did, and now we're suffering the emotional consequences. After flicking on my light, I change out of my jeans, into tracksuit pants and rip the beanie off my head. In my reflection, I look exhausted. I rub my eyes and they slowly turn red, then blend back in with my usual pale skin. I lay on my bed, facing the ceiling. My blanket cushions my body, warm and soft. If I stare long enough, the dried paint drips almost seem to join up. And suddenly, instead of a house ceiling is a constellation. In my head, it is beautiful. In the small confined space of my mind, I am happy. And the stars and the constellations are in color. Pinks, purples, blues. My very own galaxy. I close my eyes, and it all swirls around me- like waves that just seem to flow over me. Until I am just sinking and falling in this beauty. An abyss full of stars and sunlight. But in reality, it's just a badly painted ceiling. I look over to the other side of my pigsty of a room, and see my bookshelves. I grab one and start to read. I read until the sun comes up.