Blake and Aimee

Chapter 1: Blake

Screw it. What is the point of a new life when this one is nearly up. I'm a dead man walking, everyone knows it, despite what optimistic bullshit Ma may preach. One word. Cancer. God sometimes I just wish I was already dead instead of having to deal with this goddam condition day in day out. What is the point anyways? Why postpone the inevitable, I am dying. What's worse is now we have to move into this tiny little apartment cause living in London is so bloody expensive and go to a crappy little school with absolutely no one I know. All because dad wants a better life for us, nothing was wrong with our life in Ireland for Christ's sake! And it's raining. Pouring. I hate it, sure it rains in Ireland but its fresh you know? We lived in a nice house right by the beach, it was somewhat calming, being by the sea, the air tasting of the ocean salt. The amount of smog in the London air I'm half expecting to step out of the car and melt from acid or something. Oh, great just bloody great, she's pulling into the carpark.

"Have a good day sweetie, make lots of friends." Ah mothers, always lying through their teeth. Good day my ass. As I step out of the car I look up. Shit. I haven't even made it out of my vehicle yet and already they are staring at my stupid bald head. Or rather the beanie covering it. God! I barge my way through the crowds of people in corridors, careful to keep my head down and not draw attention to myself, ha as if that's possible. Let's see, first? English. Ah just bloody great. English with its fancy expressions and hidden meaning, it's all a load of poetic bullshit to me. Words don't mean jack. I've had it for over two years now. "It's alright darling you'll get better." "This is just a temporary setback that's all." "You are perfect no matter what you look like." Yeah, my life at the moment is one big petty cliché. My story is not beautiful; a tale of sympathy and support where the sick protagonist is fighting some great internal battle and friends to help them every step of the way. Not like those romantic books and movies Ma gets me to watch. I'm alone. It's better, trust me. Right here we are, English, classroom 16.01 good to know. And of course, I'm late.

"Ah yes Mr Sullivan." Crap. Shit. All of the above. So much for keeping a low profile. "Why don't you come up to the front here and we'll find you somewhere to sit.". You know that feeling you get when you know everyone is starting at you? The hair on your neck stands up a little and you feel on edge? And suddenly feel cold all over, though that could be the air conditioning. "Well class, any spare seats?" A tedious moment passes, and you could have heard a pen drop. "Anyone, Ms Willis? Is that a spare? No. Ok well what about you Mr Worths? Ah no that's where Brian sits? Right of course." I caught a quick glance at the teacher. Elderly, mid-sixties at least. Worn tweed jacket, odd socks, faded brown tie. Round spectacles that look very much like he stole them off the set of another Harry Potter movie. Then I did something pretty stupid. I looked up. To an entire class of students staring right at me. Some sniggering, others sharing expressions of pity, and some just staring gobsmacked right at my head. For the love of god, they aren't even looking at me! But wait. Back row three from the left. Short wavy blond hair, grey denim jacket, beige scarf. Short in stature and frame, hunched over her desk, could have missed her even if I walked right past her given any other day. But not this day. Not when she's looking directly at me, her eyes appear to be almost transparent, a light grey much like the colour of the sky and the walls of the room. We held eye contact for a while, our eyes remained locked, until she finally glances down and pulls something out from her bench.

"Mr Reed sir? There's a spare seat over here if there are no other takers." Her voice is soft, almost melodic, her eyes bright with optimism.

"Ah perfect, yes thankyou Ms Harris, Mr Sullivan if you wouldn't mind taking a seat in the back row- oh and what was your name? I apologise I only tend to retain surnames"

Without looking back, I respond sharply, "Blake."

"Well Mr Blake Sullivan. Welcome to Greenmount High. I'm Mr Reed and we all wish you a warm welcome, though it is quite cold this morning." Oh, dear god he's chuckling, the old man has lost it. I shuffle into the spare seat next to this girl.

"Hello, my name is Aimee." I turn my head slightly, just enough to make her out clearly in my peripheral. She's smiling, hand awkwardly extended for a handshake. Oh lord help me, she's the "that" type. Sympathetic, "friends with everyone", oh yes, I know her type perfectly. The one that makes connections with the weak or undesirable to gain a nice little teacher's pet reputation. The one who can do no wrong, that shiny gold star of society. Makes me sick. I won't have it. Again, as I said, I'm alone.

"Yeah well I said my name once and it's not being said again."

Ok brutal I know, but it did the trick, she awkwardly turns back to her desk and pushes a stray thread of hair behind her ear. And just when you think god has dammed you enough, "Alright class, lesson one; Poetry." Well fuck.