“So, ye hit him.”

“Yeah? Tell me I was wrong.”

“Ye were wrong, Keon.”

“How was I wrong though?”

The two were in Mr. Kersey’s office at McClinton Secondary School & Sixth Form College; debating across a round table in the centre of the room. Mr. Kersey preferred having a table to a desk, you see. He believed kids would rather have a seat at the table than be dictated to from a desk. At this moment in time though, Keon was standing like the prosecution and Mr. Kersey was sat like the defendant.

To facilitate the lack of a desk, and because the school budget wouldn’t allow for him to have filing cabinets, Mr. Kersey opted for two shelves on either side of the room full of those fruit and veg boxes you got from the market. Inside were reams and reams of files. The windowsill at the back was lined with synthetic plants because Mr. Kersey was the man you sent your plants to if you wanted them to die.

He sat, elbows on the table, his hands clasped together like a Venus fly trap. The collar of his white shirt peeked out over the navy-blue cardigan that couldn’t quite hide his athletic physique. He was young at thirty-two (though he may as well have been fifty-two to Keon) and had quickly gained a reputation for his natural way with the students. Some attributed this to his youthful, good looks. He attributed it to good ol’ fashioned Scottish ‘charrrm’.

“Ah mean, it kindae sounds like he deserved it…”

“Ah ha!”

“…but that dinnae mek it right.”

“I’m failing to see how…”

“Am not saying it’s wrong t’stand up for someone…”

“Kinda sounds like you are…”

“…but there’s a way t’go about things…”

“Maybe your way takes too long?”

“An’ maybe ye care more about doing whit y’want, rather than doing whit’s right. Ye dinnae right wrongs by starting fires, Keon.”

“I can try…”

“An’ ye’ll end up back ‘ere again, instead of out there doing something useful wi’ yer life.”

“What, helping people isn’t useful?”

Mr. Kersey buried his head in his palms, dragging them down his face in irritation. They’d been going at it like this for the last half hour. Not that Keon Wesley wasn’t worth it. It was precisely because he’d been such a model student that Mr. Kersey had made it his personal mission to ensure his recent problems didn’t hinder his progress. Before this, they hadn’t had much interaction. Mr. Kersey usually dealt with the ‘problem kids.’ Until recently, Keon hadn’t been one of them. Despite the little time they’d spent together, their shared wit and sharp minds had caused them to form a close, natural bond.

“Keon—lemme go home…”

“Naaaah mate!”

“A’ve already called yer mam. She’ll be ‘ere any minute.”

Keon’s playful mood evaporated.

“Why’d you go and do that for? You know she’s got enough on her plate!”

“Which’s precisely why ah’ve had t’call her,” he paused, glancing around to check if anyone was listening, which didn’t make sense since it was a private office, “Listen, mah title might be ‘Student Mentor’ bit ye have t’realise—the school wi’rather ah find a way t’get rid o’ ye than rehabilitate ye. Now, ah knows things havnae bin th’same without yer dad about; but actions have consequences. If ye care about yer mam, give her less things t’worry about. Dinnae put that on her plate.”

“You did that, not me! She won’t worry about what she doesn’t know!” he said, scrambling to gather up his things.

“Ah have t’file an incident report Keon, y’know that. If it wasn’t me, it would have bin someone else.”

“Well, maybe if you all did your job properly, I wouldn’t have to!” Slinging his bag across his back, he stormed out the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

“So, you hit him?”

“Seriously Mum. Leave it…”

“It’s not that simple Keon.”

“It would be if everyone stopped complicating it.”

“So then, uncomplicate it. Help me understand, ‘cause we didn’t teach you to solve problems with your fists.”

“You didn’t. YouTube did,” he muttered under his breath.

“They’re saying you might’ve broken his nose, Keon.”

Keon sunk lower into the passenger seat of his mum’s Citroen C4. He’d felt the gravity of her disappointment when the car rolled up outside the school gates. Procedure meant Mr. Kersey had to wait with him until she arrived, which dampened the dramatic effect of him storming out the office in the first place. He felt like Simba about to get the ‘murder stare’ from Mufasa for messing with the hyenas. Mum’s long, plaited locks coupled with her stank eye helped sell the look.

She and Mr. Kersey had exchanged pleasantries. He’d apologised. She’d apologised. Keon had stood there awkwardly waiting for them to stop talking about him like he wasn’t there. He was pretty sure they’d dragged it out just to torture him that little bit longer, glancing back in his direction every now and then, speaking in hushed tones. Finally, Mr. Kersey left, and Mum reluctantly opened the passenger door to let him in.

His eight-year-old sister, Bella, sat eyes twinkling in the backseat; itching to hear him try and wriggle his way out of this one. He could feel her annoying smile burning into the back of his head. He wanted to turn around and slap her in her pigtails but that wouldn’t exactly help his case. He decided he’d do it later when there were no witnesses.

“Nah, forget it. It’s long,” he said, shifting in his seat.

“Alright. Well, you know I’m gonna have to tell your dad.”

“What for?!”

“That’s—kind of what parents do.”

“Yeah, but is this really the time?…”

“We’re still your parents, Keon. We’re still a team.”

“Really? For how long?…”

Bella’s smile dropped. Mum went quiet. She bit her quivering lip in a vain attempt to stop the emotions leaking out through the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, vision fixed on the road ahead.

“Mum…”

“No. I think you’ve said enough.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He let his head flop back onto the seat, turning his body towards the window. The rest of the journey would transpire in silence.

* * *

Keon sat in one of the waiting areas inside the Oncology Ward. They’d dropped Bella off at her gymnastics class. She’d go home with Olivia’s family while Mum finished her shift. He had the privilege of waiting on the ward. She wouldn’t have let him go home by himself anyway. Not after today. He wasn’t exactly proving himself a responsible fourteen-year-old.

The hospital had been really understanding about their situation. They’d even offered her paid leave, but she preferred working on the ward. Somehow, it helped her cope with everything. Keon didn’t get how. All he wanted to do was stick his earphones in and drown out the beeps and groans echoing through the corridors, but he didn’t want to appear insensitive either.

He wasn’t sure what sucked the life out of people more, the atmosphere of this place or the illnesses wracking their bodies. It felt like the sadness and despair were tangible and infectious. He couldn’t wait to go home.

Mum tiptoed down the hall towards her son, hands clasped on her hips; the sleeves of her scrubs rolled up to the elbows. He was slouching again, despite her telling him how bad it was for his posture. It made his growing legs seem even lankier as they stuck out from the chair like wild roots. Goodness, when had he gotten so big? Not that he was tall. He was a bit shorter than his classmates but compared to her he was getting lanky. As she drew near, she noticed he was fiddling with his phone.

“How did it go?”

He shrugged, “He had a lot to say, init.”

His eyes were red, honey-brown cheeks damp. And he still pouted when he was angry.

When he saw that she was staring, he wiped his face with the back of his forearm and sniffed as she lowered herself into the seat next to him.

“You know it’s ‘cause he loves you, yeah? You have so much potential Keon. He doesn’t want to see you waste it.”

Keon scoffed, “How’s he gonna see me waste it if he ain’t around?”

“Don’t do that.”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?”

“You know what I mean.”

He rolled his eyes, “I was helping someone. You guys taught me to help people.”

“But not like this. This isn’t you…”

“Well, whose fault is that? ‘Cause I didn’t choose this!”

“What, and you think we did?”

He stood up, voice cracking as the tears started to well up again, “Can I go home now please? Like—I just wanna go home. I don’t wanna be here anymore. I wanna go home. Let me go home!”

“Keon, keep your voice down!” she looked around as heads started to turn and poke out from behind the reception desk.

“Let—me—go—home! I want to go home!”

“Keon!”

She tried to take his arm, but he shrugged her off, grabbed his bag and bolted towards the exit. She couldn’t go after him; she was still on shift. He stomped through the doors. Came back. Squeezed way too much sanitiser onto his hands and stomped back out again.

* * *

Thick sheets of rain fell like blankets as Keon splish-sploshed his way downhill towards the bus stop. He hadn’t taken a jacket and would probably wake up with a cold but right now, he didn’t care. He just wanted to go home, take off his stupid uniform and google the strange looking pendant that belonged to the pretty girl in the library. Man, he didn’t even get her name. What guy doesn’t ask a pretty girl her name? If he ever saw her again, he would ask her her name. Well, first he would say ‘hi’ of course. Okay, maybe not, ‘hi’; more like ‘hey’, but not in a sleazy way. Laid back. Not like he didn’t care, but more like ‘You’re cool, I just met you, but I don’t need you in my life.’ Wow. He was overthinking this way too much. And his socks were wet.

By the time he found salvation under the bus shelter, he already had five missed calls. Three from his mum, two from his dad. She must’ve told him what happened, and he must’ve told her what he said. Just the thought of it made him seethe inside. He was so angry. And yet, he felt a pang of guilt. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe they were all right. He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. The quicker he got home, the better.

Wait, did he even have his keys? He had his keys. He was hungry though. Maybe he should’ve gotten Mum to buy him dinner first before he stormed out. He couldn’t cook worth a damn, though she’d tried over and over again to teach him. There was always something more important to do, whether it was reading about some new thing he’d discovered or working on a side project. Bella would routinely torture him with the fact that Grandma had taught her how to cook, so he had no excuses. That’s right. He owed her a slap in the pigtails. Maybe he could swing by Olivia’s first. It was on the way. Just ring the doorbell, ‘pap’ and run.

Nah. He just wanted to get home.

The 147 arrived about three minutes later. He took his usual spot up top, near the front. He liked to see where he was going and who was getting on. Just one of those things he did. You never knew what kind of crazy was getting on the bus, and he liked to be prepared.

Popping his earphones in, he began searching for the mysterious gold pendant on his phone. ‘Eight-pronged rotating crescent moon symbol’ turned up plenty on the lunar cycle, Islamic flags and the occult, but nothing on the pendant. Maybe he needed to widen his search parameters, but how else would you describe an eight-pronged rotating crescent moon symbol? He decided he needed a break.

* * *

The rest of the journey was uneventful. He got off at the same stop, rounded the same corner by the same corner-shop and made his way up and down the same steep hill. Cutting through the park, he hop-skipped over the same rickety bridge that crossed the same river. Mum would kill him if she knew he’d taken this route, especially this late in the evening. It wasn’t just the park, the muggings or the murders, it was the fact that the council hadn’t made any efforts to repair the bridge despite numerous petitions over the last twelve years.

He reasoned that it was reasonably safe, being lit by street-lamps and all. It was better than nothing. Besides, there were always a couple of cyclists or joggers passing through. He’d even given names to the regulars. There was ‘Miss Gaviscon’ and ‘Captain Antibiotic’ who always jogged as a pair in their blindingly fluorescent gear. Then there was ‘Never-Made-it-to-Tour-de-France Man’, cycling with this freakish intensity like his life depended on it.

Leaving the park a few minutes later, Keon turned onto his road, approaching the front door of their semi-detached house. Letting himself in, he flicked on the hallway light and scooped up three letters lying on the welcome mat. Walking through to the open plan kitchen, he added the letters to the growing pile of bills on the counter.

Dad had been gone for almost five weeks now. Mum was holding things together of course, but they were hanging by a thread. The leaky tap Dad had promised to fix four months ago was now dribbling constantly and the handle to the bathroom door had finally broken off after years of threatening to do so. Everywhere he looked, he could see echoes of his father’s absence. You don’t realise how much you need somebody until they’re not around anymore.

In hope, he opened the fridge in search of something that didn’t require major culinary skills to prepare. He settled on a ham and tuna sandwich with lettuce. Checking his phone again, there were four more missed calls. He stuffed it back in his pocket.

* * *

The remains of his sandwich sat on a plate by the side of his open laptop. Chin buried in one hand, he tap-tapped away with the other trying to finish his maths homework. He didn’t mind trig, but he was getting way too tired to exercise those mental muscles. He turned to his side project instead, the pendant. He’d had a sudden wave of inspiration and wanted to test it out.

A search for ‘cultural spiral symbols’ turned up two promising entries. One on something called the Borjgali, another on solar symbols from SymbolDictionary.com. What he was after looked a lot like the Borjgali, but the Borjgali had the wrong number of ‘wings’ as they called them. Seven, not eight; and it lacked the border around the edge. Apparently, similar ‘eternity symbols’ could be found in Norse, Iberian and Armenian art, so he decided to look them up. There it was! An ancient Armenian national symbol, commonly carved into medieval Christian art; the Ah—reh—vah—khach. Arevakhach. Was she Armenian?

When he heard the front door open and Bella running through the house shouting, “Ohhh, Keon you’re in trouble!”, he was already dressed for bed. He wasn’t sure what to expect; calm and compassionate Mum or rampaging She-Hulk Mum. He braced himself beneath the sheets, pulling them up underneath his nostrils. The handle turned. The door opened—and Bella stuck her head in with a smirk. Keon grabbed a pencil from his bedside table and hurled it at her pigtails. She yelped as it skimmed her scalp.

“GET OUT!”

“MUMMY! Keon’s trying to KILL ME!”

“BELLAAAA! LEAVE—YOUR BROTHER—ALONE!”

Calm and compassionate—well—compassionate Mum it was.

* * *

She came upstairs about thirty minutes later. He was laid back on his pillow, arm behind his head, swiping aimlessly through his phone. It was all he seemed to do these days. If he wasn’t tapping, he was texting. If he wasn’t texting, he was swiping. A young boy shouldn’t be so preoccupied with his phone, she thought, but such was the age they lived in. Parents were often forced to have a relationship with their children through bevelled glass.

She sat down gently on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor. After a few moments she placed a hand on his exposed foot, stroking it like she would when he was a baby.

“I’m sorry…I know you’re going through a lot. And I have to remind myself that this affects you as much as it affects me and that you’re not necessarily gonna process things the same way I do…or even how I’d like. But I’m here for you and I love you. And when you’re ready, we’ll talk about what happened.”

He paused, processed, and nodded.

“M’sorry, Mum.”

She pulled him into a hug before he could say anything else and kissed him on the forehead.

“Mum?”

“Yes handsome?”

“Is he ever coming back?”

She looked down, blinking back the tears again, “I don’t know,” she sniffed “But whatever happens, we’ll be ok. Ok?”

“How do you know?…”

“I don’t…but I have to believe we will be.”

He nodded.

Her mood instantly shifted as she wiped away the tears and slapped his knee.

“Don’t stay up all night reading that thing. You’ll rot your brain!”

She got up and headed for the door. He smiled.

“That hasn’t been scientifically verified!”

She grinned, closing the door behind her.

Such a smarty-pants.

Just like his father.