Chapter Text
Luke was fifteen, with a tangle of blond hair that stuck out at angles no comb could tame. His body never quite obeyed him — shoulders twitching, lips whistling without permission. Tourette’s made him a stranger to stillness.
The classroom clock glared down from the wall, its red second hand sweeping in painful slow motion. 3:16. Four minutes until the weekend. Four minutes until freedom.
Luke sat in English, suffocating under silence. The air was stale and heavy, the blinds drawn just enough to let in a strip of pale light that cut across the room like a blade. Pens scratched against paper, a quiet chorus that only made the tension worse.
He hated this. Hated the way the walls closed in, the way the old book on his desk seemed to mock him with its neat lines and dusty smell. A hundred years old and still boring the life out of people. His leg jittered. His throat whistled. His chest buzzed like he was holding in an explosion.
“One minute left,” he said to himself, almost chanting. “Hold it in, hold it in, hold it in.”
But the pressure was too much. His fist slammed the table, rattling his pen. And before he could stop it, the word burst out of him “tosser” he said it in a normal voice, to loud in the near silence of the classroom.
The room froze. Heads turned. A wave of heat crawled up his neck until it felt like fifty degrees in the stuffy classroom.
Then salvation: ding, ding, ding. The bell. Chairs screeched back, bags slammed shut, and the class erupted into motion. A stampede of relief. Luke usually led the rush, but this time his teacher’s voice cut him down mid-flight.
“Luke. Stay behind a moment.”
He deflated, dragging himself to her desk. She tapped the thin, half-hearted essay on his page.
“You need double this, at least, if you want any chance at a grade four Luke.”
“I tried,” Luke said, voice low but desperate. “I really did.”
Her lips pressed tight. “Then you’ll need to try harder.”
“But you know I have trouble concentrating. Especially in exams.” He searched her face for some scrap of understanding.
She folded her arms. “You’ll have to get used to it sooner or later.”
The words hit harder than she knew. Luke’s jaw clenched. “Whatever.” He shoved a chair over, the legs screeching against the floor, and stormed out.
Freedom didn’t meet him in the corridor tho. Trouble did.
George and his dickhead mates leaned against the wall, grins sharp as knives. As Luke stepped through the doorway, a shove knocked him sideways.
“You really need to keep your trap shut, freak,” George sneered. “Some of us are actually trying to learn.”
“Maybe we should teach him,” another boy said, eyes glittering.
Luke steadied himself. His chest thumped, not just from fear but from something rawer — anger. He tried to shoulder past, but another shove slammed him back.
He shoved in return. Harder.
“Oooh, brave now, are we?” George jeered.
“Very big of you George,” Luke spat, breath shaky. “Three against one.”
George’s smile stretched. “Looks like someone needs putting back in his place. Don’t you think, boys?”
They moved as one. Luke was jostled, shoved from one pair of hands to another until his back hit the wire fence outside, the metal biting into his shoulders. George drew back his fist.
The swing came fast. Instinct moved faster. Luke ducked, the fist cutting air. He twisted free, shoving hard, and landed a wild punch that grazed George’s jaw. For half a second the world seemed to stop. Then Luke ran.
He tore across the yard, trainers pounding the concrete, heart slamming against his ribs. Behind him came shouts, the scrape of shoes — then Mr. Stevens’ bellow froze the pack in place.
Luke didn’t look back. He bolted through the gates, veering left, lungs on fire, eyes locked on the station. And there — like a miracle — the train for Woodgrove was waiting, doors yawning open.
He sprinted, legs burning, and flung himself inside just as the doors slid shut.
The carriage lurched into motion. Luke stumbled to a seat and collapsed, sweat dripping down his temples, breath clawing its way out of his chest. Outside, the school shrank into distance.
For the first time that day, he let himself breathe. Really breathe.
The ride from Heathfield to home wasn’t long — just long enough to wonder what kind of trouble was waiting for him, and to start piecing together the story he’d tell.