We're Not Strangers Anymore

Chapter Two - Back To School

Ten Years Earlier - Belgrave Academy, Summer of 1985.

'Just fucking give us your money, kid. I know for a fact that you've been saving up since Christmas, now give me that money, do you think I'm messing around?'
The name of the bully in question was Jack Hodges, and the victim in question was fourteen year old Charlie Broomer. Hodges had three years on Broomer, he was seventeen and in the sixth form, whereas the young boy was only in year nine himself.
'Jack, can't you just leave-'
'What, "leave you alone"? Huh? You want me to leave you alone, Broomstick? Is that it? Now isn't that funny. Take that fucking wallet out of your piss-stained trousers now, before I bash your geeky little head in.'
Jack Hodges grabbed the boy by his shoulders and slammed him into the lockers. Charlie screamed out in pain.
Mr Evans, the school's drama teacher, came running out of his studio almost immediately after hearing the bang on the wall.
'Jack Hodges, what on Earth do you think you are playing at? Do you want a clip round the ear hole? Thought not, now get lost, I'm trying to mark coursework in here.'
Hodges grunted and walked off, pulling a rather smug face at Charlie as he did so.
'Charlie, is everything alright?'
'Yes sir, fine thanks.'
'Sure?'
'Positive. Thanks, sir.'
'Well, that's good then. I'm off to finish up my marking, needs to be in the head's office by supper time.'
And with that Mr Evans turned around and headed straight back into the dance studio, seemingly oblivious of the everyday chaos occurring inside the very walls of the building he worked in.
Charlie adjusted himself, wiping away tears that had not yet begun to stream, and to his own surprise he found himself checking his appearance in a nearby mirror. Charlie's family could just about make ends meet, and with no father in the picture this meant that he had often resorted to his mother for hair products, haircuts, and pretty much whatever else appearance wise. He checked that he wasn't crying anymore, he made sure of it, and he wasn't - a sense of relief briefly touched him. He looked himself up and down in the old corridor mirror, making sure that he wasn't crying anymore, at least visibly anyway.
His tears had faded now, and he was thinking about how much he missed his Dad. It was now two years since his father had passed, and he missed him more than anything in the world. The pain in his heart only grew harder each day, the grief still very fresh, very raw.
He snapped back into himself, gazed into the mirror and spoke aloud whilst trying to picture himself as literally any other boy on the planet right now: 'You can do this, Charlie. Make your Dad proud.'
Mr Broomer entered his mind yet again just thirty seconds later, spouting the words 'you can achieve anything you want in this life my boy, the world is your oyster.'
A tear rolled down his face but he wiped it away almost immediately, feeling a strong sense of determination wash over him. Another small comfort came to mind now, one that he always looked forward to - it was lunchtime.
Unlike many other children in the academy, lunchtime was Charlie Broomer's most favourite time of the day, he loved it even more than he loved going home, and that was really saying something. Most pupils regularly turned their noses up at the food on offer, growling and hurling abuse at the dinner ladies.
They often replied too, in their defence: 'You get what you're given, now take it or leave it.'
Charlie quickly adjusted the strap on his worn down backpack and headed towards the school's canteen. On this particular day it was only half full, due to a school trip to Somerset for the more "well off" kids amongst the area, but Charlie's mother couldn't afford it this time round; and in his heart, he knew that that was okay. After all, his dear old mother had always done anything and everything for him, no matter what the circumstances.
He nervously pushed the set of wooden doors open, the very gateway to the canteen, and suddenly he felt very isolated. It didn't matter whether it was a full canteen or a half-empty canteen, the result was near enough always the same - he was all alone, and it would probably always be like that.
Charlie dropped his head down and walked through the spacious, cold room, his backpack dragging miserably behind him. As he progressed forward he could feel the eyes that were on him, eyes that glared right into the back of his head. That familiar feeling of aloneness struck him down once more. He stopped and looked around. His fellow students, some of them classmates, were doing anything they could to avoid him - tucking chairs in, purposely facing the opposite way, even kicking their bags in front of him in a harsh attempt to block his path. The room grew colder by the second, and even though that room may have very well been filled with thirty to forty children, he still felt all alone.
An unrecognisable voice suddenly spoke up from behind his left shoulder. It said quietly: 'Hey, would you like to sit down?'
Charlie turned around and was greeted by a boy whom he guessed was round about his age. Long hair, similar to his own (except from the colour, as the boy sitting down had dark blonde hair whereas Charlie himself had black), the same neatly ironed uniform (obviously), and as luck would have it, even the same backpack.
He replied hesitantly.
'Erm, sh-sure,' said an utterly bewildered Charlie. 'What's your name?'
'I'm Jamie, Jamie Manley. What's your name?'
'Oh, I'm Charlie. Charlie Broomer.'
'That's a cool name. What happened to your eye?'
Charlie froze for an immediate second, completely unaware that the makeup he'd applied to his black eye must have come off as he'd examined himself in the mirror (or being thrown into the wall at the hands of Belgrave Academy's most viscous bully, that was also a viable option. Take your pick, really).
'Oh, I was in the hall doing P.E this morning and I dropped a weight on my eye. Didn't mean to do it, just happened.'
Jamie Manley looked back at him as if the boy had just began to explain an alien sighting to him.
'It was Jack Hodges, wasn't it?'
'How did you know that?'
Jamie rolled down his sleeve to reveal pink flesh that had bled and eventually dried, all the way up his right arm.
'Because he did the exact same thing to me. He's a rotten old git, that's what my mum says.'
'You told your mum that he attacked you?'
'Well, what else was I supposed to do?'
'No, I'm not judging you, it's just.. if I ever told my mum that this sort of stuff was happening to me at school, she'd go barmy. She'd march down here like an angry Falkland's soldier and demand to speak to a teacher which would only set Hodges off even more.'
Jamie began to giggle to himself. Charlie laughed too.
'A Falkland's soldier.. that's really funny.'
'It's true, she actually would..'
'So are you in year nine then? And if you are, why aren't you on the school trip?'
Charlie froze again.
'I couldn't.. I mean, I didn't want to go, not really. I've heard it's well boring.'
'Charlie.. you can tell me if you're lying, if you couldn't afford to go, I won't think bad of you.'
Charlie lowered his eyebrows as well as his head. 'Yeah, alright, my mum couldn't really afford it.'
'Are you okay with that?' Jamie asked, a degree of interest weaving it's way into his tone of voice.
'I mean, yeah, I guess. My Mum doesn't have a lot of money, well, not since my Dad died.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, mate. That must have been hard for you.'
Charlie sighed.
'Yeah, it was hard. We've pretty much struggled as a family since then, mentally as well as money-wise. But let's talk about something else. Hey, is that a Beatles badge on your bag? They're my favourite band, I'm gonna be just like John Lennon when I grow up.'
Jamie's eyes lit up almost instantly.
'Yeah, it is! You've got a good set of eyes to have spotted that one, the badge is tiny'
Jamie smiled and started to tap the table, humming to the tune of "She Loves You".
Charlie smiled back, only briefly, but it was a smile that was quite clearly hiding a large degree of pain; the sort of smile one finds during a great period of grief-stricken pain.