“I’m trusting you with this shit, so don’t mess it up, a’ight?”

They didn’t like him - no, didn’t trust him. The way he stood, as if he had a thousand better things to be doing than talking to a small Year Nine around the back of the canteen, or maybe the way he stank of cigarette smoke with a faint undertone of cheap beer. It could’ve been the grease clinging to his straw-blond hair, or the mysterious stains creating an odd sort of pattern across his shirt, which itself was hanging out below his blazer, as if he hadn’t heard the first couple of teachers who’d yelled at him to tuck it in and stop looking like a scruff.

Or, of course, it could’ve been the fact that they knew he had a knife on him, but they didn’t know where or if he was going to pull it out at any point. That, or the packet of cigarettes which was being held out to them, since, apparently, a natural progression was from customer to seller within the space of a few months. He must’ve been desperate. That made them feel a little more at ease, but the annoying voice in their head which was warning them of all the dangers of what they were about to do, which sounded strangely like T, refused to go away.

“Won’t.” They responded curtly, taking the packet and stashing it in their inside blazer pocket as if they’d done this every lunchtime for a thousand lunchtimes. For some reason, they weren’t exactly scared, or nervous. They weren’t at ease entirely, but there was no adrenaline running through their veins. Maybe it was because they weren’t being threatened - perhaps that was the only thing which elicited a reaction from their nervous system anymore. They wouldn’t be surprised. “50p a cig?”

“Yeah. They’re just shit with some cheap baccy mixed in; I ain’t trusting you with the good stuff. But sell that by the end of the week and there’ll be something nice in it for you. Got it?”

“Got it.” They nodded, and started to turn away, but a rough and unwelcome touch on their arm stopped them. Confused, they turned back, and faced down the Year Eleven who looked like he hadn’t washed since he started in Year Seven.

“You’re close with T, aren’t you?” Still confused, they nodded again, turning to face him properly. “I- look, I like the kid, and we used to be on good terms, but he’s started going to Ben Jarvis for his beer - you don’t have to know who that is, you just have to tell him something, a’ight?”

“You want him to buy off you?” They guessed, settling a little into the conversation. They knew T drank - everyone did - but who he bought off wasn’t really any of their business.

“It would be in his, his best interests, yeah?” Sniffing a bit, the Year Eleven looked uncharacteristically nervous, shuffling his feet a little and sticking his hands in his trouser pockets. “There’s been some talk of Jarvis spiking drinks and shit, and I’m not sayin’ he’d do anything to T on purpose, but you know how messy this shit gets. It’d just be safer for him to stay away for a bit, yeah?”

“I get you. Thanks.”

With that, he was back to his normal demeanour, and they were escaping around the side of the canteen, passing right through the sightlines of the teachers stationed around in front of the canteen, doing a terrible job of catching suspicious activity. They loved being invisible. It was the best way to survive in a school full of prying adults and gossip-hunting kids - two more years of going unnoticed and they’d be out with… minimal lasting damage. Just two more years.