My bicycle drifts downhill, the tail of my blazer blowing behind me; the sun hangs proudly in the sky, a fixed ornament overseeing the world and the people scurrying about. I pass many grey-stoned buildings with their gothic arches and thatched roofs. The air is light and warm. Cars honk as they whiz past me, always impatient to overtake slower traffic.

The school gates loom in the distance; wrought iron spears like a gateway to hell. I fly through the parking lot and walk my bicycle through the open gate. I lock my bike onto the stand and mix with the other boys in a homogenous body of grey blazers, black vests, white shirts, and black trousers. The things that differentiate us are our builds and faces. Every face is different-some are sunken, some are proud, and some have crooked noses or split lips. My friend Blake waits on the front steps, arms crossed over his chest.

He's the only guy I get along with-the others think my mother is a whore, and make sure I know it-every bloody second of the day. The whore's boy. Blake isn't like them; he's quiet but pleasant company. He has golden skin and long black hair. He chews on a toothpick as he waves me over. We walk to class together, pass boys wrestling in the hallway for no reason, and pass the exhausted faces of our teachers. You would think they would look refreshed after summer vacation, but they look like they have been dragged through hell and back. Tired lines crease their foreheads.

Blake says, "You know, a friend of mine got into underground dog fights."

"What's that?"

He smiles. "Basically, it's kind of illegal," he whispers next to my ear, "you take a bunch of mutts and put them in a cage, so they fight to the death."

"What if they don't fight?"

"You inject them with drugs, and they go mad. I mean, these dogs are fucking jacked, and when they bite, they rip off blood and draw flesh. Anyhow, the guy that runs it is looking for boys to capture strays. They'll give you forty pounds for a dog. No questions asked." He watches me from the corner of his eye, trying to read my expression.

I keep my face blank. After years of taunting, I have learned to hide my emotions. If you react, they tease you more. Truth be told, I love dogs-I would have had a pet pup by now if my mother didn't hate them vehemently. "I don't know," I say, "I can join an army in a year or two. I can get money then."

"Joining the army is alright but look at how many people died in the last great war. You have to think of some other way to make money. Something with fewer risks."

I grin and grip his shoulder, making him pause in the midst of the hallway. "Fine, I'll look for something else, and when I do, I'll tell you. But trust me, it's not making dogs fight."

"Seven o'clock," he says with a subtle glance over his shoulder.

Earl Dwyer's son, Xavier, walks towards us with his head held high. He has short curly blonde hair and a confident smirk. He's got his two boys on either side of him. On his left was Marcus, the sole black kid in our school-tall, muscular and good at boxing. He and Blake could trade blows for five minutes without getting tired; both were equally matched... for five minutes. After that, Blake's energy levels would quickly fall like the stock market after a batch of bad news.

On Xavier's left is the biggest of the three. Zander. His father is a CEO at the bank of England. He has cropped blonde hair. While Xavier has a chiselled face, Zander's is round and chubby. People clear the hall for them. They are the most influential guys in school. You can cut the tension with a butcher's knife as they pass, and people try to avoid them.

Blake and I get pushed against the lockers. Xavier steps on my toes, crushing them with his steel-toe boots. Pain hammers my flesh as he continues his stride like nothing happened. The three boys greet their friends and acquaintances, smiling and shaking hands like heroes returning from war.

I keep the pain off my face, but it hurts to move my toes. Blake notices something is wrong. He wraps his arm around my waist and helps me as I limp into the classroom. I see the smile on Xavier's face as I shuffle to my seat, two seats across from his. The pain starts to lessen. I no longer need to fold in half and massage the pain away. Instead, I pay attention to the lecture as our teacher welcomes us back after a long summer and draws trigonometric equations on the board for review.

***

Around midday, I lay under an oak tree, my bag cushioning my head. Leaves' shadows dance across my body. I hear footsteps approaching and look lazily to my left. Xavier strides over with his two henchmen. I feel like a dog trapped in a cage with another, forced to fight to the death. I study Xavier from a distance. He's taller than me and a bit wider. But we're both fit. There's this game we like to play. It's called, 'how well can you pretend to hate me in public?'

We are both good at it.

Since people assume my mother slept with his dad for money, even though both parties heartily denied it, Xavier is responsible for protecting his mother from further insults by making my life hell.

I say, "Xavier, it's nice how you always get someone else to fight for you. I'm starting to think you're afraid of me." I shake my head slowly and rise to my feet. I circle the tree; they disappear, blocked by the brown bark, before I appear on the opposite side, poised to fight, my fists raised, and chin tucked low to guard.

Xavier plays it cool as he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, saying, "When have I ever let someone fight your weak ass on my behalf? The two of you can go."

Zander and Marcus hesitate, not wanting to leave their master. It's not their fault. The two of them share Xavier's brain. "Go," Xavier repeats, his voice hard as steel. "I'll finish this in a second."

He's wonderful at pretending he hates me.

I smile.

His friends peel off slowly, glare at me, and disappear around the corner of the building.

Zander walks over to me, his hands open, waiting peacefully at his side as he comes to a stop. His lips are close to my face. The kiss is fast and forceful. His lips are on mine, his tongue parting my teeth. A tremor runs through my body as our tongues meet. He tastes like cigarettes and sugar. He pulls back and grabs a fistful of my shirt. "I hate you."

"I know."

He kisses me again, more forceful than the last time and bites my lip.

"I can't decide if I want to kill or fuck you." A vein ticks in his jaw, showing his frustration.

I tell him, "You can do both, but either would land you in jail."

He pauses and looks down at the ground, some of his passion fading. He says, "I did some research into you. Your mother used to work for my father."

"And?"

"When I mentioned her name at dinner, my father froze like he had seen a ghost. My mother glared. The two of them quickly left the table to argue loudly in the privacy of their bedroom. So, I snuck into his study and checked his account book. He has been paying four thousand dollars to Alen Motors every month, which makes no sense as the manager of the auto shop doesn't know my father and hasn't received a penny from him. I asked."

"So, you think your father is sending money to a mistress? A man like your father probably has many mistresses. He could also be gambling."

A slow shake of his head.

My heart sinks.

He says, "The fact is your mother left her post as a head maid, and a few months after leaving our home, she was seen pregnant."

I know where he is taking this. People have always said the two of us were related because I look like his father, with orange hair and all, but it's a coincidence. I know my father. He was a soldier named Teddy Burrows. I argue, "It doesn't mean anything. Maids get knocked up and leave their jobs all the time."

"Your eyes are the same colour as his- blue. You have the same bright orange hair; you look like a young version of him." He takes a photo out of his pocket and tries to show it to me, but I back away, refusing to look. He continues, "Why do you think people always tease you? It's because everyone sees the resemblance but you. My father and your father are the same."

"No. My father was a soldier; he died in the war."

"You don't honestly believe that bullshit story, do you?" he pauses and then asks, "Do you even have a picture of him? Please tell me you do. Then, I could be at ease."

"No. Mother said it hurt too much to look at his photos, so she burnt them."

The expression on his face was one of pity. "Your mother has no job; her parents disowned her. Where does she get the rent for the nice townhouse she lives in? Or money to buy fancy clothes? How do you think she sends you to a private school?"

"Fuck." I sit on the grass. "I don't know."

"You are his. I don't want it to be true, but my conscience tells me it is." He squats near me, and I glance at the hollow of his throat that is begging for a kiss. I start to think about the past. I remember how my mother looked at his dad-the forlorn expression on her face, the way she gripped whatever she was holding and greeted him with a sad smile.

I remembered when Earl Dwyer ruffled my hair and told her, 'You raised a good-looking boy, and I hear he's smart too. Gets good grades.'

She had replied, 'Oh, he's wonderful; I couldn't ask for anything more. He dreams of joining the army someday.'

'I think he'll do well, like his father,' He told her. To me, he said, 'You know I led my platoon to victory in France? Got five medals there.'

I remember how he had invited me to all of Xavier's birthday parties, saying that he wanted the two of us to be close and ignore others' harsh whispers.

I remember how he took us camping and snowboarding... was it all a joke to him?

Did my mother know?

Of course, she did.

They had lied to us our whole lives.

At first, I had wondered why Earl Dwyer had sought to mention his achievements whenever we talked about my father, but I had related it to his nature since he had seemed rather stuck up. I had shrugged it off as something insignificant, but it came back to me now.

I think it was a joke between the two of them. They probably felt that I was an idiot that couldn't read between the lines. I ran into the earl so often by accident it now seemed rehearsed. I would bump into him and Xavier while using the gym, or I would see them at the cinema when I went with Blake, and the four of us would end up sitting together.

Or sometimes, if my mother took me out for dinner, he would be waiting there, Xavier standing in a neat suit at his side. The earl always gripped my shoulder or made other affectionate gestures when we met.

Xavier takes a cigarette from his pocket and offers it to me, but I shake my head. "Your friends will be back soon."

"Right. Smoking will kill me one day, won't it?" His lighter flares with a slight hiss; the reflected fire playing in his irises as he waits for it to take, then he flips the cap close and takes a deep breath of his poison." He blows it on my face so, if anything happens, we can die together.

I wrinkle my nose and feel the grey smoke settling in my lungs. If his theory is true, our parents had lied to us for years. They deserved to be punished.

I say, "So, what's the plan?"

"I'm thinking of killing you; my father will sob and tell me that you were my brother all along. Then you can come back to life and say, 'Fuck you'."

***