It was not quite 2pm, on a slightly overcast Monday afternoon in late
April. As occurred upon the vast majority of afternoons during term-time, Richard Anderson and his side-kick, John Hill,
were currently hanging around at the local precinct. Even the welcome aroma of fish and chips, which characterised the
shopping centre was, of late, having trouble competing with that of cigarette smoke and alcohol. A right dump, this
place was becoming, but where wasn't, in this poxy town?
Richard felt every bit as conspicuous, in his grey-and-navy
St. Andrew's school uniform, as his friend - but was somewhat better at hiding his discomfort.
Not that he could very well have been worse than
John, in this respect. The lanky, ginger-haired lad could scarcely have looked more suspicious, had he been actively
trying to do so.
Rich, for his part, had already had plenty of practice in
the art of concealing emotions, in his not-quite-fourteen years.
He checked out his reflection, in the handy, full-length
mirror, which doubled as the window of Boots the chemist. Rich knew that he wasn't bad-looking, with his wavy blonde
hair and large eyes, the shade of dark chocolate. But, in spite of this, Rich didn't have anything like the degree of
success with the opposite sex, for which his, almost ugly, seventeen-year-old brother was renowned.
And lately, this had started to mater - especially since Rich
had started to notice Steve's girlfriend, Julie Bishop.
Julie, of the chestnut-brown mane, and the almost unbelievably
sexy arse. What the Hell did a girl like her see in Richard's dickhead of a brother, anyway?
"Richard, I don't think this is such a good idea," announced
John, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke.
"What isn't?"
"Bunking - after last time, I mean."
Rich felt himself groan, internally. Here we go
again.
"You worry too much, mate. I've never spent more time
in schools than I've had to, and I'm not about to start now. Anyone would think you liked school, the way you
carry on, at times. You need to chill."
"No, I don't - and I hate school as much as you, Rich.
All I'm saying is, we're pushing it a bit, skipping English. You know what Woody's like. We'll only end up 'on
report' again."
Richard shrugged. "Who cares?"
"My parents?" suggested John, tentatively.
"You scared of Mummy and Daddy or what? Listen, Hill,
if you want to spend this afternoon acting 'Romeo' to Charlotte Fisher's 'Juliet', in aid of some crap, outdated play, then
fine. You go back to school. But if you think I'm going back to that shit-hole, you've got another thing
coming."
"She likes you, you know."
"Who does?" As if Richard didn't know. The
girl hadn't exactly been subtle about it, had she?
Still, he wasn't going to admit that he'd noticed her, noticing
him; that might be conveniently misconstrued, by Rich and Charlotte's mutual, and well-meaning, if somewhat misguided, friends.
"Charlotte, of course. Emma reckons she won't talk
about much else."
"Great - that's all I need. Some fat slag,
with a crush on me. Listen, John, I'm going to nick a Mars Bar or something from the newsagents; I'm starving.
You coming?"
