Generation Next

by Oli White

  “Your shoelace? Jack, what’s wrong with you?”

  I look up at Austin and his mouth is twitching again. And then everything just . . . stops.

  Can you imagine it for a moment? The eyes of the world are on you—quite literally—and you can’t speak or even move. It’s funny, I’m struggling to remember how it came to this; how I even got here. When was it? Has it really only been a matter of months since I walked into that classroom at St. Joseph’s with all eyes on me? It might as well have been a lifetime ago. I was just the new boy with something to prove back then, but so much has changed in these short months. So much . . .

  THE BEGINNING

  Hertfordshire, England, five months earlier

  I was twenty minutes late when I walked into Mr. Allen’s advanced media production class, and, on top of that, soaking wet. I mean, completely and utterly drenched—torrential downpour just as I jumped off the bus, so unavoidable really, but not ideal. Not when you’re talking first impressions—you know what I mean, right? Your strategy is to walk into a roomful of people you don’t know looking fresh and unruffled, like it’s absolutely nada starting a brand-new school with brand-new students and brand-new teachers at the ripe old age of seventeen. Your strategy is not to fall through the door looking like you’ve just crawled out of a duck pond wearing a jacket that smells like a dishcloth. That wasn’t how things had played out in my head while I was lying in bed that morning, anyway.

  Mr. Allen looked up from his desk as he heard the door click shut.

  “Are you Penman?”

  “That’s me, sir.”

  “OK, well you’re late,” he said, like I didn’t already know. “Just find an empty seat and someone will fill you in on what you’ve missed. Class, this is Penman, he’s just transferred.”

  “Where from, the aquarium?”

  There’s always one smart-ass in the class, and this one was a guy with slicked-back dark hair, grinning and balancing on two legs of his chair with his feet on the table at the back of the room. There was a bit of sniggering from a few of the other students as I navigated my way across the floor, looking for an empty space in the already packed classroom. When I eventually spotted one and pulled the chair out from under the two-seater desk, the dark-haired guy piped up again from two rows behind me.

  “Not there!”

  This time I turned around and met his stare, which was clearly designed to intimidate. Then I smiled sweetly, turned my back on him, slowly continued dragging the chair out and sat down. That’s the way, Jack, I told myself, pulling my textbook out of my bag, start as you mean to go on. This time at this school was going to be different—I’d promised myself that. No trouble, no being pushed around, no compromising or trying to fit in just to be accepted. And no getting your head kicked in. Definitely no getting your head kicked in.

  The classroom itself was smart and modern. Much more so than the rooms at my other school, which seemed antiquated compared to this one. I clocked a couple of very nice Canon cameras on tripods in one corner, and a row of spanking-new MacBooks lined up on the workbench along the far wall. The students seemed interested in what they were doing, too, which was a good sign. In my last media studies class no one listened to a word the teacher said and three of the cameras were stolen on the first week of term, so all in all this class seemed like it might be an excellent one to take, and with my AS levels coming up, I needed as many good classes as I could get.

  Once I’d settled down at the desk, I turned to say a quick hi to the person I was sharing it with. You see, that was the other thing I’d promised myself—to make more friends at St. Joseph’s and not be the reclusive geek I’d been at Charlton Academy. Anyway, that was when I saw her: blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, the most kissable mouth turned up in a half-smile. Literally the most stunning girl I’d ever set eyes on.

  “Oh wow! Er, hello.”

  At first glance, she seemed to have an air of effortless cool about her: the long-sleeved black and white striped T-shirt under a denim dress that kind of looked like dungarees but with a skirt instead of trousers, the funky silver rings shimmering on both hands, the bright red Converse. It all looked so right.

  It was clear that I hadn’t been expecting anyone like her when I’d turned around; in fact it showed big time.

  “I’m, er . . . hi. I’m Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . .”

  What was my name again?

  “Jack Penman is who I am, and that’s my name.”

  The girl looked through me like I was a total weirdo.

  “You’re dripping,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You’re dripping on my Gatsby.”

  Slightly puzzled by this declaration, I looked down at the desk and noticed the small pool of water gathering on a well-thumbed paperback copy of The Great Gatsby. It fast became clear that the water in question was actually dripping off my hair, running down my nose and . . . well, you can guess the rest.

  “Oh damn, I’m really sorry,” I said. “I got caught in the rain.”

  “Never,” she said sarcastically, but then her half-smile blossomed into a full one and I was properly in love.

  Like an idiot I picked up her wet book and shook it, sending the rainwater flying everywhere.

  “Now I’m as wet as you, thanks,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  It suddenly dawned on me that my relationship with this heavenly creature, whoever she was, had probably begun and ended all in those few short seconds, but my suffering was short-lived as Mr. Allen stood up and addressed the class. He wasn’t badly dressed for a teacher, and actually didn’t look that much older than most of his students.

  “All right, everyone, listen up. For this term’s main project I’m going to need you to work in pairs. So this morning you’re going to have to find yourselves a study partner, and I’d like you to do it quickly and quietly.”

  I turned slowly to meet the eyes of the girl next to me again.

  “Don’t even think about it, Jack Penman,” she said sternly.

  Oh well, at least she remembered my name. Then her expression cracked and she started to giggle, putting her hand out for me to shake.

  “I’m Ella,” she said. “Ella Foster.”

  “Hi there, Ella Foster.”

  “So do you want to partner up for this project then, new boy?” she said.

  “That would be . . . yeah, cool.”

  You never want to sound too eager in that kind of scenario, do you?

  “OK, brill. Let’s do it,” she said.

  So my initial instincts had been right. This was definitely going to be an excellent class to take.

  Austin Slade had been in Mr. Allen’s media production class that morning, but I didn’t notice him till later in the day. It was lunchtime and I was making my big entrance into the sixth-form common room, which was clearly the hub of the entire school; totally different to the dry atmosphere of the communal areas of my previous school. In contrast, the St. Joe’s common room was busy and bright, with a coffee machine and a snack machine, plus there was a huge amount of chat and noise, loads going on, and it was all happening to a soundtrack of Radio 1’s Live Lounge playing merrily away in the background. Nice, you know? All in all it seemed like a pretty cool place, but at the same time maybe a bit intimidating, especially when you’re the new kid. Ah, but hang on a minute. I stopped that thought in its tracks and had a little word with myself. No, Jack, there isn’t going to be any of that crap. No intimidation this time, remember? Just walk into the room like it’s yours; like you own the place. Start as you mean to go on, mate.

  There were various cliques of kids dotted around the common room and I amused myself for a while trying to decipher which clique was which and, more crucially, what the pecking order might be. The “populars” were a mix of boys and girls, and mostly Year 13, I’d say at a guess. Their general demeanor was cool, calm and collected and they were easy to spot by the whiteness of their teeth and thei
r immaculately ironed, expensive-looking clothes. The boys in this group all seemed to have that hair that looks effortlessly swept forward and messy but they’ve actually spent four and a half hours fiddling about with it in the mirror, applying just the right amount of fresh-out-of-bed-look surfer-dude hair fudge. The girls were mostly of the hot variety and looked as though they’d just jumped out of a make-up artist’s chair and were about to step in front of a camera. If, as a new student, you could get in with any one clique, this lot would be the prize. Just by looking at them you could tell that not only did they know where it was happening, they were mostly the people that made it happen.

  Close to them—but not too close—were what I’d call the fringe group. This was a smaller group of kids who clearly lived in the shadow of the popular group and basically followed the same principles but weren’t really all that popular and their teeth weren’t as white. This was a noisier, more attention-grabbing crowd, the girls generally showing a bit more flesh and yakking a lot louder about what they’d been doing the previous night, and the boys swearing every other word so they looked hard. Then there were the usual scattered cells of athletes, geeks, hipster kids and loners. Standard, really.

  As I stood at the door, I pondered on which of these random groups might spot me and invite me over to join them. Maybe none of them would. Maybe it would be a repeat performance of Charlton Academy, where I spent ninety percent of the time with only a laptop for company. I was lost in thought, reminding myself of my pledge to make more of an effort to be social, when I heard someone shouting at me.

  “Penman! Oi, Penman! Come over here, man.”

  I scanned the room to see which of the cliques the yelling might be coming from. I knew it wasn’t going to be the popular kids—they were much too cool to shout across the room at anyone—and it obviously wasn’t the sporty lads in their Adidas tracksuits, or the small nest of vampires dressed in black in the far corner, or even the . . .

  “Penman! Over here!”

  Of course. It had to be . . . the geeks.

  “Over here, man.”

  To be fair, the kid shouting at me didn’t look all that geeky, but the rest of his associates were the quintessential school boffins. I made my way toward them.

  “Austin is the name,” the kid said, sticking out his hand.

  As I went to shake it, he pulled it away quick and pushed it through his floppy hair.

  “Funny,” I said, not really laughing.

  “I saw you in media production earlier,” Austin said, grinning. “Are you into all that stuff? Filming, editing, videos and all that?”

  He nodded toward his small group of pals, who were lounging over a small sofa and a couple of leather armchairs.

  “We are. Plus games, of course. Anything techy, really.”

  “Yeah, that’s my thing too, a hundred percent,” I said.

  “Cool beans, Penman. Well, you looked a bit lost standing in that doorway just now, so I thought you could do with a few introductions.”

  I nodded. “Sweet, thanks.”

  Austin playfully slapped the head of a boy sitting in front of him.

  “This here is my man Sai,” he said. “He’s from Sri Lanka.”

  “Wow. That must take a while on the bus, mate,” I said.

  I noticed the pretty girl in a beanie hat sitting next to him start sniggering.

  “No, I live in Hemel Hempstead,” Sai said, dead serious, causing much laughter within the small group.

  Austin continued, unfazed.

  “Anyway, Penman, I noticed you were sitting next to the most smokin’ babe in the class earlier.”

  I scowled back at him. Smokin’ babe? Seriously? Mind you, his remark, however cringeworthy, did stir a flickering reminder of the girl in question. Ella Foster. And what a nice flickering reminder it was.

  “Yeah, she’s OK,” I said, as if I’d hardly noticed.

  “She’s more than OK,” Sai muttered under his breath.

  Austin turned his attention to the girl next to Sai, who was still sniggering.

  “And this is—”

  “Ava,” she said, jumping up and sticking out her hand. “I’m Ava, and you’re Jack, right?”

  I noticed that underneath the beanie hat, her hair was a washed-out pastel lilac color, and she was wearing black fingerless woolen gloves—indoors, and it wasn’t even cold. I ignored this quirk and shook her hand anyway.

  “That’s right, I’m Jack. I just transferred from—”

  “Why?” she barked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you transfer? Did you do something terrible in your last school? Were you forced to leave?”

  “Er, I . . .”

  “My cousin Dermot laced the fruit punch at his school prom with vodka,” she said, “and after five glasses of it, he tried to snog his chemistry teacher outside the gym, but she tripped over some bunting and fell backward down the stairs and broke her tibia. Was it that sort of thing, the reason you were forced out?”

  “I . . . I wasn’t forced out.” I laughed nervously.

  “Well it must have been something,” she said, “or why change schools in Year Twelve? That seems quite unintelligent to me.”

  “It was something,” I said firmly, “but not that.”

  “Yeah, sorry, this is our Ava,” Austin interjected. “She’s pretty much a genius but sometimes a little outspoken, you get me?”

  Ava made a sudden move closer to me and looked me dead in the eye.

  “You can tell me anything you want, Jack Penman,” she said. “My sister’s got a minor eating disorder, so nothing fazes me.”

  “Right,” I said, backing away a tad.

  “And just in case it matters to you,” she went on, “we are not the cool group around here.”

  I looked at her, Austin and Sai, one by one.

  “You think?” I said.

  After I’d said hi to a couple of the less alternative members of Austin’s tribe of misfits, he filled me in on a few of the key players in the school hierarchy—the big hitters—as well as some of the eternal losers, plus who was cool and who was best avoided.

  “You know Hunter?” Austin said.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who shouted out to you in the class earlier.”

  I nodded.

  “Well he’s definitely one to be wary of. Total knob-head. Lots of kids look up to him ’cause he’s stinking rich, but he’s massively arrogant and never misses a chance to tell everyone how amazing he is. Prone to violence on occasion, too, so watch yourself around him.”

  “Noted,” I said. “Thanks, mate.”

  As we were leaving the common room, Austin invited me to one of the group’s computer game nights, which they took turns in hosting. Deep joy. The next one was at his place, and, he assured me, it would be the coolest one because his parents had made their cellar into a den for him and his younger brother and they had a massive fifty-inch flat-screen TV with surround sound down there. The whole thing sounded unfeasibly lame to me, but I had promised myself I’d make an effort, so I nodded and smiled agreeably.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I could have actually come up with about thirty reasons why not off the top of my head, but sometimes you just have to take the plunge in a new situation, you know? That was one of the reasons I agreed to go along, the other being the fact that nobody else in any of the other cliques had spoken to me, so I thought I might as well give this lot the benefit of the doubt, right? If I’m totally honest, they seemed like they might be an OK bunch. Little did I know then how momentous that decision was going to turn out to be.

  THE PAST

  “So how was it, then? How were the other students? Did you meet anyone nice, make any friends?”

  So many questions and I’d only been in the house for three minutes. While I poured myself an orange juice, Mum hovered around me in the kitchen, halfway through making what she called her world-famous lasagna. The fact that nobody outside our family
had ever tried it cast some shadow of doubt over the “world-famous” handle, but we all thought it was pretty good anyway.

  “Yeah, it was fine, Mum. Really cool.”

  “That’s good, Jack,” she said. “Because this time your dad and I really want . . . I mean, we don’t want—”

  She stopped, suddenly, as if she might be about to say the wrong thing. I sat down at the breakfast bar and looked across at her standing over the sink with her back to me, her best chopping knife suspended in mid-air as she thought carefully about what to say next.

  “You and Dad don’t want what?” I asked her.

  I knew what she was thinking; what all her conversations with Dad must have been about for the last two weeks. Is Jack going to fit in at this school? Is he going to make friends? Will there be any more . . . bullying. Yes, that was the word she couldn’t bring herself to say. That was the elephant in the room. Her only son had been bullied at his last school and then had to leave. Boom! Of course they’d been amazingly supportive at the time, but sometimes I wondered if they might be a little bit ashamed of me for not sticking up for myself more. Probably nowhere near as ashamed as I had been of myself when it all went down. Still, I’d left that in the past where it belonged. It wasn’t going to happen again; things were different this time. I was different, wasn’t I? Anyway, I decided to put her mind at rest.

  “Actually I met quite a decent guy today, Austin. He’s invited me round to his place with a few of his mates, gaming night or something. They’re all a bit geeky, but they seem nice, y’know?”

  Just as I finished the sentence, my dad walked in from work, throwing his briefcase down on the stool next to me.

  “Well that sounds positive,” he said, joining in the conversation. “Fresh start.”

  “Doesn’t it, Paul?” Mum agreed, a beaming smile on her face as she hacked into an iceberg lettuce.

  I recognized that tone in both their voices—a mixture of concern and hope—and I was seconds away from yelling at them, telling them to back off and stop making such a fuss, but then I stopped myself. After all, why wouldn’t they be concerned? Seeing their son bloodied and bruised the way I was on that very, very bad day back in January, of course they were going to worry.