The Boy Out Of Place

  A boy stood frozen in a hallway, panting and shivering, his face pale. He stared at the door before him with his blue eyes, which resembled the sky on a serene day. A wooden plaque on the door read, in black characters: Year 7A. He shook his head, and his short, messy black hair followed. Finding the strength, he placed his hand on the handle and, nodding, he steeled himself for what was likely to happen. He pulled it open.

  It was a prestigious-looking classroom with chairs, desks, and windows made of refined wood and glass. The cold air of that autumn morning, penetrating inside, whipped his face. He entered, and the students fell silent. They looked at him.

  The boy turned in every direction, his heart racing; laughter erupted.

  ‘Look at his clothes,’ mocked one who sat on the left. Then others sniggered.

  ‘Does your mum even try to fix your hair?’

  ‘Bet they can’t afford a comb,’ they sneered, giggling with silly faces.

  Several holes dotted his shirt, and his leather shoes had patches of different dark shades. He hadn’t expected a welcome – after all, his adoptive family, the Godwins, had dressed him to be humiliated.

  He stared at the floor, unable to find words to defend himself or explain his situation. Fear surged into his body, tempting him to flee. But he didn’t. He raised his head, his eyes fixed on the end wall, and moved forward to a desk in the back of the classroom. He sat and dropped with one cheek against it.

  His gaze trailed off to the empty teacher’s table. He tried to think of something, anything, to comfort himself, even if only a little. In his memories of the time spent with his old family, he couldn’t remember their faces, no matter how hard he wanted to, yet he could still feel their warm hugs. It was the only thing he had left. The child’s mind might not have had a clear picture of them. His heart did.

  Then the door creaked open. A man with a short haircut and a few wrinkles on his forehead came in. ‘Hello, younglings. My name is Dennis Smith. I will be your maths teacher.’

  He looked around the classroom, saying, ‘The new transfer student who joined the school year with a slight delay. Please stand up and come here.’

  The boy took a deep breath and, after a few seconds, stood up and walked next to him.

  ‘Don’t be shy. Introduce yourself,’ Smith said.

  ‘My name is –’ he hesitated grudgingly, his head bowed, ‘my name is Oscar Glover, and I am eleven years old.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw some of the same kids covering their mouths and others smirking.

  ‘I must say, Glover, you look completely out of place for this school. Hopefully, you can integrate with the rest of the classroom,’ Smith said. ‘For starters, you should dress in a more appropriate manner as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mr Smith, I would like Oscar to sit right next to me,’ said a confident and friendly girl’s voice.

  The teacher raised his eyebrows and, together with the children, whose mouths opened like fish, turned in its direction.

  ‘Of course, if the transfer student has no issues with it. What do you say, Glover?’

  Oscar couldn’t believe his ears. Dreading the years of home education from the Godwins and the reason they had decided to send him here, he hadn’t expected to hear a cordial invite. He felt a small ray of hope knocking at his heart.

  ‘I’m fine with it, I think,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Go on then. We don’t have all day,’ Smith lamented.

  Stopping halfway, Oscar looked at the girl; her eyes were bright brown like autumn leaves.

  She waved to him with her hand frantically, and her hair bounced. Bushy, wavy, and mousy-brown it fell a bit past her shoulders.

  However, realising her clothes didn’t look so different from those rich kids, he hesitated, wondering if he could trust her. Perhaps she intended to trick him, he thought. He glanced between her and the empty chair over and over again.

  ‘Ignore them. They are idiots,’ she said, her face annoyed. ‘I was distracted from taking notes in my journal, and so I hadn’t noticed you entering. You can sit here with me, Oscar,’

  ‘You don’t find me funny?’ he asked while doing so.

  ‘My parents have taught me never to judge based on clothes or wealth. What truly matters are words and actions. And I believe so too.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Cecilia, of House St Clair. Nice to meet you!’ she said proudly with a faint smile on her face. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I want to understand your situation.’

  Confused by her choice of words, Oscar raised his brows, leaning on the chair.

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  ‘Wait, what do you mean? You know something?’ he asked with a curious expression.

  She shook her head. ‘No, not really, but I have an idea. Let me explain,’ she began. ‘If your family has signed you up for this school, money is not an issue. Yet how you are dressed contradicts the wealth they ought to have.’

  This girl was only eleven years old. Oscar raised his brows and jerked back. ‘You guessed that much just from that?’

  ‘It is a logical conclusion, don’t you think? Why are they doing this?’

  His hands shook and his eyes fell on his legs. ‘My adoptive parents hate me. That’s why,’ he said with an angry, bottled-up voice.

  She slammed a fist on the desk; Smith glanced at them, his expression annoyed, and sighed, then resumed preparing the material for the class that would soon start.

  ‘This infuriates me so much. How can parents, adoptive or not, be so mean?’

  Having listened carefully to her words, and observing her reaction, he decided to tuck away his doubt, attempting to open further to Cecilia.

  ‘You know, I wish I could do something about all of this,’ said Oscar, lowering his head, his eyes watery and his voice trailing off.

  She peered at him silently, then closed her eyes and shook her head, looking at him with an encouraging smile. ‘Perhaps we could figure it out together?’

  For the first time, Oscar felt that distant kindness and warmth – buried in the haziness of his memories – in the present; he hoped, unlike those of when he was even younger, that he would remember this new one with clarity for the rest of his life. And as the two thought together of a solution, the whispers of the students faded away; the class had begun. Cecilia’s family prestige in London and Knightsbridge became the shield he needed to stop the mocking and laughter. And for the rest of the lessons, no one dared to insult him again.

  *

  Emerging from Rutland Gate, Oscar had been trailing in Cecilia’s steps since the school day had ended. They stopped at the crossroads. The early afternoon sunlight caressed Kensington Road and the four-story houses made of red-brownish bricks. It illuminated Londoners going on about their lives, the cars on the street, and the two students who were mostly hidden in the shadows of the trees lined upon the short, concrete retaining wall. A light breeze touched their faces and the dense, green canopies that barely hovered above the road. They swayed gently, like the few red and blue banners that hung from some of the building roofs.

  She turned and glanced at him. ‘The solution we discussed, Oscar, may take a couple of days. So, before that, I think I should have a gift for you, something that might help you avoid the Godwins’ madness in the meantime if needed,’ she said, bobbing her head swiftly. ‘I wish I could invite you to stay permanently at my parents’ manor this very instant, but that would create many problems, like legal ones.’

  Oscar furrowed his brows. What could be the meaning of legal he thought, confused. A smile slowly spread across his face.

  ‘A gift for me? Thanks!’ he said, his voice filled with excitement.

  ‘Is your room on the first floor?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s quite high up.’

  Cecilia opened her school backpack and slipped her hand inside. To Oscar’s surprise, it looked as if she had almost fallen in. He leant closer and narrowed his eyes; moving her arm left and right, she rummaged through it, taking out a magnifying glass, a pair of binoculars, a tea set, a small pair of scissors, and countless other objects.

  He tilted his head with his mouth open, surprised she could fit so many inside. ‘Are those required for school?’

  ‘Not really. I just like bringing them with me because, well, you never know when an adventure might start!’

  She pulled out a lengthy coiled rope. ‘Found it! Here, take it. If they lock you up again, you can escape the Godwins with this.’

  Oscar rubbed his eyes and shook his head, then asked, ‘How can you fit a rope so big, with all the things you’ve taken out just now, in a school backpack?’

  Cecilia flinched, darting her eyes around. ‘Well, you see – it’s, um, oh dear.’

  He thought her reaction strange, but not stranger than a backpack that seemed to be endless.

  ‘I can’t say it. I’m sorry!’

  ‘Is it a secret?’ asked Oscar, trying to understand her reaction.

  She nodded, and her hair swung behind her shoulders.

  ‘Hmm, I don’t know if I have the guts to use it, though. The manor’s height is freaky.’

  ‘Oh, Oscar. I believe you have plenty of courage; otherwise, you would have escaped class today after all that nonsense,’ she said, raising a brow. ‘Besides, this rope is safer than it looks,’ she concluded, winking.

  Oscar took the rope from her hand, his eyes fixed on it. As he did, a red double-decker bus passed them. He turned on the direction it had driven off.

  ‘Godwin’s manor is that way,’ he explained, pointing.

  ‘That means we split here, then,’ she observed before continuing. ‘Even though tomorrow will be only the second day of school, it will be the last we see each other there.’

  He felt his heart shrink at her words, and the feeling reflected in his voice.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’ll be attending another school, you see. It’s a sort of family tradition – the first two days at this school, as a lucky charm, then moving on to the real one.’

  ‘If I move to your manor, though, we’ll have plenty of time to be together, right?’ he asked, his voice anxious.

  She gave him a sad smile. ‘Time? Sure. Plenty? Not really.’

  ‘Is that because of your future new school? If it is, we could ask your parents to let me transfer there too – if you don’t mind. I don’t want to be alone in that class. Please.’

  ‘I wish it were possible, Oscar. But that school only accepts certain people – by invitation. A thousand of them, more or less,’ she said, shrugging with a helpless sigh.

  Oscar looked down, his lips trembling. ‘I see.’

  She cut through his sadness. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure when I tell my parents about your situation, they will make sure you’re transferred to a better school. Also, in House St Claire, you’ll have not only comfortable, proper clothes, but people who’ll truly care for you!’ she promised, her voice bright with determination.

  He took a deep breath and glanced at her, on his face a faint smile appearing.

  ‘Alright.’

  They looked at each other for a few moments, and then she spoke.

  ‘Keep the plan secret from them. And be careful, Oscar,’ she warned. He nodded, and Cecilia began walking in the opposite direction. Turning her head, she gave him a sideways glance and waved as they stepped apart. ‘See you tomorrow!’

  He raised an open hand, his heart sinking.

  ‘Bye, Cecilia.’

  Oscar already looked forward to meeting her the next day; she had cast a light on him, who had known nothing but hopelessness since the day he was given to the Godwins.

  Rope in hand, he walked down the pavement beside the wide road, accompanied by the sounds of London’s wealthy area. Tall shop windows of all types lined his left, at the base of buildings with elegant balconies and pale yellow, rugged concrete blocks as he passed through the crowd. The chattering intensity changed constantly as he moved further until it gradually faded away. From Knightsbridge, he turned right, halting before an imposing black gate.