As a multiethnic kid, Keon Wesley has always had to straddle two worlds. He just never expected that metaphor to become a literal reality.
Ever since his dad left five weeks ago, he's struggled to adjust to life in a single parent household. When a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"So, ye hit him."
"Yeah? Tell me I was wrong."
"Ye were wrong, Keon."
"How was I wrong, though?"
The two were in Mr. Kersey's office at McClinton Secondary School & Sixth Form College; debating across a round table in the centre of the room. Mr. Kersey preferred having a table to a desk, you see. He believed kids would rather have a seat at the table than be dictated to from across a desk. Now, however, Keon was standing like the prosecution and Mr. Kersey sat like the defendant.
To facilitate the lack of a desk, and because the school budget wouldn't allow him to have filing cabinets, Mr. Kersey opted for two shelves on either side of the room full of those fruit and veg boxes you got from the market. Inside were reams and reams of files. Synthetic plants lined the windowsill at the back because Mr. Kersey was the man you sent your plants to if you wanted them dead.
He sat, elbows on the table, his hands clasped together like a Venus fly trap. The collar of his white shirt peeked out over the navy-blue cardigan that couldn't quite hide his athletic physique. He was young (thirty-two, though he may as well have been fifty-two to Keon) and had quickly gained a reputation for his natural rapport with the students. Some attributed this to his youthful, good looks. He attributed it to good ol' fashioned Scottish 'charrrm'.
"Ah mean, it kindae soonds like he deserved it..."
"Ah ha! See?!"
"... but that dinnae mek it right."
"Come on man..."
"Am not saying it's wrong t'stand up for someone..."
"'Kindae soonds' like you are..."
"... but there's a way t'go aboot things..."
"Maybe your way takes too long?"
"An' maybe ye care more aboot doing whit y'want, rather than doing whit's right. Ye dinnae change folk like that by doing whit ye did, Keon."
"I can try..."
"An' ye'll end up back 'ere again, instead of out there doing something useful wi' yer life."
"What, helping people ain't useful?"
Mr. Kersey buried his head in his palms, clawing his face in irritation. They'd been going at it like this for the last half hour. Not that Keon Wesley wasn't worth it. It was precisely because he'd been such a model student that Mr. Kersey had made it his personal mission to ensure his recent problems didn't hinder his progress. Before this, they'd had little interaction. Mr. Kersey dealt with the 'problem kids.' Until recently, that hadn't been Keon. Even so, they'd formed something of an 'alliance' over their shared wit and sharp minds during the little time they'd spent together.
"Keon—lemme go home..."
"Naaaah fam!"
"A've already called yer mam. She'll be 'ere any minute."
