Concerning Chance ✔

FOURTEEN

Even though I promised not to, I desperately want to tell someone — about Max's back; about what he gets put through at home. But I can't; so I won't.

There's no justifying it: nothing that could excuse it. I don't know the reason why, but Max's dad must be pretty stubborn to do that to his son.

By sheer miracle, I made it home last night without waking my parents. I passed out for a few hours before my education, ever impatient, beckoned. Still gotta make it through A Levels somehow.

And now, sitting in Maths with algebraic quadratic equations in front of me, I fight the prickling urge to tell someone about Max.

The battle that rages within me is simple, yet extremely complex. Tell someone and get Max the help he needs, putting my friendship with him in danger... or don't tell anyone and it continues, but we can maintain our friendship.

What are you supposed to do when you're shown evidence of domestic abuse? Tell someone.

What did Max make me promise not to do? Tell anyone.

I rub my forehead as the letters and numbers on the page in front of me begin to dance, a muted pain throbbing directly behind my eyes. Knowing the methodical nature of the equations will calm me, I try to focus. But seeing Max in the corner of my eye derails my concentration even further.

He sits opposite me, chewing a wad of gum, scrunching his hand through his floppy hair and frowning. I want him to look up and make eye contact with me so I can mouth 'you okay?'. But he doesn't look up, doesn't lock eyes with me; I know he's not okay. Not in any way.

The maths becomes irrelevant as I watch him. His eyebrows furrow downwards and inwards, he grips his pen a little tighter. It seems like a reasonable reaction when faced with algebra, except for the fact his eyes are glazed over, not focused on anything.

Then, in one quick action, he drops his pen to the table and throws his hand up. "Can I go to the toilet?"

The teacher, who's only covering the class while our actual teacher is on paternity leave, is unimpressed. She nods her head anyway. Max all but runs out.

I shoot up out of my chair, chair legs scraping against the floor; "I should go see if he's okay."

"That won't be necessary. Sit down, Rory." Ms Morley, the old hag leers at me.

She doesn't even have to be here, that's what bugs me most. As sixth-form students, we're trusted to get on with the work that our actual teacher has set. But no. Ms Morley has to stick her nose in and make sure we don't fuck around.

Scowling, I dig the toilet pass out of my pocket and flip it up at her — exactly how I'd love to flip my middle finger up at her. "How about now?"

My cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment as the other kids in my maths class shake their heads at me. A few murmurs — what the fuck happened to that Chance girl anyways? — hey, d'you think he makes every one of his friends suicidal? — dart around the room. Quiet enough to not be noticed by Ms Morley; loud enough to crunch the eggshells scattered around me.

She narrows her eyes but jerks her head towards the door. "Make it quick."

Huffing, I storm out of the classroom, refraining from slamming the door behind me. I burst into the nearest guys' toilet door; hoping that Max is in there.

The toilets are empty, and only one of the cubicle doors is shut. It has to be Max. I hope it's Max.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I walk towards the locked door, leaning against the sink. "Wanna talk about it?"