jake brockmon

Chapter 1 - "Revision and Distraction"

Emily's POV)

When I told Mum I'd be fine starting a new school halfway through Year 12, I clearly overestimated my ability to cope with the British education system and small talk.

By third period on Monday, I'd already managed to walk into the wrong classroom twice, spill my water bottle on my new timetable, and somehow get my name wrong on the register (don't ask).

Then there was him — Jake Brockman.

He sat two rows ahead of me in English, leaning back in his chair like someone who'd long accepted that Shakespeare wasn't going to improve his life. He had messy brown hair that clearly didn't want to cooperate with gravity, a biro tucked behind his ear, and that sort of distracted expression people wear when they're thinking about anything but school.

The teacher, Mrs. Weaver, paired us for a group project on Pride and Prejudice. "You're both bright," she said, which was obviously optimistic in his case.

When I sat down next to him, he grinned like we'd just been given a shared prison sentence.

"So," he said, glancing at the book in front of me. "You into angry 19th-century romance?"

I blinked. "I prefer modern awkwardness."

He smirked. "You've come to the right school, then."

We spent the next half hour not talking about Austen.

Jake talked about his little brother, Ben, who apparently once tried to sell "haunted pencils" on eBay. And his sister Karen, who ran a "truth podcast" about their family. And his parents — who he described with the affectionate weariness of someone who'd been outnumbered for years.

I was laughing more than I'd planned to by the time the bell rang.

"Guess we'll have to work on this after school," he said. "My place? My mum'll make you tea and interrogate you about your life choices."

"Tempting," I said. "But maybe the library first."

"Safer," he admitted. "Fewer emotional landmines."

After school, the library turned out to be about as quiet as a zoo. Someone was watching TikToks on full volume, and Jake kept getting distracted by his phone.

"You know," I said, when he laughed at yet another meme, "you've written exactly three words in forty minutes."

He looked at his notebook. "'It was confusing.' That's plenty for Austen. The woman lived off misunderstandings."

"You can't just wing this," I said, trying not to smile. "Mrs. Weaver actually marks these."

"Marks? Like grades? You're joking."

"Tragic, but true."

He sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. "Alright, Miss New Girl. Educate me. What's Darcy's deal, again?"

I explained. He listened — sort of. Every few minutes, he'd interrupt with a joke that was either genuinely funny or so bad it looped back around to being funny.

Somehow, we actually finished half the outline.

When I got home, Mum was waiting with her usual new-school questions.

"Did you make any friends?"

"Kind of."

"What's their name?"

"...Jake."

"Jake," she repeated, slowly, like she was tasting the name for poison. "Is Jake a good influence?"

I shrugged. "He's... an influence."

Mum gave me her patented suspicious look, then sighed. "Well, as long as he's not distracting you from revision."

I smiled faintly. "Of course not."

By Thursday, I'd learned that Jake Brockman was exceptionally good at distraction.

Every time I walked into class, he'd find a way to start a conversation before Mrs. Weaver even took attendance. Sometimes it was about books, sometimes about the weird dreams his brother had ("He once dreamed he was married to a toaster," Jake said solemnly), and sometimes about absolutely nothing at all.

He had this way of making ordinary moments feel like they had a hidden joke I'd just barely caught.

We got paired up again during a surprise quiz, and halfway through I realised he was drawing tiny stick figures duelling in the margins of his paper.

"Bored?" I whispered.

"Productive procrastination," he whispered back. "It's an art."

Mrs. Weaver caught us whispering and gave us The Look. Jake mouthed sorry, but the grin that followed ruined the apology.

Friday afternoon, I was at my locker when he appeared beside me, hair even messier than usual.

"So," he said casually, "you still alive after a full week at Brockman High?"

"It's not called Brockman High."

"It is unofficially," he said. "My family practically funds the chaos."

I laughed. "I'm coping. I think."

He leaned against the locker, thoughtful. "You'll fit in. You already make fun of me like you've known me for years. That's a Brockman skill."

"Good to know it's hereditary."

"Very. Also contagious."

He hesitated, then added, "So... we still on for finishing that project this weekend?"

I nodded. "Library again?"

He grimaced. "You're determined to make me learn things, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Dangerous." He grinned. "I like it."

That night, I was meant to revise for maths. I opened my notebook and tried to focus on quadratic equations, but instead, my mind wandered — to Jake's crooked smile, his ridiculous jokes, the way he talked about his family like they were sitcom characters he was secretly fond of.

I caught myself smiling and immediately told myself to stop.

It was just a school project. Just a new friend. Just... whatever it was.

But when my phone buzzed with a new message —

Jake: Do you think Darcy was just bad at texting? —

I couldn't help laughing out loud.

Maybe Mum was right. He was a distraction.

But I couldn't bring myself to mind.