Before We Knew Better

September had a way of making everything feel like it was starting over. New timetable. New teachers. New promises to myself that I would be organised this year and definitely not leave assignments until the night before they were due. I was already failing at the last one, technically, and it was only the first morning. I stood in the middle of my bedroom, holding one shoe and looking at the other side of the room as if the missing one might appear out of guilt. My school bag sat open on the bed. My sketchbook was tucked safely inside, along with three notebooks, a pencil case and the architecture magazine I'd been meaning to finish reading since July. My phone buzzed. Imogen: If you're late on the first day, I'm pretending I don't know you. I sent back a picture of my missing shoe. Me: Pray for me. Imogen: I would, but I have my own problems. My eyeliner is fighting for its life. I finally found the shoe under my desk, where it had apparently decided to spend the night. I slipped it on, grabbed my bag and hurried downstairs. Mum was in the kitchen, packing lunch into a container while my younger brother sat at the table, eating cereal with the concentration of someone carrying out important scientific research. “Morning,” I said. “You're cutting it close,” Mum replied, glancing at the clock. “I'm building suspense.” “You're building a habit.” My brother snorted into his cereal. I gave him a look. “Don't encourage her.” Mum smiled, but there was tiredness around her eyes. She had been up before me, as usual, getting ready for work and making sure we had everything we needed. Since the separation, there were days when it felt as though she was doing the work of two people without ever saying so. I tried to help where I could. I made sure my brother had his things for school, helped with dinner when Mum worked late and kept track of the little things that seemed to slip through the cracks. I didn't mind doing it. Not exactly. I just sometimes wished someone would notice when I was tired too. “Have you got your lunch?” Mum asked. I held up the container. “Your timetable?” I held up my phone. “Your keys?” I paused. She raised an eyebrow. “I'm going to get them,” I said. “Thought so.” My brother grinned. “You're not very organised for someone who wants to design buildings.” “Buildings don't need keys.” “They need doors.” “Thank you, Professor.” I found my keys on the little table by the stairs and kissed Mum's cheek before leaving. She reminded me to be careful, and I promised I would, even though I was already halfway out the door. Ashbourne looked different in September. The summer crowds had thinned, the mornings were cooler, and the trees along the main road were beginning to lose the first few leaves. The town centre was waking up slowly: shop shutters rolling open, buses pulling into stops, people hurrying along with coffees in their hands. I liked Ashbourne, even if I sometimes felt I had outgrown it. It was familiar in a way that could be comforting and frustrating at the same time. I knew which bakery sold the best cinnamon rolls, which bus was always late and which streets flooded after heavy rain. I also knew I wanted to study architecture in London one day. That part wasn't a secret. I'd been drawing buildings for as long as I could remember. I liked the idea that someone could look at an empty space and imagine what it might become. My sketchbook was full of windows, staircases, rooftops and buildings that existed only in my head. Some were ridiculous. One had a staircase that would probably get someone killed. But I liked looking at them and imagining a future where I could make something real. Ashbourne High came into view at the end of the road. Students were gathering near the gates, comparing timetables and complaining about the return of early mornings. “Finally!” Imogen's voice carried across the pavement before I even spotted her. She was standing near the entrance, waving one hand above her head. Her hair was neatly done, her eyeliner had apparently survived its earlier crisis, and she looked far too pleased with herself for someone who had to be awake this early. “You look alive,” she said when I reached her. “That's a generous description.” “I was going to say tired, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings.” “Your kindness means everything to me.” She linked her arm through mine as we headed inside. Imogen had been my best friend long enough to know when I was joking and when I was using jokes to avoid answering a question. Unfortunately, she also enjoyed pointing it out. “How was your morning?” she asked. “I lost a shoe.” “How?” “I'm not taking questions at this time.” She laughed. “You know, some people prepare the night before.” “Some people have too much free time.” We checked our timetables and made our way towards the sixth-form corridor. I was starting Year Twelve, which meant more work, more responsibility and the beginning of the part of school everyone kept telling me would determine the rest of my life. No pressure. Imogen was in the same year as me. She had been born in Australia but had grown up in England, and she brought up the fact that she was Australian whenever it suited her. Usually when she wanted to win an argument about the weather. We found our classroom and spent the first few minutes listening to our form tutor explain expectations we had heard at least six times before. I wrote down the important dates and tried not to think about how quickly the year would pass. At break, Imogen and I settled on a bench near the courtyard. She was scrolling through her phone while I opened my sketchbook and added a few lines to a drawing I'd started during the summer. “Are you still working on that building?” she asked. “It's not a building. It's a concept.” “Right. A concept with seventeen windows and no sensible entrance.” “The entrance is there.” “Where?” I pointed to a small gap between two walls. She squinted. “That's a doorway?” “It's an architectural choice.” “It's a fire hazard.” I shut the sketchbook before she could insult it further. She put her phone away. “Theo said he's meeting us after school, by the way.” “Okay.” “And Jayden might be there.” I looked up. “Your favourite person?” “Don't start. Theo is my friend. Jayden is just… Theo's Jayden.” I laughed. “That explains absolutely nothing.” “Jayden Reed,” she said, as if the name should tell me everything. “You've heard me talk about him.” I had. Usually when Imogen was complaining about something Theo had said or done, Jayden's name appeared somewhere in the story. From what I gathered, he was sarcastic, occasionally troublesome and very good at getting under people's skin. I had never had a reason to speak to him. “Is he the one who got detention last term?” I asked. “One of them.” “How many are there?” “Honestly, I don't know. He collects them.” I shook my head and returned to my drawing. “Sounds delightful.” “Don't judge someone you haven't met.” “I'm not judging. I'm making an informed prediction.” The bell rang before she could respond. We packed our things and headed to our next lesson. The morning passed in a blur of introductions, classroom changes and teachers reminding us that we were now expected to behave like responsible young adults. By lunchtime, I was already tired of hearing the phrase your future. After our last lesson, Imogen and I walked towards the courtyard. She was telling me about a message Theo had sent when a burst of laughter drew my attention towards the bike racks. A boy stood with his back close to the railings. Three other students were gathered around him. One had a phone raised, pointed directly at the boy's face. “Go on,” one of them said. “Show us.” The boy shook his head. I slowed down. I couldn't hear everything they were saying, but the boy looked uncomfortable. Before I could decide whether to do something, another student stepped into the group. He was tall, with dark hair and a careless sort of posture. I recognised him from Imogen's description. Jayden Reed. “Is this the welcome committee?” he asked. “Bit embarrassing.” One of the boys turned towards him. “Nobody asked you, Reed.” “Good. I hate being invited to things.” Imogen stopped beside me. “Oh, here we go.” I watched as Jayden spoke to the boy by the railings and gestured towards the main building, as if offering him a way out. The others didn't seem interested in letting him leave. One of them stepped closer, and the boy tried to move away. Then everything happened at once. There was a sudden movement. Jayden shoved the other boy, sending him stumbling backwards into the metal rail. The sound made several people turn. “What the hell?” someone shouted. A teacher hurried across the courtyard. The group separated, and the boy Jayden had approached stood frozen beside the bike racks. I hadn't seen what happened before I looked over. I hadn't heard the whole conversation. All I knew was what was in front of me: Jayden had shoved someone, and now a teacher was demanding to know what had happened. Ms Carter asked a few of us whether we'd seen the incident. I hesitated, then answered honestly. “I saw him push the other boy,” I said, nodding towards Jayden. “I didn't see what happened before that.” She asked if I was sure. “Yes. That's all I saw.” Jayden looked in my direction. His expression was difficult to read, but there was something in it that made me wish I had stayed out of the conversation. He didn't say anything. He was taken towards the office with the other boy, while the rest of us were told to move along. Imogen touched my arm. “Come on.” I looked back once as we walked away. Jayden was speaking to the teacher, his jaw tight and his hands shoved into his pockets. “Do you think he's in trouble?” I asked. Imogen gave me a look. “Probably.” “He did push him.” “I'm not saying he didn't.” I frowned. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” “Because you have that face.” “What face?” “The face you make when you're about to decide you don't like someone.” “I haven't decided anything.” “Sure.” I adjusted the strap of my bag and followed her towards the gates. I didn't know Jayden Reed, and maybe there was more to the situation than I'd seen. But I wasn't going to pretend I hadn't witnessed what I had. Besides, he had looked at me as though I'd personally ruined his day. And I had a feeling he wasn't going to forget it.