Paula Hillman, author

Chapter one: Stevie, 2017.

There is the patter of rain against glass, a pewter afternoon. My work weighs on me like the taste of a hated food. I want to spit it out. Then the classroom door flies open. Short and seething, there she stands. Head of all she surveys, my boss.

           ‘You’ll have to have him.’

           Why me?

 I look up from my marking stack, say nothing, rub one hand across the back of my neck.

          ‘No one else wants him.’

She pushes her way into my classroom, quiet now with my class in the sports hall, practicing hockey skills.

           ‘Get in here.’ The words are thrown over her shoulder, like a toddler throwing gravel, and a boy appears, face to the floor, fists clenched by his side. ‘Stevie. In.’

           ‘What’s happened?’ I mouth. But Stevie is quicker.

           ‘Never done nowt.’ The words fire out with an angry force. His lips twist up at one side. An attempt at sarcasm, and one I will come to know well. It serves to highlight his scar. Puckered flesh on a baby soft cheek; cherubic.

           ‘Sit there,’ I say, pointing to the desk in front of mine. He yanks out the chair and throws himself down, sprawling very deliberately, eyeing me sideways.

           My boss paces back across the room, towards the door. ‘And I’m telling you now, young man.’ That cutting voice, knife edged. ‘I won’t be having you in my school if there is one more incident. I’m going to telephone your mam.’

           Stevie and I, we listen. The click-clack of heels fading, then silence.

I press my lips together, the teacher mouth, then arch one eyebrow. Stevie has found a ruler and starts to slap it up and down against the edge of my desk.

           I scout around for my gentle voice. ‘What was it this time?’

           Stevie blows out a loud breath, bottom lip red and pouty. ‘Hate science, that’s all. S’boring.’

           ‘So you’ve been chucked out for hating science. I doubt that.’

He mumbles something about dog-chews.

           ‘Pardon?’ I say.

           ‘Supposed to be a teacher an’ you’re fucking deaf,’ he yells, snapping his eyes to mine. His are big and blue, andrimmed with tears. My lips twitch. I can’t help it. I smile. Something flickers across his lips. Is he returning the smile? I doubt it, but there is something.

           I take a punt. ‘Someone called you a dog-chew? What did you do?’

His eyes are lowered again, but if it’s possible to hear thoughts, I hear the whirring of hundreds. The only thing visible is a practiced tension in his shoulders.

           ‘Stevie. I doubt you did nothing.’

           ‘Threw his experiment on the floor and smashed it.’

That word is so loaded. Nice kids do experiments. Kids that want to learn. Kids that care about school. He is none of those things. He is bitter. At ten years old, he has the bitterness of a disappointed adult.  I don’t react.

           ‘Oh well,’ I say. ‘You sit there, and I’ll carry on with my marking. Then you’ll know what boring is.’

           I slide the top book from the pile and unclick my pen lid. It’s an act. I pretend to focus on the marking, and I let time pass. The rain continues to fall, causing silvery streaks down the window. Stevie continues with the ruler-slapping.

           Eventually he says, ‘Who sits here?’ A different voice, friendly. Interested.

           I look up. ‘Why?’

           His shoulder lifts. ‘Dunno? Is it that Lewis kid?’

           ‘No. He used to sit there. But I’ve moved him now.’

           ‘Why?’

           ‘He kept humming and it annoyed me.’

We lock eyes again. I’m not sure what game I’m playing. That’s part of the job. Every day is the long game. We both look at the door as it opens again. The boss is back.

           ‘Your mam is coming to collect you.’ She is calmer now, stern. I think I hear him mutter bitch under his breath. He flings back the chair and strides across the room.

           ‘Stevie,’ I call after him. He doesn’t turn around. ‘See you tomorrow.’

She winks at me then follows him. With a sigh, I pick up my pen and begin again.

           And that is the start of my two-year relationship with this boy. He doesn’t care about spelling mistakes, doesn’t care about anything much. I have been told that his teacher has refused to work with him anymore, told that I have an easy class and can accommodate him, that I’m good with kids like him. It’s a stranglehold, a killer compliment, but one that I must accept graciously. I am the deputy-head, after all- a mop-up role, if ever there was one. On the following day, Stevie joins my class, a year early, and stays with me until his final day.

           ‘What’s he doing in here?’ my class ask the next morning, with collective courage. They crane to look as they pack away coats and bags and plimsols.

           ‘How long’s he staying?’

           Eyes wide, they gasp. Does he have to do year six twice? The very thought.

 I use fogging– they’re only ten, they take me at my absolute word.

           ‘He’s done all the year five work,’ I tell them. ‘Too clever to stay in his class now.’ They nod wisely. Of course, that must be it. Let’s be kind.

           But Stevie breaks their hearts. And not in a good way. In a brutal, you are nothing kind of way. Susie is the first to offer a raft of befriending, she will be his partner for reading, and sit with him during lunch. He casually accepts her kindness, then turns it back on her, using Snapchat to expose her weaknesses. Robbie- disabled himself- tries to include him in playground sports and games. He is rewarded with merciless Snapchat trolling: hateful references to his withered arm, and other things that have been shared earlier in a bid for solidarity. These kids. Everything with meaning and pain for them happens behind a glass screen.

           So, time passes, and I make sure Stevie doesn’t disrupt one single beautiful aspect of our classroom life. We have great daytimes. But he gets to his new classmates in the evenings. He has free and unfettered access to The Internet, and boy, does he use it. But when every child in the class and beyond, blocks him, he has nowhere to go. We have him trapped, and there is an uneasy wait, wondering what his next move will be.

           One lunchtime, when I sit with Stevie while he picks his free school lunch to pieces, he turns his brittle blue gaze on me.

           ‘Why don’t you have any lunch?’ he asks. ‘You on a diet?’ The smallest trace of a snigger.

I don’t always have time to second-guess where he’s taking things, don’t always care. But I decide to play a game.

           ‘Everyone is on a diet, if you think about it,’ is my reply.

He crumbles his shortcake into small, sandy pieces. Thinking. I can tell.

           ‘Even Lelly Jameson.’ He laughs to himself. I have noticed that he does laugh sometimes, but it is not with unbridled joy, as it should be when you are ten. Instead, it is a rumble in his chest while his eyes look inwards. It’s a private joke at someone’s expense. I’ve heard he searches out crass things on the internet for his own entertainment.

           ‘Diet just means your food,’ I point out, boredom in my tone. I never let Stevie shock me, or rattle me in any way. I act my way through my time with him. This will be my Oscar year, my husband says.

Stevie will never say, ‘Thankyou for staying in the classroom with me at lunchtime.’ Or, ‘Thanks for fighting my corner.’ Or even, ‘Thanks for getting me through my SATs exams with good grades.’ He will never thank anyone. The world is something he loathes. But we have government ministers that think boys like him will change if they can clutch a bunch of exam certificates in their brash little hands. They think GCSE’s will be the making of Stevie, but they won’t.

           ‘You’ve always got cocky answers,’ he says. ‘Should eat lunch, then you wouldn’t be so narky all afternoon.’ Then he picks up his plastic jail-tray and heads towards the classroom door. ‘And I’m going outside.’

           Across the first year, I devote at least half of my teacher brain to him. The other children have to share the crumbs of me. We somehow make it to the end, with the fun and heartache unchanged. But that isn’t the end of Stevie and me. We have another full year to get through, this time with the class that ostrised him originally. The grudges persist.

           I start to feel proud that nobody else in the school can handle him; for me he becomes a nipping puppy, when all they see is a slavering rottweiler. But it takes its toll. I spend every weekend catching up. Stevie still has his moments, and his anger can come for me in unexpected ways.

           Then, snapping at the heels of every year six child, comes the secondary schooling system. They don’t want kids like Stevie. He’s too labour intensive.

           ‘He’ll need mentoring,’ I explain, on one of the early visits. When eleven-year-olds like him are picked out and found wanting. ‘He’s vulnerable.’

Secondary teachers always look smart. They wear suits, with clean collars and bright lanyards, telling everyone of their status.

           ‘Vulnerable or not. He won’t behave like that in our school,’ says one.

           ‘Or he’ll be out,’ snaps the other. What does she know, is implied.

           ‘Come and meet him,’ I suggest. A flash of fear across both faces. But they agree.

           Stevie’s uniform isn’t particularly clean, but he has such a sweet baby-face. I watch while they talk to him, ask him what he likes to do, talk about family. I know him so well by this point, I know what he’ll be thinking. He says very little; they think he’s shy.

           ‘He seems a lovely lad,’ is their assessment of him. Okay. What sways it for them? The long eyelashes? The submissive stance?

           That’s dumb insolence, I want to scream, he’s thinking of sick.

           In early summer, Stevie goes to his new school for two days of transition work.

Freedom, I think. But no. I get a phone call. Can someone come and collect him? It isn’t even lunchtime on the first day. I’ve barely started on the two years of backed-up tasks I planned to squeeze into these days. Wearily, I drive the two miles up to this new school, though I doubt they’ll take him now.

           He is sitting in the reception area, cheeks bright red and his school jumper around his waist. He scowls at the receptionist as I lead him away.

           ‘Well Stevie,’ I say, ‘you get to ride in my car finally. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’

I point my key at the lock and click the doors open.

       ‘S’only a fucking Fiesta,’ he snarls. ‘Could have got a better car.’

           I laugh. ‘Get in. It’s a go-faster Fiesta actually. Better put your seat belt on.’

He scrambles into the back seat. Despite his bravado, I know he doesn’t come from a family that has access to cars. He doesn’t even come from a family. They are a set of people- mother, siblings, inappropriate visitors- that happen to find themselves in a house together. There is no interaction, no mealtimes, sharing, family occasions or rows. Just a scathing rubbing together of their lives. A Staffordshire bull terrier chewed at Stevie’s cheek when he was five-years-old. Not a family pet. A dog that was roaming free on the estate where Stevie lives. He too was roaming free at the time. Mam never did get round to taking him for plastic surgery.

           ‘Why did they ‘phone me Stevie?’ I ask, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘What did you do? And don’t say nowt. We’ve talked about honesty.’

           ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he replies, ice cold.

           ‘That again,’ I sigh. ‘Boring.’

           I hear him laugh. ‘Hate that school anyway. That guy. The headteacher. Looks like a bulldog.’

           ‘Where else are you going to go? And anyway, your mates are all going there.’

           ‘Don’t have any mates.’

           God, I’m so weary of these conversations.

          ‘You do. You know you do. That lad you hang around with at night? The one who goes to the catholic school? Aiden? Aarron?’

           ‘He only comes to my house to use the internet,’ says Stevie. Then, ‘How old’s this car?’

We’re pulling into the school carpark. I glance at him. He’s leaning forward, staring through the window.

           ‘She gonna have a go at me again?’

           ‘Yep.’

           ‘What will I say?’

Stevie? Asking for help? This is something new. He must be worried.

           ‘The truth would be a good start.’

           He interrupts. ‘You always say that. So I just tell her I hit a kid from Our Lady’s because he called me a dosser? Doubt it.’

           ‘Well, you’d better think of something, because she’s there. Waiting. I can see her.’

I park the car and walk with him to the front entrance of the school. He is accosted as soon as his foot connects with the carpet in the reception area.

           ‘Get in my office. Now.’ She shoots a glance across the top of his head. A roll of the eyes signals that I am as much to blame. More of her valuable time taken up with a kid that has been written off.

I watch as he shuffles away.