DUST HUNG IN the sunbeams. They were sitting in their usual seats, and Sep was shocked to feel oddness in his solitude, in having found it strange to part with Hadley and the others at the door. He’d never gone to class with anyone, never made plans afterward. There were only ever classes, work, and homework.
He shook his head, felt the invisible barrier settle around him as it always did, and let his mind shift into learning gear.
Mrs. Woodbank was moving around the room. “Anyone?” she said. “I know it’s still early, but come on. You’re not little kids anymore—” She snatched a scrap of paper from an outstretched hand. “Passing notes again, Stephanie? What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait? ‘I defo want to winch him up ASAP.’ What does that even mean?”
“As soon as possible,” said Arkle.
“Not the acronym, you— Just focus, all right? Think, and stop behaving like children.”
Sep looked at the poem. It was the same one they’d been looking at the day before, but its little threads and connections were gone, like his head was an Etch A Sketch shaken to gray blankness by the terror of the previous night. He turned to his notebook and read the words he’d written:
Life. Growth. Change.
He wrote over Change until the letters were thick, shiny dents in the page.
Hadley was watching him again. This time he held her eyes, just for a moment, before looking away.
Long enough to see her smile.
“We did this yesterday,” Mrs. Woodbank was saying. She rubbed her yellowed fingers together, as though asking for money.
Don’t ask me, thought Sep. Ask someone else. Teach them something, for God’s sake. I’ve already got too much to think about.
“September?” said Mrs. Woodbank.
“Septic, Septic, Septic,” chanted the boys.
Sep took a deep breath. “It’s about life, growth, and change.”
“Yes!” she said brightly. “See, class—now we have some themes to go on, and that’s really going to help us unlock this poem. . . .”
Sep eased back in his seat. He could see the puffs of green forest above the town, like mold in a forgotten mug. They would be there soon, the five of them, in the clearing with the box at its heart—cold stone from which Barnaby had climbed after years in the dark.
“There,” said Mrs. Woodbank, writing Sep’s words on the board and drawing a circle around each of them.
“Hey, Lamb,” said Manbat. “What’s with your face? You break your nose or something?”
Mack slapped his arm. Lamb faced forward, saying nothing.
“Hey, Big Bird, did you catch deafness from Septic? I said what’s—”
“Wayne Bruce,” hissed Mrs. Woodbank, “I won’t have talk like that in my classroom!”
“Yeah, shut up, asshole,” said Arkle.
Mrs. Woodbank’s face went pink. “Darren!” she shouted. “Go and stand outside! How dare you use language like that in here!”
“But Manbat was—”
“I don’t care! I will deal with Wayne, not you. There’s no excuse for that kind of behavior!”
“He deserved it, miss,” said Lamb.
“Yeah,” said Mack.
Everyone turned to look at him. It was the first time he’d ever spoken in class.
“Macejewski?” said Mrs. Woodbank. “What’s got into you all today?”
Arkle rose and squeezed along the back row, stepping carefully between chair legs on his way to the door.
“What’s your problem, teeth-boy?” whispered Manbat. “You hot for Big Bird or something?”
Sep saw it coming, but by the time Woodbank had shouted his name, Arkle had already burst Manbat’s nose and raised his fist to strike again. Sep was knocked over in the rush to gather around, and by the time order was restored, a gray-faced Mr. Tench had arrived.
The room smelled of adrenaline, and Sep’s heart was thumping. Hadley had come to stand next to him, and he moved closer to her.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
She nodded, then backed away as Arkle made another attempt to break free.
“Nice going, dickhead,” said Manbat, his quiff askew, nose bleeding over his lips. “We’ll get suspended for this!”
“Good,” said Arkle, his eyes wild.
But Tench had not so much as looked at them since entering the room. He spoke to Mrs. Woodbank in a quick whisper before leaving with Arkle in tow, catching Sep’s eye briefly on his way to the door.
Sep looked at Hadley, who was holding her head as though she might pass out—then at Lamb, who nodded.
Something was very wrong.
Back at his desk, Sep looked outside.
The town was bright and normal, but the woodland that tumbled toward it seemed to have grown, like a muscle flexed in anger.
“Right,” said Mrs. Woodbank once they’d all returned to their seats and Manbat had been taken to the nurse. “Let’s move on to something else, shall we? Macejewski, could you please open the windows? It’s gotten a little tense this morning, so let’s try to clear the air.”
Sep could see she was worried by whatever Tench had said. Her eyes kept flicking toward the door.
“Hamlet,” she said, dropping a pile of yellow books onto the front desk, their spines torn and broken, a few still covered in wallpaper and gift wrap. “I think we might have had enough of poetry for now. So here we are—a procrastinating, self-involved youth with daddy issues. Would anyone like to volunteer to read a part? September?”
“Pardon, miss?” said Sep.
“Would you like to read a part?”
“No, thank you, miss.”
She scowled at him. “Yes, thank you—you can be our Hamlet, and perhaps . . .”
Sep switched off while she handed out the other parts, his book closed in front of him, and watched the waggle of Hadley’s pen as she drew on the desk.
“We’re starting with Miss Lambert and Mr. Ashton as Bernardo and Francisco then,” said Woodbank, looking at the door again and fidgeting. “Miss Lambert, if you could read the stage directions, too, thank you, and try to enunciate, people—nothing spoils the Bard more than a surly teenage monotone.”
Lamb sighed, then ran her finger down the page to the start of the text.
Sep watched her brows knot in concentration. The room had grown warmer since the fight, even with the windows open. His skin crept with the heat.
And the pain was swelling in his bad tooth.
He turned to Hadley. She was already looking at him, her eyes wide with terror.
There was something in the classroom.
Everyone felt it, Sep realized—the smush of chatter had pitched a key higher, and he looked in panic for a sign of Barnaby.
Lamb caught his eye. He nodded, and she bit her lips.
“Now, please, Miss Lambert,” said Mrs. Woodbank.
Lamb sighed. “I saw him again today,” she read in a surly monotone. “He’s so handsome. I watched him finish training, but he didn’t see me—”
Sep’s head exploded—his ear and mouth alight with pain, his guts seizing tight as he realized what was happening, his jaw shut in agony.
“What are you reading?” said Mrs. Woodbank, pulling her focus from the classroom door. “Has someone graffitied that book? Read the actual play, come on.”
Lamb screwed up her face and turned the page to check what was there. The rest of the class did likewise, and Sep forced his head to turn toward Hadley. Her eyes were brimming with tears.
“But he didn’t see me,” Lamb carried on. “So I watched him gather in the little cones. I think his eyes—”
“Stop,” Sep managed between his locked teeth.
“And when I got home, I thought about him again, and imagined his arms closing around me. I really think I love him, diary. I do. I love Mack! And—oh—”
“Hadley!” shouted Sep as she ran from the room. “Hadley! Wait!”
“Oh shit,” said Lamb.
“What the hell is going on?” said Mrs. Woodbank, grabbing Lamb’s copy. “What are you reading?”
She flicked through the book, took in the spidery writing and the misspelled words.
“What the hell is going on?” she said again as the door slammed behind Sep and the class erupted in cruel, braying laughter.