I probably should have just worked a bit harder in Spanish class, Robin thought to himself as he dangled.
At worst, he was going to plunge head first into concrete.
At best, Mr Barclay would grab Robin’s legs and drag him inside, and he’d just be in serious trouble for breaking into the office of the strictest teacher in his school …
But something else happened first.
There was a kickabout going on at ground level, and sixteen-year-old Clare Gisborne had just made a clattering tackle. She was the meanest girl in Locksley High and the daughter of Guy Gisborne, the gangster who ran every racket in town.
Clare’s flying Nike crunched the other player’s knee and an elbow made sure he stayed down. After straddling her crumpled opponent, Clare tapped the battered football into open space and eyed a set of goalposts.
The keeper was rubbish and the only defender between Clare and the goal had no appetite to tackle after seeing her demolish his teammate.
But as Clare Gisborne teed up a shot in the top left corner, she noticed the stocky little Year Seven kid hanging over a window ledge two storeys up. And while this would have made any decent person freeze in shock, or yell for help, Clare decided it would be hilarious to boot the ball at him as hard as she could.
In his state of panic, Robin saw the leather ball spin in slow motion, making out every scuff and its owner’s initials in Sharpie ink. If it hit, Robin would plunge down, but the ball whacked the end of the window ledge with a hollow ping, then spun upward, rattling the glass above Robin’s legs.
Clare Gisborne smiled and squinted up into the sun. Tracking the ball as it came down and hoping she could take another shot. But before her foot could connect, Clare got flattened with a hefty two-handed shove.
‘Leave my brother,’ the lad shouted, breathless from a flat-out sprint across the courtyard.
Everyone called Robin’s sixteen-year-old brother Little John. It was an ironic nickname for an absolute giant. But the soccer players gasped because nobody laid hands on Guy Gisborne’s daughter.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Clare roared, as a graze on her cheek filled with blood. ‘My dad will feed you to his pigs if he hears about this.’
Clare didn’t just talk tough. She sprang up on powerful legs and dropped into a boxer’s stance. Little John worried about Robin and was relieved to see Mr Barclay grab his brother’s shorts and yank him inside.
‘Come on, you big lump,’ Clare growled, swooping and giving John a left-right combo in the gut.
Little John backed up, winded, but holding his hands wide to show he wasn’t going to fight back. ‘I’m protecting Robin.’
The stinging graze made Clare angry and she launched a roundhouse kick. But John was fast for a big guy and he dodged, leaving Clare’s leg whooshing though the air before she stumbled sideways, off balance.
Two floors up, Mr Barclay was overwhelmed, dealing with the angry girl he’d brought from the canteen and struggling to process the fact he’d found a kid dangling out of his office window.
He wished he’d trained as an accountant like his brother as he shouted down, ‘Clare Gisborne, John Hood, pack in that nonsense and get out of my sight. Or I will make you both sorry.’
John kept backing away as Clare steadied herself. She shot a nasty glance up at Mr Barclay, then lowered her fists and growled to Little John, ‘I won’t forget this, John Hood.’