Chapter Text
Charlie's POV:
The art room always smells like paint and dust and something warm underneath it all— paper, maybe, or the faint memory of clay that never quite leaves the air.
Mr Ajayi has decorated it for autumn— paper leaves taped along the windows and radiators, overlapping in oranges and reds and yellows that glow in the late afternoon light.
He’s arranged them to look like they’re falling, soft and intentional, like he wanted the room to feel kind.
Outside, the sky is already turning that soft, overcast grey that feels uniquely British.
It’s not raining yet, but it smells like it’s about to. The kind of weather that presses in on your shoulders, gently but insistently, as if reminding you that things are changing whether you’re ready or not.
We’ve pushed two tables together in the middle of the room.
There’s cardboard spread across them, along with pots of paint, brushes in various states of distress, scissors, glue, and a half-open multipack of crisps. Salt and vinegar. Cheese and onion. Ready salted left untouched, as usual.
This is what being Head Boy looks like, apparently.
“Well,” Tao says, crunching loudly. “Can’t believe my best friend is Head Boy now.”
I wince a little at the word boy, even though I know what he means. It still sounds too big for me. Like a jumper I haven’t grown into yet.
Elle’s technically not even at Truham anymore— Higgs suits her better— but when it comes to arts and crafts, everyone knows you don’t do this without her. She’s basically a professional.
And she asked to be here. She didn’t have to explain. We know why. She gets it.
“I can,” Elle says easily, leaning back on her chair. She’s got paint on her fingers already— burnt orange— and it suits her. “You’ve always noticed things. The quiet stuff. You just decided not to ignore it anymore.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s not reassuring,” I mutter, dipping my brush into a pot of deep red.
Isaac doesn’t look up from where he’s carefully lettering the front of the box in neat, precise strokes. Suggestions & Concerns, it says so far. He pauses, considers, then adds Anonymous underneath, smaller, but deliberate.
“That’s because you’re thinking of it like a role,” he says. “But it’s not who you’ve always been. It’s who you decided to be.”
I swallow.
The box itself is solid cardboard, reinforced at the edges with extra layers so it doesn’t collapse the first time someone drops something heavier than a scrap of paper inside.
We’ve cut a slot into the lid— narrow enough that you can’t see in, wide enough for folded notes.
Elle insisted we sand the edges so no one gets a paper cut, which feels both excessive and very on brand.
I paint carefully, trying not to drip. My hands are steadier than I expect them to be.
The idea is simple. A suggestion box.
Somewhere students can put notes if they want to report bullying, or point out issues with school culture, or suggest improvements— without having to walk up to a teacher’s desk and say it out loud.
Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.
Somewhere that isn’t a corridor full of eyes.
“It’s a good idea,” Tao says, softer now. “Genuinely. Even if no one uses it at first.”
“They will,” Elle says. “Eventually.”
I hope she’s right.
“Besides,” Tao adds, smirking again. “If anyone tries to mess with it, they answer to all of us.”
He cracks his knuckles dramatically. I snort despite myself.
“I appreciate the threat of violence,” I say. “Very Head Boy of me.”
“You’re welcome.”
We work in companionable silence for a bit. The sky outside darkens another shade.
Somewhere down the corridor, a door slams. The school feels emptier after lessons end— like it exhales.
Eventually, Tao breaks it.
“Okay,” he says. “We should probably talk about the elephant in the room.”
I already know what he’s going to say. My stomach tightens anyway.
“The rugby team,” Isaac says, quietly.
There it is.
I don’t stop painting, but my chest feels too tight, like I’ve inhaled too sharply and forgotten how to breathe back out.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
Elle watches me carefully, her expression open but serious. “You don’t have to fix everything at once, Charlie.”
“I know that too,” I say, which is true. Intellectually. Emotionally, it feels less solid.
Tao shrugs. “It’s just… historically, most of the bullying has come from there. Not all of it. But enough.”
My brush hesitates. Red bleeds into orange at the edge of the box.
“I can’t just… barge into their changing rooms and tell them off, can I?” I say, half-joking, half-horrified by the mental image.
“Please don’t,” Elle says. “I don’t think that would go well.”
I huff out a laugh, then fall quiet again.
Years ago, the rugby corridor was a place I avoided at all costs.
Years ago, certain voices echoing down tiled hallways could make my hands shake.
It’s different now— it has been for a while— but the memory still sits somewhere deep in my body, like a bruise you don’t notice until someone presses on it.
“At least we don’t have to worry about Harry Greene anymore,” Tao says, mercifully changing direction. “Think he’s getting old and grey to continue bullying people?”
Isaac snorts. “He’s seventeen.”
“Exactly,” Tao says. “Practically ancient.”
“Maybe dating Grace is changing him for the better,” Elle says thoughtfully. “Or maybe he’s just bored.”
“Either way—” I say, finishing a careful line along the edge of the slot, “—there are others. And it’s not always obvious. That’s kind of the point.”
The room goes quiet again.
The door opens with a familiar creak, and Mr Ajayi steps in, shrugging into his coat. He pauses when he sees us, eyes lighting up.
“Oh,” he says. “This looks… constructive.”
“Hi, sir,” we chorus.
His gaze flicks briefly to Elle— a small nod of recognition, like her presence needs no explanation— before he walks over to inspect the box with a fond, critical eye.
“I like the colours. Very seasonal.” Then, with mock sternness, “Just make sure you don’t leave any stray crisps behind. The cleaners will complain. Again.”
“Noted,” Tao says solemnly, saluting with a crisp.
Mr Ajayi smiles, shakes his head, and moves to gather his things. As he leaves, Mr Farouk appears in the doorway, arms crossed.
He takes in the scene in one glance.
“What is this,” he asks, voice clipped but not unkind, “A craft club?”
I freeze.
“It’s a suggestion box,” I say quickly. “For students. To raise concerns.”
Mr Farouk hums, stepping fully into the room. He looks at me directly.
“If you have dramas—” he says, “—you come and tell me, Charlie.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. I really do.
He studies me for a second longer, then nods. “Good. Clean up before you go.”
When he leaves, the tension drains from my shoulders all at once.
Isaac clears his throat. “So.”
I look up.
“He’s the captain of the rugby team now, isn’t he?” Isaac says.
Silence drops over the table like a held breath.
“Yeah,” I say. The word feels small.
I’ve noticed him around, of course. It’s impossible not to. He’s tall, and loud in a way that fills space without trying. He laughs easily. He moves through the corridors like he belongs there.
“He’s just so…” I trail off, not sure what I’m even about to say.
“Tough?” Tao offers.
“Laddish?” Elle adds.
“Handsome?” Isaac finishes, grinning.
Heat floods my face. “That’s not—” I start, then stop. My voice doesn’t cooperate.
Elle and Isaac exchange a look.
“Charlie,” Elle says gently, “You cannot have a straight boy crush on Nick Nelson.”
“I know,” I say too quickly. “I won’t. I don’t even know him. He’s clearly straight. I’m just—”
I gesture vaguely at the box. At the paint. At the responsibility sitting heavy in my chest. “I’ll just,” I say. “Have to figure out a way to talk to him.”
Isaac pauses, brush hovering mid-air. “You know he’s actually… decent, right?”
I look up. “What?”
“Nick Nelson,” he says, carefully. “From what I’ve heard.”
Something sharp twists low in my stomach.
Because that’s worse.
Because decent means complicated.
Because it means this won’t stay theoretical— or distant— or safely symbolic.
Somewhere down the corridor, laughter breaks out. Loud. Unselfconscious. Familiar in a way that makes my shoulders tense without permission.
Tao grimaces. “That’ll be rugby.”
I don’t move.
I don’t need to see them to know.
The sound follows me as we pack away the paint, as I wipe my hands on a paper towel streaked orange and red, as I close the lid of the suggestion box— still tacky, still unfinished.
Outside, the rain comes down harder now, drumming against the windows like insistence.
I look at the box and realise I’ve built something I don’t know how to contain.
I tell myself it’s just leadership.
I tell myself I’m ready.
I’m lying to myself about at least one of those things.