Chapter Text
For the record, I did not intend for anything unusual to happen on Monday.
I understand that this is the sort of sentence people say immediately before describing something unusual happening on a Monday, but that is coincidence and should not be treated as evidence.
My alarm went off at 6:45 a.m.
I know this because I checked.
Twice.
The first time because I was tired.
The second time because my mother shouted, “ALEX, ARE YOU ACTUALLY AWAKE?” from downstairs in a tone that implied previous incidents.
Those incidents are not relevant.
I got dressed in school uniform, brushed my teeth, packed my bag, and went downstairs at approximately 7:12 a.m.
Nothing was on fire.
This is important only because our toaster has history.
Mum was standing by the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other.
“You’re up early,” she said.
“I’m up at the same time every school day.”
“You were still asleep at seven last Thursday.”
“Last Thursday was not a school day.”
“It was.”
I stopped halfway to the cereal cupboard.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
I checked my phone.
Thursday had, in fact, been a school day.
This is not relevant either.
“I was ill,” I said.
“You told me you were ‘emotionally incompatible with Thursday.’”
“That sounds medically significant.”
“It wasn’t.”
I poured cereal into a bowl.
There were no insects in it.
Again, nobody had asked, but the previous box had been open for an amount of time I personally considered suspicious.
Mum watched me eat for about thirty seconds before saying, “You know, most people don’t inspect every spoonful before putting it in their mouth.”
“Most people have faith.”
“In cereal?”
“In infrastructure.”
She sighed.
This was unfair. I had not yet done anything sigh-worthy.
At 7:39, we left the house.
Mum drove me to school in her car, which she owns, has insured, and—as far as I am aware—has never been used in connection with a crime.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
“What thing?”
“The face.”
“I have one face.”
“The one where you look like you’re preparing a statement.”
“I always look like this.”
“You absolutely do not.”
I looked out the window.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand why people think I’m overly specific.
Jamie says I speak like a solicitor who has just been handed a teenager’s body and told to improvise.
Maya says I speak like I’m “pre-emptively denying allegations no one has made.”
Theo says I speak like I buried someone under the football pitch.
Theo is why I no longer tell people things.
We arrived at school at 8:17.
I got out of the car.
Mum wound down the window.
“Try to have a normal day.”
“I always have normal days.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
“Alex.”
“That one incident was not my fault.”
“I didn’t mention an incident.”
“Exactly.”
She drove away.
I entered school through the main entrance, which students are legally permitted to use between 8:00 and 8:40 unless told otherwise.
Mr Bennett, one of the deputy heads, was standing by reception.
“Morning, Alex.”
“Morning.”
He looked at my bag.
I looked at him looking at my bag.
He looked back at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked at my bag.”
“I look at lots of bags.”
“Why?”
“Because I have eyes.”
That felt unnecessarily defensive for a man with absolutely nothing to hide.
I walked away.
Jamie was waiting by the lockers with his tie already halfway undone.
It was 8:21.
School had not even started.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I am nineteen minutes early.”
“You’re late for me.”
“That is not a recognised attendance category.”
“It should be.”
Jamie shoved his phone into my face.
There was a photo on the screen of a wall.
More specifically, a wall in the science corridor.
More specifically still, a wall with the words MR WILSON EATS GLUE written across it in black marker.
I stared at the image.
Then at Jamie.
Then back at the image.
“I didn’t do that.”
“I know.”
“I have never seen that wall before.”
“You have chemistry there every Wednesday.”
“I have seen the wall. I have not seen the writing.”
“I know.”
“I do not know whether Mr Wilson eats glue.”
“I know.”
“I have never personally witnessed—”
“Alex.”
“What?”
“I literally just thought it was funny.”
“Oh.”
Jamie stared at me.
I stared at him.
“Do you know whether he eats glue?” I asked.
Jamie grinned.
“Not yet.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You said ‘not yet.’”
“That could mean anything.”
“It never means anything good when you say it.”
“That hurts.”
“It should.”
Maya appeared beside us carrying three folders, two textbooks, and the expression of someone already disappointed in the school day.
“What are we looking at?”
Jamie showed her the photo.
Maya closed her eyes.
“Wonderful.”
“You sound like you know something,” I said.
“I know that Mrs Patel found it at seven thirty this morning and has already emailed pastoral.”
“How do you know that?”
“Student council group chat.”
“Why does student council know about corridor graffiti?”
“Because nobody in this school understands appropriate information boundaries.”
“That is fair.”
“Also,” Maya added, “Mr Wilson is furious.”
Jamie brightened.
“Does he deny eating glue?”
“He has not released a statement.”
“Coward.”
I started walking towards registration.
Jamie followed.
Maya followed Jamie.
This is how most of our decisions happen.
Not through planning.
Through momentum.
Our form room was on the first floor, next to English.
At 8:28, we entered.
At that time, the following things were true:
Mrs Parker was at her desk.
Theo was balancing a ruler on his upper lip.
Ruby was reading.
Two Year Elevens were arguing in the corridor about whether a chicken nugget counted as one chicken nugget if it broke in half.
Nobody was injured.
Nothing was missing.
No alarms were sounding.
No doors were locked.
And I was not in possession of any school property that had not been legally issued to me.
That last point will become important later.
“Mercer,” Mrs Parker said.
I stopped.
“Yes?”
“Why are you standing in the doorway?”
I looked down.
I was, in fact, standing in the doorway.
“No reason.”
“Sit down.”
I sat beside Jamie.
Theo leaned across the aisle.
“Alex.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“Experience.”
“Do you have twenty pence?”
I paused.
“What for?”
“The vending machine.”
“At eight twenty-nine in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“What are you buying?”
“Water.”
“You brought water.”
“I drank it.”
“The entire bottle?”
“Yes.”
“In twenty-nine minutes?”
“I get thirsty.”
I looked at him.
Theo looked at me.
Jamie whispered, “Interrogate him harder.”
“I am not interrogating him.”
“You asked six questions.”
“That is conversation.”
“That is custody.”
I gave Theo twenty pence.
This was a mistake, but not for the reasons that might later be suggested.
Registration was uneventful.
This statement is technically accurate if you exclude Theo dropping a metal water bottle, Jamie telling Mrs Parker his homework had “entered the private sector,” and someone setting off a singing birthday card in their blazer pocket during announcements.
At 8:44, Mrs Parker finished the register.
At 8:46, she said, “One more thing before you go.”
Everyone groaned.
Teachers often announce “one more thing” as though it will not become four more things.
“There has been some vandalism in the science corridor.”
Jamie looked at me.
I looked at the board.
I did not look back.
“If anyone knows anything about it, please speak to a member of staff.”
Theo raised his hand.
Mrs Parker visibly regretted acknowledging him.
“Yes, Theo?”
“Does it count as vandalism if it’s true?”
The room went silent.
Jamie folded over his desk.
Mrs Parker closed her eyes.
“Theo.”
“I’m just asking generally.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t know anything about Mr Wilson’s dietary habits.”
I turned slowly towards Jamie.
He was shaking with silent laughter.
Maya had both hands over her face.
Ruby lowered her book.
Mrs Parker said, “Everyone out.”
We left.
At 8:51, while walking to maths, Jamie said, “You look stressed.”
“I am not stressed.”
“You’re doing the jaw thing.”
“I don’t have a jaw thing.”
“You absolutely have a jaw thing.”
“It is a normal jaw.”
“It looks like you’re trying not to confess.”
“I have nothing to confess.”
“Exactly what someone with something to confess would say.”
“Jamie.”
“Relax. Worst thing that happens today is Wilson interrogates Theo about glue.”
I stopped walking.
Jamie took another two steps before realising and turning around.
“What?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“‘Worst thing that happens today.’”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because that is how you summon consequences.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You said that before the PE shed incident.”
“That was different.”
“The ceiling collapsed.”
“Not because of me.”
“I never said it was.”
“Good.”
“You just defended yourself.”
“You were implying it.”
“I was not.”
We reached maths at 8:56.
Mr Harris was unlocking the classroom.
Or attempting to.
The key went into the lock.
He turned it.
Nothing happened.
He frowned.
Tried again.
Nothing.
Students began gathering behind him.
Theo arrived.
“Oh,” he said. “Cool. We’re free.”
“No, you’re not,” said Mr Harris.
“You can’t prove that.”
“I teach you.”
“Allegedly.”
Mr Harris tried the key a third time.
Still nothing.
Maya said, “Is it jammed?”
“Looks like it.”
Jamie leaned towards me.
“Secret tunnel.”
“There is no secret tunnel.”
“You don’t know that.”
“This is a maths classroom.”
“Exactly where they’d put one.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The tunnel people.”
“There are no tunnel people.”
“You seem very certain.”
“Because I possess basic reasoning skills.”
At 9:01, Mr Harris gave up on the door.
He stepped back.
“This is strange.”
That is the moment I should have been more concerned.
I was not.
I was thinking about whether we were going to be moved to another classroom.
Then Mr Harris looked through the narrow glass panel in the door.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He leaned closer.
“What?” Maya asked.
Mr Harris didn’t answer.
Jamie immediately stopped smiling.
Theo said, “Sir?”
Mr Harris reached for his radio.
Nobody spoke.
He pressed the button.
“Can I get site staff to Room 14, please?”
A pause.
Then:
“And Mr Bennett.”
There was another pause.
“Now, please.”
Everyone started talking at once.
I did not.
Because through the little glass panel, from where I was standing, I could see part of the classroom.
The desks looked normal.
The board looked normal.
The windows were shut.
But one of the teacher cupboards at the back of the room was wide open.
And there was something on the floor beside it.
Something square.
Black.
Plastic.
Jamie whispered, “Is that a laptop?”
I looked at him.
Then at the door.
Then at Mr Harris.
For the record, at 9:03 a.m. on Monday morning, I had never entered Room 14 outside of scheduled lessons.
I had never touched the teacher cupboard.
I had never been given a key to the room.
I did not know why the door was locked.
And I had absolutely no idea why, when Mr Bennett arrived and looked through the glass, the first thing he did was turn around and look directly at me.