Fool's Love

1. How Well Can You Pretend?

My bicycle drifts downhill, the tail of my blazer blowing behind me; the sun hangs proudly in the sky, a fixed ornament overseeing the world and the people scurrying about. I pass many grey-stoned buildings with their gothic arches and thatched roofs. The air is light and warm. Cars honk as they whiz past me, always impatient to overtake slower traffic.

The school gates loom in the distance; wrought iron spears like a gateway to hell. I fly through the parking lot and walk my bicycle through the open gate. I lock my bike onto the stand and mix with the other boys in a homogenous body of grey blazers, black vests, white shirts, and black trousers. The things that differentiate us are our builds and faces. Every face is different-some are sunken, some are proud, and some have crooked noses or split lips. My friend Blake waits on the front steps, arms crossed over his chest.

He's the only guy I get along with-the others think my mother is a whore, and make sure I know it-every bloody second of the day. The whore's boy. Blake isn't like them; he's quiet but pleasant company. He has golden skin and long black hair. He chews on a toothpick as he waves me over. We walk to class together, pass boys wrestling in the hallway for no reason, and pass the exhausted faces of our teachers. You would think they would look refreshed after summer vacation, but they look like they have been dragged through hell and back. Tired lines crease their foreheads.

Blake says, "You know, a friend of mine got into underground dog fights."

"What's that?"

He smiles. "Basically, it's kind of illegal," he whispers next to my ear, "you take a bunch of mutts and put them in a cage, so they fight to the death."

"What if they don't fight?"

"You inject them with drugs, and they go mad. I mean, these dogs are fucking jacked, and when they bite, they rip off blood and draw flesh. Anyhow, the guy that runs it is looking for boys to capture strays. They'll give you forty pounds for a dog. No questions asked." He watches me from the corner of his eye, trying to read my expression.

I keep my face blank. After years of taunting, I have learned to hide my emotions. If you react, they tease you more. Truth be told, I love dogs-I would have had a pet pup by now if my mother didn't hate them vehemently. "I don't know," I say, "I can join an army in a year or two. I can get money then."

"Joining the army is alright but look at how many people died in the last great war. You have to think of some other way to make money. Something with fewer risks."

I grin and grip his shoulder, making him pause in the midst of the hallway. "Fine, I'll look for something else, and when I do, I'll tell you. But trust me, it's not making dogs fight."

"Seven o'clock," he says with a subtle glance over his shoulder.

Earl Dwyer's son, Xavier, walks towards us with his head held high. He has short curly blonde hair and a confident smirk. He's got his two boys on either side of him. On his left was Marcus, the sole black kid in our school-tall, muscular and good at boxing. He and Blake could trade blows for five minutes without getting tired; both were equally matched... for five minutes. After that, Blake's energy levels would quickly fall like the stock market after a batch of bad news.

On Xavier's left is the biggest of the three. Zander. His father is a CEO at the bank of England. He has cropped blonde hair. While Xavier has a chiselled face, Zander's is round and chubby. People clear the hall for them. They are the most influential guys in school. You can cut the tension with a butcher's knife as they pass, and people try to avoid them.

Blake and I get pushed against the lockers. Xavier steps on my toes, crushing them with his steel-toe boots. Pain hammers my flesh as he continues his stride like nothing happened. The three boys greet their friends and acquaintances, smiling and shaking hands like heroes returning from war.