Sat in a school toilet, the lid down and his lunch in his lap, this year 11 student was a sad sight. Every day, as soon as that bell rang, he rushed down the hall, took two lefts and a right and seized the largest bathroom possible. How strange the students thought when noticing the out-of-order sign that appeared during lunch breaks and disappeared afterwards.

On that particular day, the sun fighting through the clouds, Apateu promised himself that sixth form would be different.

It had to be.

He walked to the new sixth-form building that united the five towns, its architecture clearly inspired by the faraway cities and funded by the adjacent transport hubs. The council seemed shocked to discover that Amazon and Nike had an interest in supporting the local communities.

 “Crazy how helpful the corporations become when the council provides tax discounts and grants,” his father said as his fingers pointed at the tallest building in their town. “One weird building and they save millions in tax? A theft, an actual theft!”

Apateu was apathetic about the matter; a hopeful boy with a fresh start has little time for politics. He had friends to make.

First lesson: English Lit, class A and 24 new faces. He sat at the front, adopting a new attitude with the hope of achieving friendship.

Yet, as the class ended, he left alone.

“It was progress,” he told himself as he reflected on how everyone avoided him and sat in other rows. 

Second Lesson: Maths, Class C, 17 new faces and two from English. He paused, watched as everyone in this class sat with a space between them and felt slightly better. “Maybe I’m not the problem.” He kept up the bravado and sat at the front, this time daring to sit next to someone: a girl with white dyed hair and a copy of Dune by Frank Herbert on her desk.

His eyes kept glancing at that book cover, a massive sandworm consuming the page.

“Careful, a stare too long might bring it to life,” she whispered without looking away from the calculations on the board. “I’m Jessica and you might want to note down this formula in your book.”

He realised why he found her book weird: it was all that she brought to class. No notepad. No pen.

Apateu had multiple folders, academic books, and a collection of coloured pencils, which were so vast and so ample that he had four shades of red.

“Where is your notebook?” he blurted out and he cringed as he heard himself; he sounded like those nerdy kids on TV who would correct people’s grammar unprompted.

The teacher noticed: “Mr Manobal, please worry about your own textbook and not Miss Yenson’s equipment – thank you.”

His first day and the year was already ruined. Word would spread fast as the deep appetite for gossip formed friendships; today, many would feast on Apateu’s reputation to fuel their own.

“Mr Yenson,” someone said, interrupting Apateu’s anxiety-filled thoughts. “Why do we format the first section in that way?”

‘Mr Yenson’?

 He never heard the answer to the question as he glanced between his white-haired classmate and the teacher.

They look alike.

Same nose?

They look alike.

Same facial structure?

They look alike.

No notepad.

Bingo! She doesn’t need a notepad because her dad, Mr Yenson, has already taught her this formula.

This time, however, he kept his thoughts to himself; something about shouting out ‘That’s your dad’ seemed ruinous for his already tattered reputation.

Once again, he left this classroom alone but to the tune of snickers and whispers.

Third Lesson: Drama; Feeling? Regretful. A class of 25 new faces and the white-haired girl.

They had to form pairs and pick a song to transform into a play and while he wanted to dash from the room, escape school and cry into his pillow, he acquiesced to the unreasonable demands and scouted the room for options.

These were definitely drama students: bubbly, talkative and direct. Groups formed swiftly and only two remained.

They stared at each other as the room erupted into conversation and name exchanges.

“A stare too long might bring it to life,” he repeated in his head. His fear grew into terror.

On the brink of wetting his pants, she mouthed, “Come over” and he shuffled to the other side.

“You never told me your name,” she said, her neutral tone throwing him into a panic as she looked directly into his eyes. Her pupils were brown like her skin and had a tint of a golden hue. It reminded him of the Goddess of fortune and how her favour would determine your quality of life.

Confidence! He had to be confident! He needed a friend or at least an ally here.

“A-apateu.” 

The stutter was new, but he had at least completed the first stage of making friends: the name exchange.

She nodded.

Silence.

“How are you, Jessica?” He asked, a weird question considering that they had spent time together already in a class and just had the most awkward introduction ever.

“I thought so,” she smiled while tying up her hair and stretching her arms. “I was worried you were a teacher’s pet type who enjoyed getting other students into trouble or something.”

She analysed him, softly this time. “Now I realise you are just shy.”

Lunch-time (2hrs): the location is a strangely out-of-order bathroom. 

A ham sandwich in his lap, Apateu sat between sinks, the sun tanning his skin with a warm glow. He smiled at Jessica as he admired her love of finance and nodded as she explained how she wanted to move to the London School of Economics one day. 

They had planned to eat in the cafeteria together but a stink bomb had been thrown and the area evacuated. Now, they have seized an entire £40,000 bathroom as their new eating area. One ‘out of order’ sign on the door. Two friends inside.