We walk a little awkwardly, to be fair. Especially Nyah. Poor thing. I squeeze her hand comfortingly as we pass trough the school gates and notice some boys giving us an amused stare. Her step becomes even more awkward, as if she is overthinking each placement of her feet, almost tripping over her sheer desire to fade into the background and become unobserved. That's the sort of behaviour the likes of Thomas Bewer feed on. From where he stands leaning on the entrance poles, he lazily flicks a pen at her head and it hits her, sending a rush of mortified red up from the neckline of her uniform shirt. I can see the hate in Nyah's eyes as we separate for class, her terrified stance drawing the customary jeers and digs as she makes her way across the courts.
My form class is not so bad. Declan sits with me, and no one really makes fun of Declan. It's probably because he's at least three centimetres taller than everyone else in our form and is the go-to person for any type of drug you desire. It may also have something to do with the fact that he has abs. That always seems to appeal to people. He gets the odd jab in his direction in passing conversation, and he's not noted as someone you want to be seen with as far as social acceptance is concerned, but he's one of us, so you must expect that, really.
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