Stories, Conor thought with dread as he walked home. It was after school, and he’d made his escape.
He’d got through the rest of the day avoiding Harry and the others,
though they probably knew better than to risk causing him another “accident” so soon after nearly getting caught by Miss Kwan.
He’d also avoided Lily, who had returned to lessons with red, puffy eyes and a scowl you could hang meat from.
When the final bell went, Conor had rushed out fast, feeling the burden of school and of Harry and of Lily drop from his shoulders
as he put one street and then another between himself and all of that.
Stories, he thought again. “Your stories,” Mrs Marl had said in their English lesson.
“Don’t think you haven’t lived long enough to have a story to tell.”
Life writing, she’d called it, an assignment for them to write about themselves.
Their family tree, where they’d lived, holiday trips and happy memories. Important things that had happened.
Conor shifted his rucksack on his shoulder. He could think of a couple of important things that had happened.
Nothing he wanted to write about, though. His father leaving. The cat wandering off one day and never coming back.
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