Chapter 2

Jocelyn — Joce for short — could literally trade all her time to be with Anderson Simpson (or Andy, as she preferred to call him); in fact, every girl would!

  She was standing before the mirror, admiring her well-developed hips. She caressed her skirt delicately, then pulled the pin that held her blonde hair to let the hair fall, navel-length, at her back. She smiled at the image in front of her and blew a kiss at it.

  Joce lived just nextdoor from the Simpsons, and found herself lucky. . . no, fortunate, to be part of their neighbourhood. She'd been friend with Andy since Elementary School. The Simpsons were one of the oldest people in Mcbornie town.

  She sighed as she thought about Andy. He's such a nice guy.

  His father is also a very smart guy. He owned the first business firm in the town. And there; there was also his mother —

  From her window, she could see Andy walking out from his house. His hair was neatly combed, glasses as clear as crystals. He wore his favorite jacket over a tee-shirt — then there was this very nice, hair-black pair of jeans too.

  "I could catch up with him," she said to herself, grabbing her hand bag just beside her, skedaddling downstairs.

  Her mum and dad were having breakfast, both smartly dressed for work.

  Jocelyn's father — Daniel Redwood — was the town's sheriff; while her mother — Stella Redwood— was an employee to The Simpsons Business Firm. They both enjoyed their work, and devoted lots of time to it.

  Joce dashed to the door, but on second thought, retraced her steps to take the plate of cookies she knew was hers on the table, then she turned it into her lunch bag.

  "Bye Mum, bye Dad," said she, heading for the door.

  "Have a nice day, honey!" her mother called over her shoulder. Daniel and Stella exchanged knowing looks, then suppressed a smile.

ANDERSON exhaled out, deeply, after narrating what had just occurred at the Edgetons'. His father had listened patiently, without interruption, only affirming with a nod.

  Mr. Simpson was a larger version of Andy. Like Andy, he had a perfect seablue pair of eye, long legs that resembled those of basketball players, and brown, curled hair over his scalp. He also wore a pair of glasses since his youth.

  "Son," said he, "shall I contact the local sheriff nextdoor and speak to him about it? He probably might just know the best thing to do."

  Andy sighed. Then he threw his head back for a moment. Mr. Simpson observed his son down his nose, he smiled looking back at himself — he looks no different from me as a boy — then he hid a grin by looking the other way.

  "No. Not yet," Anderson said. "I think Harry can handle it — if there's one thing he despised most, it was a bully. I'll have to hear what happened today, if he's willing to tell." He tapped the screen of his watch, and the time displayed on it; 7:15. "Oh my! I have got to go, Dad."

  His father smiled, throwing a warm pat on Andy's shoulder. Then he said, "Make sure you handle it well, your friend needs you —"

  "I will, Dad, thanks for listening."

  "I got to get going, myself." Then just as Andy headed out, he said, "And Andy?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Tell me all about it at dinner."

  Andy nodded then began to run out to the junction where he would wait for the school bus. It passed by, at approximately 7:30 a.m. He'd just passed Jocelyn's house and two others when he heard his name. Turning back, he was not surprised to see Joce.

  She was putting on a short-sleeved shirt tucked inside a figure-hug skirt. She flashed a very sweet smile, exposing her dimples. He almost could not believe what the summer holiday had done with Joce.

  "Oh, hi Joce."

  "Hi Andy, how d'you do?"

  "I'm okay, not bad at all."

  She held on to her smile.

  Together, they increased their pace and got to the junction in no time. They sat on the waiting-bench. To save himself from further discussions, he tapped on the Smart Watch and said, "Music."

  His favourite song began to play, and as he flowed with the lyrics, he could see from the corner of his eyes that he'd left Joce astonished.

  "Woah!" she exclaimed. "Now, how did you do that?"

  He suppressed a grin.

  "It's a Smart Watch I invented during the holiday—"

  "You did what?!"

  He was about to reply when the school bus screeched its wheels before them and horned, once.

  "Better get going," he said, and she nodded. They both picked up their bags and walked into the bus.

  Turning his head to his favourite position in the bus, he smiled as he saw Harrison with a reserved seat. He heaved a sigh of relief, then sat down beside him.

* * *

  The day seemed very appealing, Andy thought. The school had appreciated his Opening Session Speech — if that was what the, "That was a nice speech this morning, Andy," meant that came from the students and teachers.

  Andy and Harry discussed over lunch. Harry had just been narrating to Andy how he'd "kicked" his father's butt. Andy laughed hard at Harrison's manner of narration, and the ecstacy attached to his voice in doing "such a bad deed."

  "You should have seen his face, dude, he finally marvelled at my strength—" he flexed his biceps for emphasis.

  They both turned their attention over Harrison's shoulder as James dashed into the cafeteria, noisely.

  James ran to the front line as usual, rather than joining the long queue of students taking turns in getting lunch. Anyone could have pretended oblivion, as always, but not this time. The new guy, Thomas, was already extending his plate to Mrs. Tennyson (the cafeteria lady) when James pushed his plate over Thomas'.

  "F**k outta here, dushbag!" Thomas cursed. Mrs. Tennyson gasped at such foul language, then frowned.

  "Who're you calling 'dushbag', asshole?" Thomas retorted. "I'm going to have to teach you some manners!"

  In a split second, all one could see was Thomas on the great bully, James Heatherfield. Blows kept landing until The Great Bully began to bleed profusely.

  Flashlights from mobile phones danced across the dagger-drawn boys.

  "He's murdering my big brother!"

  What great resemblance! Thomas acknowledged, after averting his eyes to a petite version of The Great Bully.

  Already, Anderson had contacted the school authorities. In no time, they were in, advancing towards the scene.

  Only there and then had it dawned on Thomas Hardington the repercussion of his hysteria. Me and my anger, he thought, hands shaking over the unconscious body. He grieved inside his heart, then began to rise on one leg, then the other. He skedaddled his gaze across the room of students and teachers — mobile phones hanging high. Then he looked at the exit, moved two feet when he felt a strong grip on his arm. He traced the hand to the School Prefect, Anderson Simpson.

  "No you don't."

  Thomas tried to struggle, but the Prefect's grip was firm. Then, he felt a much tenser grip on his other hand — the principal's, Mr. Sanderson.

  "Good job, Anderson—" Mr. Sanderson turned to Thomas, "—that's enough first impression, Thomas, don't you think?"

  Thomas tried to protest, he felt he was misunderstood, but knew better