Defiant (Blaze Trilogy Book 1)

by H G Lynch

  Irritatingly, my earphones kept falling out my ears as I walked, pulled out by the wind that was also tugging at my hoodie. I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets and lip-synched along with one of Nickelback’s new songs. My trainers made wet slapping sounds on the uneven, cracked slabs of concrete that made up the pavement. Lines of moss and weeds sprung up between the cracks.

  Mr Gunderson’s house was a twenty-five minute walk from mine, on the other side of the school. I was the only one out on the street, so in my good mood, I tapped my heels on the street and bobbed my head in time with the beat of the music from my MP3—subtly dancing my way along. Flowers were tipping their colourful faces up to drink up the faint rays of sunlight pushing through the clouds, birds were hopping about on the grass looking for worms, and I was determined to retain my good mood.

  When I finally reached Mr Gunderson’s house, I pulled out my earphones and rapped my knuckles on the door. The door swung open a minute later to reveal a stumpy elderly man with grey hair and a friendly, open face. Dark eyes smiled at me from under layers of heavy wrinkles. The top of his head barely came to my chin, and his girth was about twice mine, but the strength in his shrivelled old hand as he clapped me on the back almost made me stumble.

  “Anson, m’boy! Your mother told me you’d be coming to pick up that book for her. Have you time for a cup of tea? Come in, come in, it’s miserable out there.” He chuckled in that rough, old man way, and I followed him inside, closing the front door behind me.

  Mr Gunderson’s house smelled of ginger biscuits, toffee, and some cologne I thought had been designed especially for elderly men. His furnishings were eclectic, from a huge grey sofa to a china cabinet full of bits and bobs he’d picked up from his fishing to a faded red armchair with a scorch mark on one arm that I felt sure had a story behind it.

  “You take sugar in your tea, Anson?” Mr Gunderson—Charlie to his friends and family—called from the tiny kitchen somewhere off the living room.

  I’d only ever seen the living room, the bathroom, and the study. The study was a fascinating room with wood-panelled walls and a fuzzy maroon carpet, stuffed full of clutter. Holey fishing nets were pinned to the walls, glass-fronted cabinets with various rusty hooks stood in the corners, and chipped seashells and stuffed crabs sat on desks like museum pieces.

  I called back to him in the kitchen, “Aye, two sugars, please, Mr G.” I settled myself on the puffy grey sofa and watched the black-and-white movie playing on the ancient TV set. It was on mute, so I had no idea what was being said, but it looked like one of the war movies my Granddad used to like so much. Mr G came through a moment later and handed me a plain white mug with the scribbled words Property of The Dubious Lobster in permanent blue ink on the side.

  I grinned. “Thanks, Mr G,” I said, taking the steaming mug of tea. I tested it, and sighed in bliss.

  Mr Gunderson sat down in the red armchair with his own mug of tea. “It’s good to see you, lad. How’ve you been since I saw you last? You been getting in trouble at that school of yours again, I bet.” He gave me a toothy grin. While he often regaled me with stories from his youth, I sometimes returned the favour by telling him about my most recent stunts in school. It looked like today I’d be the storyteller.

  “Well, let’s see,” I said slowly, sipping at my tea as I tried to remember what stunts I’d pulled in the month since I’d last seen him.

  He waited patiently while I thought, drinking his tea and letting his eyes stray to the TV where black dirt was exploding into a grey sky while men in black-and-white camouflage screamed in silence. Rummaging through my memories, I found a stunt I’d performed a few weeks before that I thought he would enjoy hearing about.

  “Ah, got one. I was in Maths the other week and Mrs Simons left the class to take a call. I happened to have some markers in my bag, so I took the chance to, eh, personalise my desk. It’s quite amazing what you can do with some markers in less than ten minutes if you have the inclination. I managed to colour the entire top surface of my desk in a red and blue pop art depiction of Mrs Simons.”

  Honestly, when I thought about it now, I realised my mistake. I should have drawn on someone else’s desk. And I probably shouldn’t have signed the graffiti artwork either.

  Mr G laughed, making his hands and shoulders shake.

  “As you can guess, Mrs Simons didn’t appreciate my caricature of her. I always say people who work with numbers don’t appreciate good art. So, of course, I got sent to see Peter”—Mr Peter Fraser was the headmaster—“and we had a nice wee chat about, as I called it, ‘extreme doodling’. He explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that doodling on school property was prohibited under all circumstances, and I am no exception to that rule.”

  I thought that was unfair, really. Shouldn’t I get cut a break since I was on first name terms with the man? According to him, no. Totally not fair.

  “I did claim that he was being prejudiced because I suffer from a mental illness—”

  “You do not, you lying swine. You’re as healthy in the head as I am.” Mr Gunderson smacked his palm into his knee, chortling.

  “That isn’t saying much,” I ribbed him, grinning. “I suffer from Creative Compulsive Disorder, I’ll have you know. Sometimes, I get the irrepressible urge to do something creative, like draw on a desk or paint poetry on a classroom wall, and I have to do it. Otherwise, who knows what will happen? My head could explode, or my hands could fall off, or the world could end.”

  Or, in an earth-shattering change, I could avoid getting a detention, breaking my monthly pattern. But, what I was saying was partly true. If there was such a thing as Creative Compulsive Disorder, I had discovered it, because sometimes I really did feel the impulse to draw whatever was in my head or write lines of poetry before I could forget them or throw paint at the ceiling, and I just had to do it. If I didn’t, I got this horrible tight, claustrophobic feeling in my chest, my fingers got itchy, and I got restless.

  Shaking his head in amusement, Mr G slowly lifted himself, out of his armchair. He held his empty mug in one hand, and I quickly swallowed the rest of my warm tea to hand him my mug.

  Shuffling into the kitchen to drop the mugs into the sudsy sink, he called to me, “You’re a right scallywag, Anson, m’boy. You remind me of myself when I was your age, only not as good looking and great deal smarter.”

  His voice faded a bit as he disappeared down some hallway from the kitchen, but he returned a moment later, carrying a thick hardback book. “I don’t know how you do it, Anson, looking like you do. You never talk about a lady friend, but you’re a fine enough looking lad. Are you keeping her a secret from your mother? ‘Cause you know you can tell me, and I won’t say a word.” We both knew he was just playing. Even old man Gunderson knew I was an outcast and single by choice.

  “Ah, I’m just waiting for the right girl, Mr G. I don’t need to waste my time with those shallow girls chasing me for my looks. I’m going to find a smart, pretty girl with some depth,” I said playfully, taking the heavy book from him. The title was printed in gold script on the dark cover: Timepieces Through the Ages. It looked like eight hundred pages of riveting clockwork.

  With a sigh, Mr Gunderson walked me to the front door to see me off and wished me luck with my girl hunting before saying goodbye. I gave him an awkward, one-armed hug and stepped out into the path of the wind once more. It bit at my ears and fingers, but I clutched the book to my chest and plugged my earphones back in.

  Once on the street, I turned to wave at Mr Gunderson, who was standing by his living room window, watching me go. Making a note to visit him again soon for a longer chat, I eyed the sky, which had clouded over again since I’d been inside. The clouds were darker now, chasing me from above as I started my walk back home. A few more people were on the street, walking dogs and returning from strolls to the shop down the street, rustling plastic bags in hand.

  I was absently staring at the street ahead of me, not really seeing it, as I thou
ght of what I was going to do for the rest of the day. I was barely seven metres away when I finally recognised the blonde head standing on the street ahead of me. Pretty Poppy was there in front of me.

  My mouth went dry and my heart did a jig as I opened my mouth to call to her, but then I noticed who she was talking to and my stomach fell with disappointment. She was with a guy. He was tall enough to make her look tiny, with curling black hair that came down to his shoulders and a fine face. Of course she has a boyfriend, my mind taunted me. She’s pretty, smart, and funny. Why would a girl like that be interested in you? She could have any guy she liked. And it seemed she had. Just like that, my good mood evaporated, leaving behind stinging bitterness and, maybe, a hint of jealousy.

  To make things worse, in the time added to my journey by my detour, it started to rain again. The clouds split open to lash me with cold drops flung into my face by the wind. It was after two in the afternoon by the time I got home, and I was soaked and cold. I gave my mother her damned book and went to mope in my room for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Three

  The weather hadn’t improved much by Monday, but at least it wasn’t raining. The temperature had dropped from a daily twenty-two degrees Celsius minimum to a more typical sixteen degrees. The sun was perpetually hidden behind clouds that teased us with the notion of dissipating, but they were just toying with us. The summer heat wave was over before it had begun, and my hopes had been crushed just as they’d begun to blossom.

  I was not having a good day. First, I’d tripped over the weights I’d left lying in the middle of my bedroom floor after a tough workout the day before. Trying to sweat out my thoughts, I had spent a full two hours lifting weights, doing sit-ups, and blasting Papa Roach albums on my stereo.

  Second, I got detention in my first class of the day because, once again, I’d forgotten to do my homework. Okay, so, I’d actually just gotten lines for not doing the homework. I got the detention for mouthing off. I didn’t usually mouth off to teachers, but as I said, I was having a bad day.

  Thirdly, I had another run-in with Jake and Mark, who decided to spend ten minutes of their lunch hour trying to piss me off. They succeeded and were rewarded for their efforts with bloody noses.

  That was why I was sitting in Mr Fraser’s office with ten minutes of lunch time left, staring at the clock on the wall behind his desk. He’d gone off to get Jake and Mark’s side of the story while they were in the nurse’s office.

  The headmaster’s office was large and very professional looking, with pale blue walls and dark blue carpeting. There were two, man-sized, metal filing cabinets against the wall behind his wide, polished mahogany desk. A PhD and various teaching awards hung in frames around the room. Neat piles of paper sat on one side of his desk, along with a stapler and a plastic pencil holder full of pens. The seat I was sitting in was a twin to the one beside me, an uncomfortable, padded plastic chair with uneven metal legs that wobbled slightly when I shifted my weight. Mr Fraser’s seat, on the opposite side of the desk, was a cushy, high-backed swivel chair in burnished brown leather.

  The clock tick, tick, ticked away while I waited patiently for Mr Fraser to return and take my statement. Six minutes until lunch was over. One hundred and eleven minutes until school ended. Eleven days until school was out for the summer holidays. I had a half-formed plan to get a summer job at the local bookstore or the music store. Somewhere I’d enjoy working. I didn’t really need the money. I just needed something to do all summer.

  The sound of the door opening and closing behind me made me flinch, and I looked up to see Mr Fraser seating himself on his comfy swivel chair. He wasn’t a particularly imposing man, but if you’d heard him yell when he was angry, you’d think twice about chucking erasers at the chalkboards during detention. His black hair that was going grey at the roots and combed back behind his ears, and smart glasses perched on his crooked nose. Sharp grey eyes observed my slouched, disrespectful posture, but I didn’t bother straightening myself up. My tie was loose and crooked, my top button was undone, and my frayed black jeans weren’t strictly within the school uniform code.

  Mr Fraser, though, was immaculately dressed in a crisp white shirt with a maroon tie that hugged his throat like a noose and pressed black trousers. I couldn’t see his feet under the desk, but I knew they were encased in shiny black shoes with tidy laces. My ratty trainers were falling apart. If how we dressed was any indication of the kind of people we were, you’d think he was a clever businessman and I was a sloppy miscreant. Perhaps that was true, but appearances could be deceiving, which Mr Fraser proved a moment later.

  The first thing he said to me was, “Congratulations. I wondered how long it would be before you got violent this month. You made it almost the whole month.” He gave me an arched-brow look that might have been sarcastic and disapproving or genuinely impressed. I decided it was a real compliment and smiled blandly at him, playing my usual role when it came to our conversations.

  “Thanks. But I didn’t want to disappoint you by missing our monthly appointment,” I commented dryly, leaning back in my chair so it creaked and kicking my feet up onto the edge of his desk.

  He narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he mimicked my motions and leaned back in his fancy chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He pursed his lips, and I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to say more or just trying to think of how to proceed. My eyes flicked up to the clock. Two minutes and four seconds until lunch was over. I was going to be late for English. Good.

  Eventually, Mr Fraser sighed, a sound of exasperation more than disappointment or annoyance. It looked as if I wasn’t getting suspended then. That was good, I suppose. My first piece of luck all day.

  “Anson, what am I going to do with you?”

  It was the same question he asked at our every encounter. My mother asked the same thing whenever I got suspended. I suspected nobody had the answer.

  “I know Jake and his friends have a particular fascination with you as their favourite target, but you can’t just punch them every time they piss you off,” he said, shaking his head.

  He was the only teacher I’d ever heard swear, and only when he was dealing with me. Was I really that stressing?

  Frowning, I tipped my head back, staring thoughtfully at the peeling white paint on the ceiling. A row of three circular lights were embedded in the plaster, throwing their gold light down in three tiny spotlights. A cobweb crawled across one corner of the room, right against the ceiling, forming a fine safety net for the poor spider who’d taken up residency there.

  “And how do you propose I deal with them then, Peter? It’s not like we even speak the same language. Last time I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t Jane Goodall,” I said, lowering my chin and returning my gaze to his.

  His mouth pulled tight, lines bracketing his thin lips, an attempt not to smile disguised as a grimace. Laughing at my joke would have been admitting he knew I was right.

  Clearing his throat, he sat forward and rested his arms on his desk, pressing his fingertips together. In an amiable voice, he said, “Look, Anson, we’ll make a deal. If you can promise me you won’t get another detention before the summer holidays, I won’t suspend you this time. Since you’ve already got detention after school, I’ll bump it up from a half hour to an hour, and you’ll have another half hour detention tomorrow lunchtime. Is that a deal?”

  This was the backbone of our easy-going teacher-student relationship. We made deals that were good for both of us. Normally, I agreed without a fuss, glad enough just not to be suspended, or worse, excluded. If I ever got kicked out of school for good, my mother would pitch a fit and probably send me to boarding school somewhere in England. I didn’t think I’d do well in boarding school. Although, with only two weeks left, I supposed it didn’t matter.

  I was feeling rebellious though, and there was still forty-four minutes of English left. I was going to maximise my lateness if I could. Not only did I want to
delay having to analyse every single friggin’ line of Romeo and Juliet, I didn’t particularly feel like seeing Poppy if she deigned to show up to class this week.

  “And if I promise not to get a detention, then show up here next week?”

  Yeah, I was being a petty douche, and I knew it. I was rarely like that, and it clearly caught Mr Fraser by surprise. His eyebrows went up and creases formed between his dark brows, and he noticeably pulled his shoulders up to sit straighter. He just stared at me for a long moment, helpfully postponing my inevitable return to class.

  His tone was careful when he spoke again. “I would have to suspend you then,” he said, frowning at me.

  I knew he was serious, but I wasn’t quite done being a snotty brat.

  I nodded, uncrossing my ankles and taking my feet off his desk one at a time. I felt a little like punching myself when I said, “But there’s only another week of school after this one. If you suspended me, you’d basically be sending me on holiday a week early.”

  I think he finally ran out of patience with me because Mr Fraser slapped his hands down on his desk and glared at me from behind his stylish glasses. One of the papers on top of the stack on his desk fluttered, and the pens in the little pencil holder rattled. I tried very hard not to flinch but I did anyway.

  “Anson, enough,” he said tersely. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but you can take the deal or leave it. Just remember, if you leave it, you’ll be walking out of here and won’t be coming back for the rest of the week, and you’ll have to explain to your mother why you got suspended again.”

  Ah, he knew my weaknesses. Another glance at the clock told me I’d skipped the first fifteen minutes of English class, and since it looked like I couldn’t put it off any longer, I nodded.

  “I’ll take it. Sorry.” I felt the apology was necessary, and I ducked my head politely on my way out. Closing the office door behind me, I stood and stared at the little metal nameplate screwed into the shiny wood: Headmaster P. Fraser, PhD. For a moment, I just watched the way the light hit the silver metal, tilting my head this way and that to see the lines of the reflection move like gold across mercury. Then I heaved a sigh, shrugged my schoolbag further up on my shoulder, and headed to the hellhole that was English class awaiting me.