@sauntercd is getting a plotted starter!
Tadfield Comprehensive, also known as Shitstain, also known as Hellhole, also known as the Bedlam of Oxfordshire, loomed at the end of the Endless Summer and was, therefore, another reason NOT to let the Endless Summer come to its paradoxical conclusion.
Adam Young was determined to live it to the fullest: invent ninety-nine new flavours of ice cream, play Charles Fort Discovering Things every day, eat lunch under the big linden tree in Wensleydale’s garden, and just stay eleven years old Forever and Ever because being eleven was great.
This had been the greatest summer of all so far. The Them had finally settled on their grim moniker, bequeathed upon them by outsiders, to be their name once and for all; on the last day of school, Pepper had thrown a stone at the back of Greasy Johnson’s head and hit him; they had hung up the old sail of Brian’s father’s sailing boat over their corner of paradise, aka the old chalk quarry; Dog had been discovered; they had made the acquaintance of witches and Tibetans and other strange creatures; and they had helped avert the end of the world.
It had been a good summer, but also an exhausting summer.
“…and so it is with great sadness––“ but with a grave voice, “––that I’ve to announce this Summer’s come to an end. We’re finally goin’ to school tomorrow,” Adam concluded and let out his breath. The Them stared at their leader with raised brows, but not even Pepper thought it worth to raise an argument, too.
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“Adam, my new shoes hurt.”
Pepper rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like ninnies.
Adam glanced down at his own shoes, which weren’t the most comfortable, and then at the pair on Brian’s and Wensleydayle’s feet. Identical, black and shiny. He just shrugged, and then walked on towards the double oak doors, the massive portal into this new world called Tadfield Comp. His brand-new shoes now fit like a glove, and he thought he wouldn’t mind them all too much anymore.
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He didn’t see Mr. Crowley until the end of his first day of classes, and then he only truly saw him because he ran into him and, oh dear, spilled his hot chocolate all over Mr. Crowley’s expensive-looking suit. If that hadn’t happened, Adam might not have seen him at all. Like all eleven-year-olds, he had developed the habit of not looking at teachers’ faces all that often very early on in his inimitable career as a schoolboy.
“Sorry, Mr. Crowley,” Adam said flatly, and with no real surprise once the first wave of it had abated. He almost went ahead and removed the mess without a further word–– then checked himself and hesitated. “D’you want me to fix it for you, or d’you want to fix it yourself?” Rude to assume that he should lend a hand when perhaps it wasn’t wanted. One mustn’t assume, his father always said.
