Pockmarked walls dint pockmarked faces of our young. Nobody is talking. Nobody wants to.

They sit beside eachother for an hour, but don’t utter a word. Doesn’t the caged sing?

The girl with the full ponytail and jutted jaw wiped her hands over her laddered tights, quelling the sweat and swear words. The boy spreads his legs wider as he sinks further into the plastic chair and it creaks with the strain.

They liked eachother once. Till nattered mudslingings dipped a thumb into the skull of the soft growing brain of students. “Yes Miss” and “No Miss” don’t teach you how to speak up for yourself, so everybody stays quiet till they white their knuckles.

He’s looking at her. He reaches a intrepid finger up to her shoulder, he goes to tap it.

“Miss Greenwood.” The head teacher calls the girl into the office. She picks up her bag and the boy’s finger falls.