Recess. The schoolyard throbbed with activity, as the nine hundred-odd students of St Peter's College tried to expend as much energy as possible in fifteen short minutes of freedom.

The usual suspects were at their spot near the Peirce House lockers, standing in a vague attempt at a circle, as the lower grades coursed around them like schools of fish.

This was not quite your average gathering; there was more gingerbread going around than the average military parade. House Captain, House Vice Captain, Drama Captain, house colours, academic colours, debating colours, Volleyball First VI, you name it, it was emblazoned in gold thread on someone's blazer.

The usual snacks were out. Drew Nikopoulos's carrots and dip, which his mother had been packing religiously since the first day of Year 7. Mason Lui's chips from the tuckshop. Arthur Yang's Royal Gala apple.

Kevin Zhou was doling out his opinion on the inclusion of Prairie Park as a Year 12 English text to anyone who cared to listen, his jet-black quiff bobbing with every enunciation. "It's so boring. There's nothing to analyse. Nothing happens. Literally all he does is go around to these rich peoples' houses and talk to random rich people and make random observations about the landscape and talk about this play he's going to write which is going to make him rich and famous. What's interesting about that?"

"I know, right? There's a bit where he goes on a ten-page monologue about the differences in attitudes towards quilt patterns of the different families he meets." Arthur gave an exasperated sigh, which was probably a little more exaggerated than it needed to be.

"I forgot about that part. I nearly fell into a coma trying to read that."

"It's bloody incomprehensible."

"And it's like a hundred pages long. There's absolutely not enough to analyse for three paragraphs. Do you realise what that means? Our cohort average's going to be like half a grade lower than if we'd done something like Frankenstein."

"It's fucked."

"It's not fair."

"Vassilikou's already switched her whole class to Medea. Darvall reckons that's fine. See? Even Vassilikou thinks it's fucked. That's how messed up this is."

A cheer arose as another joined the fray. Avinash Sandhu, fresh from a long trek from the science building, all the way from the other side of the oval.

"Did you get Chemistry back?" Kevin asked, almost before Avi had even had time to put his stuff down and catch his breath.

"Yeah." Avi produced a slim sheaf of papers from the stack of textbooks. "But I fucked up the last question. I put down the wrong number of decimal places. It said to three decimal places, and I put two."

"Oh shit. I did that too."

"Classic Kev. Hang on. When do you get yours back?"

"Next class. Boyle hasn't finished marking them. He always takes forever."

"Have you tried emailing him?"

Meanwhile, at ground level, an altogether different rat race was being run, as rock pigeons and seagulls duked it out for the dropped morsels of food that were a given at this particular time of day. Two Year 9s had somehow managed to corner one of the pigeons, in one of the alcoves where the lockers were situated.

"Go, random Year 9s!" Arthur exclaimed, cheering them on. The others turned around, drawn to the spectacle.

The first Year 9 lunged from behind, while the other stepped in front of the bird to try and block its path. The bird feinted and ducked with practiced ease, flapping its wings, cutting a clean path as it glided through the crowd, sticking a perfect landing in the relative safety of the oval.

"Oh, well." Arthur flashed a smirk at the Year 9s. "Better luck next time." The two looked at the group for a moment, with a mixture of confusion and mild fear on their faces, then went back to what they were doing.

Mason snickered. "Typical Year 9s."

A seagull had taken the opportunity presented by the distraction to creep up on them, beak open. "Woah." Mason held his hands up in mock surrender. The gull retreated, still staring them down defiantly.

Mason threw a chip fragment. The seagull went for it, but not before it had caught the attention of another seagull. The two collided in a mess of flapping wings and loose feathers.

Titus stood on the periphery of all this, holding a half-eaten banana, only somewhat acknowledging the spirited conversation going on around him. He did not agree with Kevin's pronouncement on Prairie Park. He thought that Graham Laurell was a brilliant, if misunderstood, writer and that his esoteric choices of subject matter did not detract from the worth of his writing. He thought that they were simply approaching this from the wrong angle. But he kept these opinions to himself, partly out of a disinclination towards direct confrontations, and partly because the bulk of his attention was directed towards the centre of the oval, where a bunch of guys were having a kick around with a soccer ball.

One of which was Fraser Sinclair, tall, athletic, a natural athlete in his natural habitat, his long blonde hair flowing as he made a pass.

"He's in your class, right?" Kevin was the only one in the group who really bothered to talk with him, even though this was very gradually becoming a rarer phenomenon.

Titus nodded. "Yeah."

"That sucks. I sat next to him for all of last year in English. Did not get a single thing done."

"He's alright. He actually tries really hard." Fraser had noticed him looking at him. He waved. Titus looked away. "Darvall just hates him with the fire of a thousand suns."

"Darvall's harsh." Titus knew that Kevin was mildly envious of him, as he had Mr Morecambe for English, who was not harsh, but also a rather middling English teacher by any account. "But you know, in a good way."

"Better than just giving A+s to everybody."

"Yeah." Kevin nodded.