It's snowing again because this city can't decide what weather it wants to have. Well I suppose snow is more pleasant than rain. I have to shield my rollie from it so the tobacco don't get too damp to light which leaves both my hands exposed to the cold.

Maybe the person who invented gloves weren't completely delusional. One more gust of wind and I might lose a finger.

As if sensing her arrival, I look up just as Diwa slams the car door behind her. She stomps up to me in new platform boots and, through the car window, her mother's vulture glare spears through us.

'She found out that I didn't spend the holidays at the library,' Diwa explains without greeting. 'I swear, it's like mums have nowt better to do than gossip about each other's kids.'

Though her voice gets more forceful as her irritation grows, her words fade under the sound of (don't let it–) my heartbeat (–get too fast). The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

Someone was watching.

Someone is watching.

Did you think you were safe?

There are always crumbs of surveillance stuck in the linings of my pockets, eyeballs camouflaged into pebbles, always watching.

Pupils pass. All their stares scythe to me. Watching.

Diwa leans against the fence, looking at me expectantly. She wants to me to say summat. Has she asked a question or is she after a green light to continue her rant? She was saying summat about her mum.

My ribs seem stubborn to ensnare themselves around my lungs and my tongue's gone numb which will make my response clumsy even if I figure out what to say. I have enough experience with my thoughts dominating human conversations to know that usually the best way to go undetected (she'll find out) is to agree.

So I nod and say, 'Yeah, she is proper mardy.'

Diwa hums to confirm. 'She reckons you're a bad influence.'

I return the fag to my mouth. 'Can't say she's wrong.'

'I reckon she just don't want me to have any queer friends. Couldn't have people validate my identity or I might actually lie myself.'

I flick the ash off my rollie and try to come up with summat comforting to say. Nowt comes to mind. Instead, I dig my free hand into my pocket to extract an enamel pin. I hold it out to her.

'Happy Christmas. I shoplifted this for you.'

Diwa stares at the pin. It's in the shape of an award ribbon with a heart in the middle instead of a number, made in the colours of the lesbian flag. Subtle enough that the average idiot won't think owt of it while being immediately recognisable to any queer person.

Her fingers approach the cardboard rectangle it's pinned to as if she's afraid her touch will sink through it. Once it's finally in her hold, I push off the fence, dropping my cigarette butt to the ground.

Her lips part but I cut over her. 'Well, I'll fuck off then.'

Her misted eyes fly open. Panic brightens her features as she scans mine in search of understanding, which only takes a split second to fall onto her.

'Sorry. I were just complaining. I still want us to be friends.' Another weak laugh gusts from her, this one genuine. 'Fuck my parents, as you say. I do everything to be perfect and they don't even notice I exist so what's the point?'

So we enter the gates together. Stares stick to us as we pass and I pull my hood up, stuffing my hands into my pockets. Not that anyone could not recognise me with my spikes and chains and all the insects I've painted or stitched on my clothes.

Diwa, on the other hand, could pass for a new pupil. The pastel platform boots she bought with the money she got from relatives for Christmas make her almost as tall as I am and the rest of her baby pink and black outfit is a far cry from the beige business casual her mum wants her to wear.

I'd bet money that Saadia's jaw falls open under the covering of her niqab when she sees Diwa. Her eyes double in size, along with the majority of our form group waiting for Pathirana. I distinctly hear someone say "what the fuck?"

'So are you two like mates now?'

'What if you minded your own business, Saadia?' Diwa responds.

Saadia's eyes crinkle in a way that can only be caused by a sarcastic smile. 'Careful, Algebrat, they might sell your organs online if you get on their nerves.'

I'll sell your organs, you fuckwit.

I bite my tongue with the crags of my molars. But that don't mean I need to give in. I push my glare into Saadia's so that every splinter of my dislike for her presses into her eyeballs.

When Diwa don't give the desired reaction, Saadia directs the stake at me instead. 'Cece, is it true you mauled someone to death cause you lost maths olympiad?'

'We won,' Diwa scoffs. 'So clearly your sources are untrustworthy.'

Milli snickers, falling over into Lakresha. 'When there's a shit true crime documentary about him on Netflix, we'll all say how we should've seen the warning signs.'

Saadia spits laughter. Even Jeremy and Annabella who, of fucking course, have been listening from the sidelines, chuckle.

They're mocking you.

Yes, I noticed. And I'm not going to get angry about it.

For the first time in my life ever, I'm happy when the bell rings and Pathirana opens the classroom door. I follow on Diwa's heels, though I sit behind her rather than next to her. She throws me a confused look.

I don't meet it.

Don't you know what it means, their mockery?

I stare at the scratches (too fast) and doodles on my desk as my teeth slice my accelerating breaths. My heart is beating faster. Too fast. Too fast.

It means they're not afraid of you.

I don't (my heart is beating too fast) care. That... that could be a good thing. It–

But if (I might die) they're not afraid, what's stopping them from killing me? I need them to be afraid or they'll kill me–

You're lying! Beewolf screams and the floor ripples.

I cling to the desk for balance, do my best to not appear seasick or Pathirana might give me detention for disrespect.

You want people to be afraid of you because you know they should be. Because you were born evil. You want to hurt them.

Look at her!

I'm an obedient dog at the command. My gaze lifts from my desk to Diwa just as she pulls her hair over her shoulder to expose her neck.

You could chew her throat out.

The force of a human bite is enough to crush tendons, nerves, and bones even when it doesn't break skin. I can't help myself. I always bite. A hand is a hand is a fist and a fist is full of bones. Twenty-seven, to be exact.

So what if you call her your friend? I have a hard time believing that would stop you.

It wouldn't stop me. I will pilfer for more bones until the day I die regardless of who I take them from.

But Diwa can handle herself. She doesn't need protecting as if she wasn't born into the same deprivation of Moss Side that I was. Her talons are sharp enough to kill me if she scratches near an artery. She already would have if she wanted to. I don't have to be afraid of her. I don't have to be afraid of hurting her.

Notes

Rollie: Self-rolled cigarette.

Mardy: Moody, grumpy.