GCSE's suck balls, Lilian thought decidedly as she barely managed to keep up with the rapid pace of Ms. Bordeaux, her French teacher, as she tried - but failed - to teach the class the subjunctive. It wasn't that she was a bad teacher, she was quite nice, albeit being a little strict at times. However, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could keep the class from discussing - which she rather loosely worded - about the reappearance of Alex Rider.
She warily glanced around the class as they gossiped, their heads ducking every now and then, leaning in to discuss their own theories. No one actually believed that he had a shit immune system, and even she had to agree it sounded pretty absurd. No one was actually that sick all the time. She swore he had only been at school for a few weeks last term. She had been new to Brooklands last year, but even she remembered what Alex had been like before his uncle had died. He had been a bundle of contradictions. He was calm, but energetic. Hard working, but laid back. Now, as she risked a glance, he looked tired. Almost hopeless. Purple bruises scattered his arms and face and his baggy eyes seemed to have taken on a particularly dead nature. They were hardened and emotionless. His shoulders were slightly slumped, his bag haphazardly hung on his chair, and his notebook was empty. His hand was curled up into a fist as his pen lay forgotten. Oh yeah, he doesn't need to take notes, she remembered. At least not in languages. From what she remembered when he had been in class, he was trilingual or something.
She tried to pull her attention away from him. Focus! You suck at french. But even Ms. Bordeaux began to fray, noticing the class was barely paying attention to her. She loudly informed them of their pile of textbook homework before sinking into her chair and diving into one another of her crummy romance novels with a Fabio look alike on the cover. With no teacher stopping them, the class unabashedly grew louder, and she could hear snippets of conversations.
"I bet he does drugs. Prolly snorts too."
"- D'you think he's being abused? I mean . . ."
"Maybe he's getting therapy. Heard it . . ."
Lilian shook her head, slightly bemused with her classmates theories. Sure, they explained a bunch of stuff, but they never quite fit. He was like, fuck, a protist. Of all the things she could a compare a person to after pulling an all nighter for a not-so-surprise biology test, she chose that. She shook her head, and contemplated banging her head on her desk.
The classroom grew louder, and Lilian shoved her earphones into her ear. Modest Mouse washed over her and she felt both calmed and reinvigorated. She looked back at Alex, and however embarrassed she was for observing Alex's protist-likeness, she couldn't help but agree it fit. He never really fit with any of the theories. Sure, he could be a druggie, but she knew he wasn't. Compared to the people in the school who actually did drugs, it didn't fit. Plus, it just didn't seem like Alex. He seemed somehow above it. She really couldn't quite phrase it right, even in her own mind. Abuse might work. It would explain the bruises well, but she also knew that Alex could take his own after he beat up those bullies last year, and so that theory was thrown out of the window. Little by little, each theory was crossed off. There were some that seemed plausible, but all too easily they were discarded. They just didn't fit.
Protists man.
She shook her head again and placed her face in her hands. Why did she even care? She didn't even know the answer to that. She and Alex had never been friends, but they had had been in the same group for projects a couple of times. She had come over to his house for some projects and had always liked his housekeeper, Jack, with her flaming red hair and awesome lemonades. She wondered if Jack was still there.
She glanced at her watch, anxiously hoping the class would end soon. There were only a few minutes left, and everyone seemed to be edging towards the door. It was the last period of the day, and people were quickly shoving their pencil cases and crumpled notes into their bags. Lilian took a last, long look at Alex and realized what was truly bothering her: his eyes. They were too old, too serious. Too . . . knowing. As she looked around the room, at the crinkled smiles and sleepy eyes, there was a world of difference between theirs and his. He used to be like us. What happened?
The bell rang, and as she moved towards the door, she watched him stride out of the class quickly, all too aware of the attention he was receiving. The students would be content with merely discussing their mysterious classmate when they were out of stuff to talk about. They would graduate, forget about him and forget about each other, and the name Alex Rider would be pushed back to the furthest recesses of their mind. He was their enigma. Their puzzle when they were bored. But Lilian remembered his eyes again, hardened and impenetrable. There was something very wrong, and she was going to find out.
