Chapter One: Changes
David Bowie had been in Bromley Academy for less than an hour and he could already list a dozen things he hated about it. First there was the uniform: A boring navy blue suit jacket over a white collared shirt, khaki pants, and a maroon tie striped with silver. There were the students: bland and identical, practically stock characters out of 1984, David's favorite novel. Then there was the building—a dark and gloomy castle, its narrow windows and endless corridors reminding David more of the Tower of London than Buckingham Palace.
"Well, young David, here is your schedule," said the principal, Mr. Mosley, adjusting his toupee. "You had better get to class before the bell, or else you'll have to face the consequences—you'll learn to face the consequences here."
Whatever, thought David. He'd debated skipping the class, but it was his first day. He gave the principal a steady stare, not speaking, until Mr. Mosley turned to go back to his office, brown loafers tapping on the floor. David looked down at the paper in his hand:
SCHEDULE:
Period 1: Chemistry
Period 2: Deportment
Period 3: Math
Period 5: Music
Period 6: English
Well, I know what I'll be skipping tomorrow...all of it.
The bell rang before he could find the room his class was in. So much for a starting off with a clean slate. He pushed open the door of room 114, mentally preparing himself to walk into a room full of strangers; he wasn't shy, but he wasn't too eager to be stared at by a roomful of strangers. Before he went through, he tucked the ends of his brown-blond mullet behind his ears and took a deep breath. He closed the door behind him.
"Ahem," an elderly voice said before David could take another step. "What do you think you're doing?" He turned his head languidly toward the teacher. The man was hideously old; liver spotted, with stringy grey hair and a creased face.
"Sitting down."
"Ah, I see. You think you can just walk into my class, 36 seconds late, and waltz into your seat? What's your name?"
"David. David Bowie."
"You're not listed here," the teacher jabbed a gnarled finger at his attendance sheet. David pressed his lips together in annoyance.
"It might be under Jones."
"Ah yes, David Jones. I see. Hmm; expelled from your last school for fighting and for having a grade average of D?" David felt his cheeks begin to burn. He didn't mind people knowing that he was a fighter; he was a little proud of that. But his grades; they were only low because he skipped and back-talked teachers, but how were the others to know? What if they thought he was stupid?
"Well, take this." The teacher thrust a blue slip of paper into David's hand. "My name is Professor Steel. I teach chemistry. You may sit there." He pointed to a seat in the third row, between the wall and a boy with shoulder long, curly black hair. Exhaling deeply, David quickly walked over to his chair and sat down, pulling a red notebook out of his satchel.
A few agonizing moments of silence followed as Professor Steel sorted through some papers on his desk. The other students in the room stared shamelessly at him. Soon enough, as he had expected, he heard them whispering— "His eyes. Look at his eyes..."
His eyes were the reason he was here in the first place—well, not exactly; he was kicked out of his last school after a schoolyard fight with his best mate, a fight which had nearly blinded him. Instead, his left eye was permanently dilated larger than the other, like a murder of ravens flying across his sky blue eyes. And so his parents had enrolled him here, the last place he wanted to be, a high-discipline boarding school designed to turn him into a productive member of society. Whatever that means, David thought.
"Now," said Professor Steel, "We will not begin to study the subject of chemistry until you have a full understanding of what I expect from you, and what punishments you will receive if you fail to meet those expectations." He fixed his watery eyes a moment on David's forget-me-not blue ones.
He proceeded to give the regular spiel: grade percentages, class policy, all the boring subjects that they would cover during the year. David glanced around the room. Most of the people looked the same; blond and brown bowl cut hair, straight ties and studious looks on their corpse-like faces. But there were a few; the boy beside him, for instance. He wasn't paying attention to the monotone voice of Professor Steel. Instead, he was scribbling in his notebook, face tight with pure concentration. His hand blocked what he was doodling.
"Hey," whispered David. The boy looked over with a start, surprised out of his reverie. He had a round face with a thin, turned-up nose and cedar brown eyes, misty as though he was in a day-dream. He focused on David curiously.
"What're you drawing?" the boy moved his hand to reveal a picture of what must have been a gnome, short and squat with warts and wrinkles. Underneath, the word BELTANE had been written in block capitals and underlined several times.
"You new?" asked the boy, shaking his curls away from his high cheekbones.
"Just started today," David managed, before the professor threw them both an icy glare. The boy quickly turned the page of his notebook and wrote "chemistry" at the top. David licked his lips nervously, fixing his mismatched gaze on his paper. He didn't want to make a fool of himself today, his first day. Before anything worse could happen, the bell rang, dismissing them to their next class: deportment.
"What is deportment?" asked Professor Winger shrilly, her silver hair and straight cut, swishing as she turned her head sharply. "You! What's your name? Jones?"
"It's Bowie," David explained for the umpteenth time.
"Well?"
"Manners?" he hazarded. He was out of his element, that was sure. Who even had classes on deportment, anyway? He looked around him, at the other students. Did they know? It was a multi-year class, so some of them must have already had this lesson.
"Wrong," she said severely. "Deportment is the study of bearing yourself correctly in society and making yourself presentable."
"Surely that includes manners?" asked another boy from behind David. He turned to lay eyes on a tall young man, impossibly skinny with shaggy brown hair and thick, full lips. His tie was loose around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a little triangle of white skin.
"Ah. Mick." the teacher paused a second, as though making up her mind whether to shout at him or praise him. "You're perfectly right. But it would be wrong to assume that deportment is limited to manners."
"Of course, professor," he said with a wry smile. David felt his heart jump a beat. He frowned, worried that he might be coming down with cardiac arrhythmia.
"Today we will learn about dressing smartly in day wear, such as what you are wearing right now. The older boys should pair with the younger ones and show them how to tie a tie correctly, and how they ought to tuck their shirts and so on. I will inspect you all in a half hour."
David waited awkwardly, unfamiliar with anyone there save the long haired pixie from his earlier class. The other boys seemed like they were familiar with their elders, and they all wanted to pair with the brown haired boy who'd spoken up earlier. Strangely, though, the boy didn't choose any of them, instead walking straight up to David. His heart skipped again.
"You're new, right?" the boy asked. "Need a partner?"
"Y-yeah," David stuttered, suddenly unable to keep his normal cool.
"Great," said the boy. "The name's Mick. Mick Jagger." He held out his hand and David took it. Luckily, his heart behaved itself this time. He would have to see the nurse about that.
"So...deportment" David looked up at Mick's eyes for a moment.
"Yep, nothing for it," said Mick. "Your tie needs to be in a full windsor knot–here, let me show you." He reached forward and untied David's knot while the latter stood as still as a statue. "You just need to do a little extra bit, here." He wrapped the cloth around, pulled through, then tightened it around David's neck, smoothing out his lapels. David didn't move.
"Do you need me to tuck in your shirt tails for you, too?" Mick said with a laugh.
"Oh, no, er, sorry," David hurriedly tucked his shirt in, glancing up every few moments to watch Mick tying his tie properly, doing up the last of his shirt buttons. He had the darkest blue eyes, deep as the unfathomable mystery that we call the sea and glinting with compassion. His hair, thick and chestnut made David want to run his fingers through it—what was he thinking? I've got to be coming down with something, he thought anxiously. What if Mick noticed?
"Half an hour is, as they say, up." All the boys turned to face Ms. Winger nervously. Even David was strangely concerned that he do well, though it might have something to do with Mick standing beside him, shirtsleeves brushing David's.
She stalked down the line of boys, shaking her head at most of them, eyes narrowed behind her angular glasses. She stopped in front of David for a few painful moments before giving him a sharp nod.
"Well done, Mick." She examined David with her steely eyes. "You can learn a lot from him, Jones."
"Bowie," David muttered. He could feel Mick smirk beside him. As Ms. Winger continued to the rest of the boys, David could feel his ears going red in frustration. What made Mick so special? What right did they have to inspect him and call him by the wrong name? In his old school, he would have made class hell for her after that, but now he didn't know what to do. As much as he hated it, he didn't want to act that way in front of these boys. In front of Mick. Was he turning into just another of these automaton clones?
