Aleks- Norway

Emil- Iceland

Mathias- Denmark

Stelios- Cyprus

Alin- Romania

Andrei- Moldova

Tsvetan- Bulgaria

Mohammad- Egypt

...

"Right-ho class," Mr Fernandez-Carriedo flashed a grin at the students gathered around wooden tables, "genetics!"

The science club, a popular club open to all year groups, met every Monday after school. Each week was a different topic, unrelated to any curriculum and simply to feed kids' thirst for knowledge. Of course, the club was mainly filled with years sevens, eights and nines, and there was rarely a student over fourteen who attended.

"Now, today we're going to be looking at how similar and different we are to our families, and apply that to what we know about genetics," continued Mr Fernandez-Carriedo, "can we please get out the photographs I asked you to bring in last week?"

One of the tables contained Charlie, Peter, Lars, Franz, Nobuyuki and Kuzey, a mess of jumpers, bags and frizzy hair, worn out from a whole day's studying. They each took out photographs of their families, as instructed to bring in during the previous club meeting, and set them down on the table. They weren't told why they needed the photographs, and waited impatiently for their teacher to continue.

"Now," continued Mr Fernandez-Carriedo, "as you have probably learned at some point, how we look is determined by how our parents look. For example, you probably have the same eye or hair colour as one of your parents, or are a mixture of both. Same with your siblings. Now, before I explain all about DNA and chromosomes and other sciency things, I would like you to discuss in groups the similarities you see between you and your family members."

There was a collective groan to Charlie's right, and she turned to find Peter, Lars and Kuzey staring down at their photographs miserably. Although she was the youngest member, Charlie almost felt like a leader of the little group, and was fiercely protective of her boys, thus decided to see what the matter was.

"There something wrong?" she asked.

Lars held up his photograph, "no biological relations," he explained. Charlie narrowed her eyes to see the picture better; it contained Peter, Lars, their mothers and a small dog.

"None at all?"

"Nope," Lars sighed, letting the photograph fall onto the table, "Pete and I are adopted, see? Plus, one of us is a dog."

"Luckily I have a backup plan!" Peter pulled two new photographs out of his pocket, "I overheard Sir talking about this week's activity and thought I should bring in a few pictures of our parents and their siblings just to be safe."

"Oh let's see," Nobuyuki leaned in closer.

"Well, there's Mama Taika and her little brother Eduard," Peter threw a photograph of two children on the table. The group leaned in closer and saw a picture of a young Taika and Eduard, the sister's arms wrapped around her brother.

"Apart from the fact that they're blonde," began Charlie, "they're not very similar in appearance. Even the shade of blonde's different."

"Yeah, what about Mama Astrid and her brothers?" Peter placed another photo on top of the old one. This one contained three boys and a girl, also all blond.

"Yes there are some similarities here," Kuzey gave a small smile, "the two oldest and two youngest, especially, look particularly similar."

"Yeah everyone says Uncles Aleks and Emil look pretty alike; it annoys Emil to no end. It also annoys Mama Astrid when people say she looks like her older brother, Mathias, but she also looks like Aleks a bit…" Peter babbled.

"Oh, and you, Kuzey?" Charlie turned her attention to her classmate.

"Not related to everyone in the picture," he passed the photo to her, "and my family tree's pretty complicated."

"I think I can handle it," Charlie spied Kuzey in the photograph immediately; he was one of only two children there. A teenage boy, bearing a strong resemblance to him, had his arms wrapped around the child's neck, and the pair were smiling sweetly at the camera. There was another boy, also smiling an adorable smile, next to him. They were surrounded by adults, none of whom seemed even aware that their photo was being taken. There was hair being pulled, faces being pulled, two even looked like they were in a wrestling match. Kuzey's family seemed pretty chaotic…

"Okay, the teen is my half-brother, Stelios," Kuzey explained.

"I can definitely see the resemblance," Charlie commented.

"Hair's a bit uneven though," Peter pointed out, leaning closer to see, "does he cut it himself? With a rock?"

"He likes his hair like that!" snapped Kuzey, who then turned back to Charlie, "oh, and the tall guy's my Baba, Sadik. Well, he's really my uncle but he's like a Baba to me. But he's not a relative of Stelios, see? The fella with long hair is Stelios' cousin, Heracles, and he's not related to me, thankfully. Do you understand?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Charlie frowned, "who are these other people though?"

"Housemates," Kuzey shrugged, "they live with us but aren't related, see? Actually, I think Alin and Andrei," he pointed at the child, and the young man holding his hand, "are brothers, and Alin's in a civil partnership with Tsvetan," more pointing, "but doesn't get along with Eliza. Oh, and Mohammad's a distant cousin of Baba, so they'd be related too…"

"It must be nice having a large family, even if you're not related…"

"You'd think," Kuzey shrugged, "it's pretty loud and not much privacy and everyone dislikes each other so they always fight."

"Real dislike or a sort of I-like-you-deep-down-but-you-annoy-me thing?" asked Charlie.

"Bit of both," Kuzey grinned.

"What about you, Nobu?" asked Peter, sliding closer to his friend.

"You've met my family," Nobuyuki placed a photograph in the middle of the table, "there's my mother, father and my older brother, Kiku."

"Oh yeah how's Kiku now?" asked Peter, "still cool as ever?"

"Yes," replied Nobuyuki through gritted teeth, "still cool, still smart, still the perfect child."

"Oh yeah," Peter grimaced, "forgot you don't get along much."

"He's nice," Nobuyuki admitted, "but our parents keep going on about how much I have to live up to Kiku's reputation and all. You know he's in university now? Doing a graphic designs degree. Got loads of martial arts awards, grade eight in clarinet, Duke of Edinburgh gold award, basically, anything that can be given out, he's got. I can't compete with that!"

As Peter tried to console his friend, Franz glanced at Kuzey's photograph, "is that Miss Héderváry?" he asked, gasping in shock and pointing to Eliza, the only woman in the photograph.

"Oh, yeah," Kuzey shrugged.

"Miss Héderváry's my form and geography teacher," continued Franz, "she's the best!"

"Is she?" Kuzey raised an eyebrow, "I don't have her for any lessons. All I know is that she fights with Alin and Baba a lot. But yeah, she's pretty sweet, I guess. She slips me sweets sometimes."

"She's so kind!" exclaimed Franz.

"Someone got a crush?" Lars smiled smugly at his friend, though his expression was tinted with the tiniest amount of jealousy.

"Nope, I just think she'd make a cool Mutti," Franz shrugged.

"Speaking of Mutti," Charlie butted in, "can we see your photo, Franz?"

"Sure," Franz pushed a small photograph of two people into the middle of the table, "here's me and Vatti. It was the most recent one I could find."

"Oh, where's your-" began Kuzey, but Peter shushed him.

"Died," Franz's shoulders tensed and he avoided eye contact with everyone, "few years ago,"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Didn't know," Franz smiled at Kuzey, "it's okay."

"You have your father's eyes," Charlie told him, "and you both have little moles on your faces… same noses too."

"So are you guys done?" Mr Fernandez-Carriedo turned up behind them.

"Almost," Charlie decided to act as a spokesperson, "just me left."

"Well maybe we could do your photo together as a class," suggested the teacher, holding out a hand for her photograph. Tentatively, as if she was giving up a precious gem, Charlie placed the photo in his hand.

"Oh," Mr Fernandez-Carriedo frowned, scrutinising the photograph. It was of three small children sitting on their mother's lap with another figure sitting next to them, arm on the mother's shoulder, "one of the faces is burnt out."

"Yeah, that was already like that," Charlie glanced around uneasily, "please, sir, I don't want to talk about it…"

"I understand," the teacher stood there awkwardly for a few moments, "do you want me to use someone else-"

"No, that's fine," Charlie gave a small smile.

"Oh good," Mr Fernandez-Carriedo bounded over to the teacher's desk and set the photograph on a little projector-like instrument. "What do you think of my new gadget-thingy, by the way? I put something on this surface here and it projects a picture to my computer, which I can then project onto the board."

"Fancy!" Lars gave a thumbs up, which the teacher returned.

"Now," Mr Fernandez-Carriedo turned to the enlarged picture on the board, zoomed in so the burnt-out figure was out of the shot, "here we have three siblings and their mother, provided by Miss Cooper here. May I ask what your brothers are called?" he directed that last question at Charlie.

"Oscar and Logan."

"Ah yes, I remember your middle brother quite well," the teacher turned back to the board, "now, Charlotte here shares the same hair colour with her brother Logan, and the same eye colour with her brother Oscar…" Charlie switched off as her science teacher described the features of her family members. She already knew she had her mother's eyes and father's hair colour. She knew she and Oscar had their mother's curls while Jett styled his hair relentlessly to avoid it going flat, like their father's. She also knew she and Oscar had small, button noses, like their mother, while Logan's nose was larger and looked exactly like his father's, so he wore a plaster over it to cover it up. If he could afford it, Logie would probably wear coloured contact lenses to hide his green eyes too.

In short, Logan did everything he could to avoid looking like the man he detested.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," Kuzey began slowly, "but why is your photo burnt?"

"Not at all," Charlie gave a sad smile, "our dad wasn't very nice to us, and left us in the UK when we were kids without much and this was the only photo of mum we had. Logan looks a lot like dad and probably hated seeing himself in the man, so burnt his face out of the picture. It was also probably so our only photo of mum wasn't ruined by him being in it, and so me and Oscar would forget what he looks like. It's all a bit of a drama, my family, really."

"I see," Kuzey averted his gaze; their father must've left some pretty bad memories and scars for a half-singed photo to be more pleasant than a complete one.

"Still," Charlie shrugged, "life goes on. Now, I wanna hear what sir has to say on DNA."

…

"I can't believe I'm doing this," wheezed Oscar for what was probably the tenth time, glancing around and nervously hopping from foot to foot. Michael just rolled his eyes; everyone else was probably leaving school now. He checked his watch. Yup, quarter to four; there would be no one left in school except those in detention and clubs. On the other hand, Oscar was probably still worried about his brother's reaction when he finally gets home. Michael knew he himself was bound to get an earful from Alfred.

"Chill," Mike stuffed his hands in his pockets, starting to get irritated, "we're almost at the mall."

"Over here we call it a shopping centre," Oscar commented.

"It's a big building where they sell all the cool shit," Michael threw his hands in the air.

"Thinking of anywhere in particular?" asked Oscar, tugging at his shorts, which were riding up. Oscar hated wearing the things at school, but out in the open it was plain humiliating.

"Dude, your legs are fine, not that I'm staring or nuffin," he added quickly, "just stop whining okay?"

"Fine," Oscar pouted, thinking of a new topic of conversation, "so, err, what do your brothers do for a living?" he inquired.

"They're in a band," Michael puffed out his cheeks, "but not, like, a silly college band or anything. They're a proper band; got instruments and everything. Done a few gigs in bars and clubs."

"Cool," Oscar thought the idea was stupid and reckless, especially when they were the ones who were supposed to be earning the income, but didn't comment on it; "so is that a sort of hobby-slash-future career thing? Do they have other jobs to tide them over until they get a record deal, or however that works?"

"Nope," Michael grinned, "they're a full time band. They sometimes even go on tours to nearby towns for the weekend and stuff. Of course, none of them are too good at song-writing, so just do covers of loads of different things, since everyone has a different taste in music. Since mom and dad pay for our rent and stuff, they can afford to not get a 'proper' job."

"And who else is in this 'band'?" Oscar couldn't help the sarcastic tone that came into his voice; Michael must've noticed it too.

"Their partners," the boy growled, "err, Al's girlfriend Natalya, this scary chick from Belarus or something like that, and Matthew's boyfriend Carlos, some tough-lookin' Cuban guy who smokes like a chimney."

"Oh, so Matthew's…?"

"The one people keep talkin' shit about," Michael grimaced, "apparently someone saw them standing outside the ice-cream parlour acting all couply-like and recognised Matt as my brother. Haven't heard the end of it since."

"Sorry to hear that," Oscar pulled a face; people liked to mention whenever they saw Logan with his various dates in the evenings and weekends and, especially if said dates were male, tease him relentlessly. The things people had called his brother… it made him sick to think about it. "So," Oscar brushed those thoughts aside, "which brother would you say you're more like?" Oscar hoped Michael would understand what he was insinuating. He wasn't asking out of romantic interest, just curiosity.

Michael raised an eyebrow; so he got the hint. "Well, both, really. Don't know. Maybe neither. Never given it much thought. I'll find out sometime…"

"Ah," Oscar gave a small smile; he glanced around for a new topic of conversation. Spying a small sports centre, an idea formed in his head. "Hey," he began, "remember how I said we should join a boxing club sometime?"

"Yeah?"

"The sports centre has boxing facilities," Oscar pointed to the shiny building in question, "and they're pretty cheap to use. What do you say? We could do with some time to blow off some steam."

"I thought you hated sports," Michael narrowed his eyes.

"I hate team sports," Oscar clarified, "solo ones are fine."

"I dunno man," Michael sighed, "my shoulders and elbows have been hurting lately. And my stomach's a bit dicky too."

"Oh come off it!" Oscar tucked a curl of hair behind his ear and flashed a charming smile, "the exercise will do you good!"

"Are you saying I'm fat?" demanded Michael.

"Not at all! Not compared to me, anyway," Oscar poked at his own stomach, "but exercise helps your heart and muscles, right?"

"True," agreed Michael, "and for the record, someone who looks like you is in no position to say they're fat!"

"I never-"

"I know that's what you were thinking," Michael waved a finger in Oscar's face, "so cut the crap. It's bad enough Al worries about his weight, so I don't want you starting too."

"Fine," Oscar blushed slightly, averting his gaze, "so you… worry about me?"

"Piss off!"

Oscar laughed, shaking his head, "come on, before it closes or something." He grabbed Michael's hand and dragged him through the clear, automatic doors towards the reception desk where a young woman sat tapping at a computer.

"Dude," hissed Michael, "let go of my hand! She might think we're a couple!" Oscar rolled his eyes, but did as instructed.

The receptionist looked up from her computer when she heard their footsteps, and smiled warmly, "how may I help you today?" she asked.

Oscar replied with another charming grin, "two teens for a session of boxing, please."

"Would you like an instructor?"

"That shan't be necessary."

"Okay, that'll be twelve pounds for the both of you. Changing rooms are to the left and you have an hour and a half."

"Thank you," Oscar nodded, paid, and began trotting down the hall, Michael skulking behind. The place smelled like chlorine, and faint splashes could be heard in the distance.

"Don't you think an instructor would be a good idea?" he asked.

"Nope," Oscar grinned, "too pricey, besides, my brother Logan entered boxing competitions as a child and won a few awards in his time. He taught me everything he knows."

Michael rolled his eyes, taking his sunglasses off to wipe them on his sleeve, "yeah? My brother Al entered burger eating competitions as a child; he also won a few awards, but we never figured out how he did so well."

Oscar's smile took on a strained appearance, "…lovely."

"So you can box, huh?" Michael looked him up and down sceptically, and Oscar couldn't help but feel self-conscious again.

"That's right," the pair wandered into the changing rooms mentioned. There were other men and boys in shorts and tracksuits milling about, but the place was not uncomfortably crowded. "No need to stop here, right?" Oscar asked and Michael nodded.

"I can dump my blazer and tie in the corner or something."

"Okay," Oscar pushed past a group of smaller children, probably taking a class, and wandered into the main arena. There were punch bags of all kinds dotted about and a small ring to one side. In one corner was a shelf full of boxing gloves and other equipment, which was where the two boys headed. They picked a pair of gloves each and put them on, playfully testing the things out on each other. Michael took off his sunglasses and tucked then into his blazer pocket before taking that off too, along with the dark green tie emblazoned with the school logo.

"So what do you know about boxing?" inquired Oscar, leading Michael over to a spare punch bag.

"It's just hittin' things," the boy shrugged, "not that hard dude."

"On the contrary," Oscar challenged, "there's much more to this sport," he gently pushed Michael in front of him, "now, first we have to work on your stance. The correct position of your feet is one in front of the other, but not directly in front or you'll lose your balance, this way it'll be hard to knock you over," he scratched his chin as best he could through the glove, "now, the best way to determine which foot goes first is to lean forward and whichever foot you use to stop yourself from falling goes first, right foot first then? Good, now back straight, keep your hands in front of your face, no, not touching your face, that's better," Oscar gave a final nod, "now, remember to not punch with your knuckles."

"I fuckin' know," growled Michael.

"Also," continued Oscar, "you have to know the different types of punches. It might be best if we start with the two basic ones."

"Which are?" Michael wondered if Oscar ever got sick of listening to the sound of his own voice.

"The jab, and," Oscar frowned, "the other… one, um, the one you use the other hand for," he paused for a moment, "anyway, the jab. To do that you use the arm that corresponds to the leg in front. Simple, right? It's a short, quick motion usually followed by the other hand," Oscar demonstrated on the punch bag, "now, you use your right hand to bring in this big swing in quick succession, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael rolled his eyes, "can I start now?"

"Be my guest."

Michael aimed a series of quick swipes at the target. Messy and uncoordinated, he soon ran out of breath.

"You have a lot of strength," commented Oscar, "but no aim. Calm down a bit."

"Sorry," Michael sighed, "I thought it would be a good idea to get angry and pissed off, like it would give me more strength or something, and I thought about something someone said about my brothers and lost it."

Oscar chuckled, "remind me never to badmouth your family, not that I'd ever-"

"I know," Michael grinned, "you try, lets see if you're as professional as you think you are."

"It would be my pleasure," replied Oscar smugly, taking on the correct posture, left foot first for him, and letting out a sequence of rapid, delicate punches. He swung his right arm around, landing a blow on the side of the punch bag.

"Okay, I'm impressed," Michael begrudgingly admitted.

"Here, how about I hold the punch bag steady for you, so it won't be swinging everywhere?" offered Oscar.

"Cheers," Michael threw a few more punches whilst Oscar held the bag steady, then suddenly hissed in pain, clutching his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" gasped Oscar.

"Nothing," replied Michael, through gritted teeth, "using muscles I haven't used before, right? Don't worry."

"Sure you sure?" Oscar looked at his friend in concern, "if you want a break-"

"I said I'm fine!" Michael aimed another punch at the target.

"If you say so…" Oscar shook his head, "so stubborn."

"Such a shame you can't see which finger I'm holding up," Michael shot back, "now shut up and hold the bag still."

…

Their session ended too quickly for the pair's liking, despite the fact that they were tired, out of breath and red-faced. Ambling into the changing room Oscar made straight for the sinks, washing his face and washing the mud from the attack off his arms and shoulders.

"I haven't had that much fun in ages," he gasped, wiping his face with paper towels.

"Yeah," Michael gave a small smile, "you're alright, I guess."

"Thank you," Oscar smiled, "same to you. We should do this again sometime, as a stress relief."

"That's be… okay," Michael shrugged, "it might be nice to take a few hours off from studying and homework and exams and motherfuckers every week."

"It's a date then!"

"Eh?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

"I meant that in a friendship way," Oscar shook his head, "honestly."

"Oh," Michael's face contorted in pain and he wrapped his arms around his stomach.

"What's wrong?" Oscar rested a hand on his friend's back.

"Nuffin," Michael grunted, "my stomach does that sometimes. Relax!"

"You should see a doctor about that," Oscar warned, "it could be serious."

"Nah," scoffed Michael, "if it was serious I'd be dead or something."

"What utter-"

"I'm fine!" Michael shot him a warning glare, and Oscar dropped the subject. Exiting the changing rooms, the pair wandered along the corridor and Oscar peered through glass walls at the tennis courts, swimming pool and other facilities whilst Michael lagged behind, shoulders hunched and hands still on his stomach.

Once outside, though, the American seemed to calm down.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Well, it's five-thirty," began Oscar, "and it'll take a while to get home. We should probably face the music. I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty calm now."

"Nah, I think I'll head into town for a bit," Michael began walking in the opposite direction, "see ya tomorrow then!"

"Yeah, see you…"

…

Oscar opened the front door as quietly as he could, poking his head in to peer at the dimly-lit hall. Everything was calm and silent, except for the faint buzz of the telly coming from the sitting room. Oscar wondered if he could just sneak upstairs and avoid Logan altogether, and stepped inside, slipping his shoes off and shutting the door.

Coast still clear, Oscar tiptoed over to the stairs, giving one final glance around the room before deciding he was safe from his brother's anger.

Or so he thought.

"Finally dragged your sorry arse home, huh?" Logan growled, grabbing his little brother by the back of his polo shirt so the boy couldn't escape, "fighting in school! Fighting! What the fuck's gotten into you?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Oscar cried, "calm down!'

"I was calm!" Logan shouted, "when I got the call from your head in the middle of work, I was all prepared to sit down and listen then I come home and find Charlie's using the stove by herself because you weren't home to cook her dinner!"

"I was out!" Oscar tried to wiggle free, but Logan refused to let him go, "with a friend! I was avoiding coming home because I knew you'd be like this! Sorry I'm such a disappointment problem child!"

Logan paused for a moment, blinking in shock and looking like Oscar had just slapped him. Using the momentary lapse in concentration, Oscar pulled his shirt out of his brother's grasp, throwing Logan a dirty look.

"I'm… not that bad, you know?" Logan murmured, "I'm just worried 'bout ya, kid."

"I know," Oscar sighed and dusted himself down.

"Fine," Logan shrugged, "sit down and tell me what happened." He slung his arm around his brother's shoulders and led him into the sitting room. Sprawled out on the sofa, Logan listened to Oscar's side of the story, becoming increasingly horrified as he heard more and more.

"Those little shits have been expelled, right?" he finally asked.

"Nope," Oscar shook his head.

"Detention for the rest of the year?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Well what then?" cried Logan, "their parents were told, at least?"

"Don't think so," Oscar picked up a cushion, hugging it and rocking back and forth.

"Well why the fuck not?" Logan shot up, pacing the room and running his hands through his hair.

"Dunno," Oscar replied, shrugging, "nothing we can do about it though."

"Fuck off!" exclaimed Logan, "they'll hear about this! You have parents' evening this week, right?"

Oscar nodded miserably, "please don't cause a scene."

"I will! No one treats my baby brother like shit and gets away with it!"