Replies to reviews:

You would never know me anyway – I agree with you. Morgy would never become a teacher, I just wanted to post this story somewhere where I would actually get reviews. And I also agree with you on the teacher-student relationship thing. Freaks me out, which is why I made sure that Morgead was the youngest he could be (22). I just like exploring things like that through writing. Thanks for the review :)

DelalTheEpicNinjaTurtle – I've actually already completed this story, but I'm thinking of a 3-4 shot prequel (no promises, though), so I'll probably do that in third person. Thanks for the review :)

I don't own Night World.

Chapter 2

I'm mega excited when I wake up the next day for my detention with Blackthorn (note the sarcasm). In fact, I'm so excited that I swear for about a minute straight. It's actually fascinating how inventive I can be when suitably inspired.

Anyway, I drag myself out of my best friend (my bed) and stumble downstairs, still half dead, but wake up pretty darn fast when I see Claire sitting at the table, looking perfect and sipping a mug of something-or-rather. "What are you still doing here?"

"I slept round. Guess you didn't notice." She gives me a disparaging look.

Oh great. If she slept round, it meant that she would give me a lift. And it was snowing outside, so there was no way I was walking. It really doesn't pay to get up for school.

I pull a face at her and get a bowl of cereal. She watches me with a sour expression. "Why don't you ever put milk on your cereal?"

"Don't feel like it."

"Huh," she says under her breath. I ignore her and finish as quickly as I can before bolting back upstairs to try and sort out my hair.

It's actually not too bad today. I just have to clip back a couple of wayward strands and I don't look like I've dragged my hair through a bush backwards, as my lovely, dear father often says.

The drive to school is awkward as ever, with Claire trying to start up a conversation or two, but as they're all about school, I put a stop to them quickly. The relief is evident on her face when the torture finishes and she goes to her own form room as I make my way to mine.

My form are known as the 'rejects'. Always makes everyone feel so light and fluffy with happiness when they hear that. I swing open the door, and as always there's a massive argument going on in the corner (I give them two minutes before they dive for the chairs, or knives that they probably have stuffed in their trousers) and some girls are flirting outrageously with the resident 'hottie', who also happens to be the biggest man-whore Ipswich has ever seen. I collapse onto my chair and close my eyes, ignoring the raucous laughter coming from the other group, the ones that are obsessed with comics and anything which explodes.

Nothing calms down when the teacher comes in (if anything, it gets louder) and he spends a couple of minutes struggling to do the register, and escapes as soon as he can, rubbing his forehead. He does that often.

I drag myself out of the stupid chair and scuff my feet on the way to the door. Chemistry first; what fun.

"Jez!"

I'm surprised as a voice calls out my name – no-one ever actually talks to me here – and turn to see the man-whore. "Hi, Matt," I say, feigning politeness. Well, I wasn't exactly going to call him man-whore to his face, was I?

He gives me an easy smile, and I try not to shudder. "I wanted to ask you something."

I can't help the sigh, and I cross my arms. "Go on, then," I say, already quite bored.

"Did you want to have dinner tonight?"

My breath comes out in a huff, and I glare at him automatically. "Can't. I've got detention."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Band practice," I say. "I've got to go, Matt. I don't want to be late." I escape, relieved about stepping around that minefield. I practically run all the way to the lab.

Oh, an experiment. This day was just fabulous (sarcasm, again). Most people loved doing experiments, but I always hated them. Just a mixture of the goggles and having to actually get up and move around... I don't know. It really didn't suit me.

Not that I'm lazy, but... okay. Maybe I am a bit lazy. But so is every single teenager on this godforsaken island.

And afterwards, I have music, the only lesson I look forward to. I tend to stick to the piano, and as the only piano I can use is in a tiny practice room the other side of the Performing Arts block, and I'm working alone on my term project, I'm always alone in the room. I prefer it that way. I actually spend most of my time perfecting the set for the gig we have on Saturday instead of the actual work, but I can always practice at home. And anyway, I need to be in the right mood to play classical music, and after the day I'm having I am not in the right mood.

There's a free period between break and lunch, so I decide to stay in the practice room wallowing in self-pity and a deep loathing for Blackthorn. And it will only get worse, as I have English next.

I make sure I'm late, so that I don't have to walk with all the idiots, and Blackthorn doesn't even look up from the board, just says, "Sit down, Jez. We're adding ten minutes to your detention tonight."

I jump. Dammit, he didn't even see me, how'd he know who it was? I scuttle to my chair, thoroughly disconcerted and actually stay quiet for almost the entire lesson.

Generally, my detentions would last an hour, and they never went very well. Blackthorn would completely ignore me. And, to begin with, it was no different. As soon as the rest of the class have filtered out, he handed me back my essay (which had a red 'D' written on it) and just said, "to begin with, you can re-write this."

"Could be worse," I mutter. "I actually think I made some valid points." I look up at him innocently, but he doesn't respond, just goes up to his desk and starts marking work or whatever it is that teachers do. Probably playing noughts and crosses against himself.

I flick through the book, not actually reading anything, and wondered again exactly why I'd chosen this subject, when I was so bad at it and didn't actually enjoy it. But it wasn't as if I could drop it without incurring my mother's wrath.

I work for about twenty minutes before he stands up again. "That's all the time you'll have for one question in the exam," he says.

"What?" I yelp. "You are kidding, right?"

He sighs. "No. And I've been saying the same thing since September."

I look away. Oops. I hand over the lone sheet of paper, which probably had about 300 words on it, no more, and brace myself against the attack.

But he surprises me. "Much better, Jez," he says, and takes it back to the desk.

I blink. "Umm, sir? What exactly was better about that one?"

"You used quotations. That pushes your mark up to a B. You were right; you made some valid points, but if you don't back them up you can't get higher than a D."

I smile. Aha, he finally complimented me.

"But you don't develop the points enough to make it particularly strong, so you aren't getting an A."

Oh. Of course. I glare at him, though he doesn't notice so instead I sigh and watch out the window.

"Like with your point about Crooks being segregated, you can go on to say how it is a microcosm for how black people were treated in 1930s America."

I almost burst out laughing as the gardener starts pulling on some ragwort, but can't get it up. His face starts turning red from the exertion.

Blackthorn comes back to my desk and places the paper in front of me again, just as the gardener manages the rip the ragwort up, and promptly falls on his butt. My laughter is joined by Blackthorn's, and I'm surprised by how much I like the sound. It's as if it flows or something.

Oh, look at me. The most beautiful man in the world – who hates me – has a nice laugh and I mentally swoon. The next laugh I give is in mockery to myself.

He points out exactly what to do to push my mark up to an A, but I don't really listen to his words. Instead, I find myself watching his lips whenever he's not looking at me, and the way the sunset light filtering into the room throws off a rainbow of colours from his messy jet-black hair. It's actually a mixture of blue and black and red tips, not just the basic black it seems to be most of the time. And it looks so soft. I have to clench my hands together defiantly to prevent myself from touching it.

"... and here you can pick up on the plosive alliteration..." he trails off and smiles slightly, just one corner of his mouth quirking up. "I'm losing you, aren't I?"

I keep my gaze nonchalant. "It's been a long day," I say, happy when it comes out as if I am bored, rather than suddenly immensely attracted to him as I am.

He pushes back the paper to me. "Well, I've written a few notes. Go home. Have a look at them tonight or tomorrow."

"Thank you," I say carefully. I actually wouldn't put it past him to suddenly say, 'No, I'm just kidding! You're staying here until seven.' Keeping a careful eye on him, I stand up experimentally, and when he doesn't respond other than walking away back to his desk, I shoot out of the door, breathing a sigh of relief. At least now, with a few walls between us I can be sure I won't jump on him or something.

Claire is, understandably, I suppose, very mad about my being more than half-an-hour late. She wastes another five minutes yelling at me. Really, when you looked at us, you wouldn't think that she was actually eight months younger than me.

"I was in detention, Claire."

"You were... what?"

"Detention." Her face displays her shock. "Don't tell me you've never been in a detention before," I groan. We couldn't actually be related. I mean, seriously! Detention is like an extra-curricular activity for me! Especially English detentions, actually. I ponder this whilst Claire starts shouting again. "For goodness' sake, Claire," I say as I side-step her and open the car door. "Can we please get home? I've had a really long day."

She splutters angrily at me – apparently too angry to say anything coherent, but stomps round to the other side of the car, slamming the door behind her roughly and jerking the key so violently I'm surprised she doesn't break it in half.

I don't pay attention to her rant as we drive home. I feel strangely light and happy.