The boy, nine years of age slumped on the rickety classroom chair. If it were not for the messily dyed and cut black hair and the dirty expression that had become a permanent facial feature, Pierre Morhange may have been considered handsome. His heavy fringe was clearly intended to be straight cut but it had been outgrown and drooped over his eyes in an uneven line but his high cheekbones created a clear lines across his face so that sometimes, just sometimes if you caught him off guard just for a second then you saw an almost angelic expression upon his small face.
Pierre wondered how long it would be till they chucked him out. 'They' being the state school authorities of course. He didn't care, after all, it was inevitable. He never bothered to do any work, was a thief, a liar, a chronic runaway and a word that Pierre often heard whispered and cherished the meaning of, introverted. That word meant he was winning.
It wasn't that he wasn't clever, far from it, he just didn't want to try. It just wasn't worth the effort, why bother? Yet he didn't mess around and play with the other boys instead, he just sat, scowling, thinking. Brooding. They spat at him behind his back and whispered funny names about that queer Morhange but they never dared confront him face to face. But he knew. And he knew that they were, in truth a little scared of him, and that was just how Morhange wanted to keep it.