sign of the times.
The History Boys.
Irwin. His new pupils. Madness (the band) and madness (the general noun).
Written for thekatiefactor for thbficexchange. I have missed this fandom like crazy. And there is so much lovely stuff posted at this community, so when you're done here, go read what's posted; you'd be insane to miss it! (Ahh, like the little recurring theme of madness in this intro? How slick I am.)
He should have guessed it wasn't just an act.
In his own days at school (not as far back as he'd like them to be), there were boys just like them. The lads who'd recite poetry and lines from plays like trained professionals, ready at teacher's beck and call. Come lunchtime, they were back to their own young selves - their real selves - relaying sport statistics in coarse Mancunian accents or taking cheap shots at one another's mums.
He knows this first hand. He was one of them.
But of course, none of them really had anyone like Hector at the professor's podium. Mrs Maynard taught Arts, not English, and although she loved hearing her students repeat the coursework by heart as much as any other proper teacher should, Irwin always had a feeling that she never really saw it as more than an entertaining fancy. She didn't believe in it. And no one in their right mind would, really.
Hector believed in it.
And if Irwin thought that reciting that sort of rubbish was a waste of time when it was presented as nothing more than amusement for the teacher that could boost one's marks, he held nothing but contempt for what was supposed to be passed as infinite wisdom. That sort of thing got you nowhere, when it came right down to it.
There was no denying that Hector was intelligent, but he was also a bit mad. Had to be. His priorities were all out of sorts.
Irwin supposes that was the reason he was hired in the first place.
Clutching his lunch sack in one hand, briefcase in the other, he makes his way down the corridor, sensible loafers tapping smartly on the linoleum as he passes. This will be his first day eating lunch outside, with the 'locals' - or 'savage beasts', as Headmaster calls them. Hector opts for the slightly kinder 'incompetents', and Lintott merely sighs and says, "They're just boys."
No reason why they can't be all three.
If there ever was a time for the staff lunchroom to be repainted, Irwin hasn't the faintest why it ought to be now. Sure, it's springtime, and that's the best time to paint, his father used to tell him - but why now? Why peri-fucking-winkle blue? Just... why?
There are, as always, the whisperings amongst the staff about a pretty hefty piece of work that the Headmaster has against one of the rugby players (Davis? Davidson?) and his use of a certain ability-inducing miracle drug. There's also the fact that the boy's father is the head of his own construction company, wonder of wonders. O'Connor, the Maths teacher, is cheeky enough to wonder aloud one day as to why the staff lunchroom is more of a priority than the section of destroyed lockers in the East Wing, and Lintott nearly snorts coffee out her nose when the Headmaster chooses that moment to enter the lounge.
Truthfully, Irwin's pondered as much himself, but has far more tact and restraint than to actually say so.
No wonder his new students are so disappointed in him.
Pushing his way out through the double doors that lead out into the schoolyard, it's difficult not to spot them at once. While the other boys are running around or making indiscreet attempts to chat up female students on the other side of the chainlink fence, a certain group of eight are all hunched around a wooden picnic table - not one of the ones under the shade of the makeshift tin roof extending from the building, but one pushed out directly into the few smatters of sunlight that the dingy clouds overhead will allow. They're all being loud, acting things out, but one voice in particular rises above the others, with more than a hint of smugness laced into it. Three guesses as to who it is.
He thinks twice about approaching them, and settles for merely watching from a distance at first. Perhaps he should have taken Lintott up on her offer of joining her and the others for lunch at The Black Snake, but Hector was going, as well, and Irwin still isn't nearly comfortable enough to spend a half hour's time in close proximity to the man, even if it is only munching on chips in a poorly lit pub.
Once upon a time (again, not too long ago), he had a group of his own. His lot, as he called them. Although not all of them pursued the same academic interests, they still found enough in common with one another. With each passing day, he sees more of them in his pupils - and vice versa - than he ever thought he would.
Marcusson was obsessed with rugby, and was a fair hand at it, too. He pretty much had his pick of scholarships when it came time to go to university, so many choices all spread in front of him like a deck of cards in garish college colours; something that didn't go by the other boys without a touch of envy. He still meets up with Irwin in the pub on occasional Sundays, and best yet, is usually the one to buy the round.
Carpenter, like Irwin, was also a fan of history, although he went into law. As a public defender. Education wasted there, Irwin used to think, but eight years later, and Carpenter is a hometown hero, mentioned in the paper every other week for some bloody good deed he'd accomplished or fledgling charity he'd saved from the big, evil corporate baddies. And where exactly is Irwin, now? Lucky to get a mention in the school paper as a runner up in the Worst Dressed column, second after the Headmaster. No, he supposes that Carpenter's got him beat for now.
Mulcahy wanted to go into what he referred to as 'the culinary arts', and the other boys gave him more hell for that than they ever did Irwin for wanting to go and actually teach. And not just teaching anyone, either. People - no, boys - like them, even. The horror.
Steiner wanted to be a freelance writer, and if he ever managed to overcome the terminal disease that was procrastination, he might have actually done pretty well for himself. That, and if he hadn't moved to Spain with his girlfriend and in doing so managed to fall completely off the face of the Earth.
Then, there was Fitzgerald, the aspiring journalist. As far as Irwin knows, he is still living with his parents.
"Tommy, m'lad, I reckon you're going to permanently freeze into that position if you don't put the damned book down every once in a while," said Steiner, raising his eyebrows.
"Hasn't your mum warned you on the dangers of that stupid look on your face staying like that, as well?" Irwin returned sweetly, not looking up from his book. It was one of his favourites, on disassociation and the Holocaust. As exciting as discussions on the size of the Choir teacher's tits and how Arsenal was faring in the league were, he'd just as soon forget them both.
"If you freeze like that--" Steiner continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "--you'll never be able to use your hands again. And won't that be a pity for the ages, eh?"
"I'll manage."
"What, you're going to pay someone to wank you off, then?"
Marcusson hid his snickers behind a well-timed cough, unlike Fitzgerald, who laughed loudly and openly.
"What're you laughing at, Fitz? You've got to pay someone off already, haven't you?" Carpenter interjected swiftly. Now it was Mulcahy's turn to laugh.
"Oh, go on, you're breaking my heart," said Fitzgerald, eyeing him. "Just throw one of your pasties at my head and put me out of my misery."
Mulcahy looked hurt, despite the fact that he knew the other boy was only taking the piss. "What's wrong with my pasties?"
"Nothing that any serial poisoner would ever have any cause to complain about."
"Remind me of that next time I bring something to lunch for you lot to sample," Mulcahy sniffed.
"Better put ol' Tom out of his own misery first, if that's how you're going about it," said Marcusson, a wide grin on his face. "Between that book there and a swift death, the answer should be fairly obvious."
"The most obvious answer of all," Irwin said, still refusing to look up, "is that this book is far more interesting than you can ever hope to be, and you can just go--"
"--fuck off," says Lockwood. "Your turn."
Irwin blinks, jarred back to the present.
Timms exchanges a glance with Crowther, then clears his throat. "The dream is gone," he cries in a high, effeminate voice, which at first Irwin thinks is intended to be a rather cruel impersonation of Posner. Timms claws at the air with one hand, drawing snickers from some younger years who have gathered closer to the table to watch.
"But the baby's real," replies Crowther, also in falsetto, albeit one a tone lower than Timms'.
Scripps interrupts before they can continue. "A Taste of Honey!"
"Try something a bit harder, next time, won't you?" says Dakin, catching Irwin's eye and smirking before directing his gaze back to the others. "Hector'll be onto that one before you manage to spit out the first word."
"My nine-year-old sister's a more convincing actor than you lot," adds Akthar, and an orange slice is thrown at him for his troubles. "Cheers," he says, picking it up from the table and popping it into his mouth.
"Who's next?" asks Posner.
"You and me, Pos," says Scripps. "Ready?"
Posner nods, running a nervous hand through short hair before straightening his posture and lifting his head with such grace that he almost becomes a different person. "Look, now, you are king in the chapel," he recites in a voice lighter than usual, tone firm but coy. To Irwin, the transformation is startling. "But I will be queen in my own kitchen."
"You will be queen wherever you walk," Scripps returns, grinning, and the other boys aren't mature enough to keep from erupting into giggles at this exchange.
"What does that mean?"
"I... I should not have said it."
"Why?"
"I have no right to speak to you so."
Posner wanders over to Scripps, who has melodramatically turned his back on him. "Mister Gryffydd," he says, touching his shoulder, "if the right is mine to give, you have it."
Things are quiet until Lockwood lets out a low whistle, and the others follow suit with scattered applause and catcalls.
"Well, yes, but what is it?" asks Posner, breaking character.
The boys look stumped for a moment, and before he can help himself, Irwin mildly interjects, "How Green Was My Valley. Very nice."
Eight heads turn in his direction, some more surprised than others.
"Shite," Lockwood exclaims, scowling at him and fumbling to crush out his cigarette. Posner averts his gaze, lips thinning, and sits back down.
Irwin pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, eyeing the red ash on the far end of the picnic table. The Headmaster won't be very happy about that. "I'm not on lunch duty, boys. Just looking for a place to sit and eat."
"Why, sir, that surely wouldn't be a veiled attempt at asking to sit with us, now, would it?" asks Timms, jumping out of his seat and bowing deeply in a caricature of an distinguished maître d'.
"Skip the theatrics, Timms. I'm sure that bench by the trees will do nicely."
"Well..." says Scripps, watching Posner out of the corner of his eye. "We wouldn't mind if you sat here with us, sir."
"Nonsense, you're all crowded enough as it is."
"Rudge can shove off with the firsties," says Dakin cheerfully. The aforementioned looks up from a half-eaten cornbeef sandwich, confusion furrowed on his brow.
"You say my name?"
"Really. It's all right--" Before he can finish protesting, Irwin's arms are seized on either side by Timms and Dakin and he is pulled roughly into something vaguely resembling a sitting position. "Oh, thank you," he says dryly, pushing his glasses back into place once more.
"Don't mention it, sir!" says Timms, beaming.
Irwin bites back the urge to yell, "Shut it, Fitz!" and instead gets to work on his lunch, pulling out a sandwich wrapped in foil.
"What's that you've got there, sir?" asks Akthar, craning his neck to get a better look. "Not some rare or endangered species that was captured, killed, and sold for raw mass consumption?"
"Tuna, actually."
"That's the P.C. term for dolphin," says Crowther dryly.
Timms immediately turns on him, grinning madly. "And when have you become our token environmentalist?"
"They talk about that sort of thing on the news," says Crowther, looking bored. "Radio programmes, mostly. You know, that great big box with all of the little dials and numbers on it?"
"Ooo-ooooo-oooh."
This eloquent collective comes, of course, from the Greek chorus that is Dakin, Akthar, and Lockwood. Rudge frowns, squinting at his own sandwich and lowering it away from his face, as if expecting it to suddenly sprout legs and cry, "You murderer!"
"On such a full sea are we now afloat," says Posner quietly, and the others nod; not just with recognition, but understanding.
And here's where Irwin realises - finally gets - that despite their endless supply of sonnets and undeveloped theories on war, they're still boys. They're still kids. Just because they're kids and they aren't faking the business with the plays and lines doesn't make it any less... true. A stupid observation, to be sure, but nonetheless a relevant one.
They may not believe in it the way that Hector does, but it's more than just a rung on the ladder to success for them. And he can't help but see flickers of Steiner's sharp observancy in the way Scripps gently reprimands the others. Rudge is a sweeter, and dimmer, version of Marcusson. He sees a bit of Carpenter in Crowther, his calculated words and gestures deceptively simple.
But it's not in Dakin that he sees outspoken, acid-tongued seventeen-year-old Tommy Irwin - rather, it is in the bookish Posner that he recognises his own double. It's in the way the boy refuses to look at him rather than outright express his apparent dislike; it is this that joins the gaps between Irwin's more foolhardy young self and his current, smoother persona that could give ol' Manny Carpenter a run for his money.
Odd, that.
Before long, there's five minutes left in the lunch period, and he excuses himself to prepare for the afternoon lesson. Dakin claps him just a little too hard on the back before he manages to escape, calling, "See you in class, sir!" at his retreating back.
"See you in class, sir!" Timms repeats in a high, silly falsetto.
Akthar smirks, an evil glint entering his eye. "Awful eager to get him to sit next to you, weren't you?"
"It must be love, love, looove!" sings Lockwood, in an eerie imitation of Graham McPherson. He actually doesn't sound half bad.
"Nothing more, nothing less, love is the best!" Akthar and Timms chime in.
"Shut up!" says Posner.
Irwin pretends not to hear them, crumpling his empty paper sack into a little ball and looking for the nearest rubbish bin. He spots one by the back entrance to the school, tossing it in from some distance before heading back inside. And maybe it's his imagination, but he thinks he hears one of them shout, "Ten points!" before the doors slam shut behind him.
Irwin. His new pupils. Madness (the band) and madness (the general noun).
Written for thekatiefactor for thbficexchange. I have missed this fandom like crazy. And there is so much lovely stuff posted at this community, so when you're done here, go read what's posted; you'd be insane to miss it! (Ahh, like the little recurring theme of madness in this intro? How slick I am.)
He should have guessed it wasn't just an act.
In his own days at school (not as far back as he'd like them to be), there were boys just like them. The lads who'd recite poetry and lines from plays like trained professionals, ready at teacher's beck and call. Come lunchtime, they were back to their own young selves - their real selves - relaying sport statistics in coarse Mancunian accents or taking cheap shots at one another's mums.
He knows this first hand. He was one of them.
But of course, none of them really had anyone like Hector at the professor's podium. Mrs Maynard taught Arts, not English, and although she loved hearing her students repeat the coursework by heart as much as any other proper teacher should, Irwin always had a feeling that she never really saw it as more than an entertaining fancy. She didn't believe in it. And no one in their right mind would, really.
Hector believed in it.
And if Irwin thought that reciting that sort of rubbish was a waste of time when it was presented as nothing more than amusement for the teacher that could boost one's marks, he held nothing but contempt for what was supposed to be passed as infinite wisdom. That sort of thing got you nowhere, when it came right down to it.
There was no denying that Hector was intelligent, but he was also a bit mad. Had to be. His priorities were all out of sorts.
Irwin supposes that was the reason he was hired in the first place.
Clutching his lunch sack in one hand, briefcase in the other, he makes his way down the corridor, sensible loafers tapping smartly on the linoleum as he passes. This will be his first day eating lunch outside, with the 'locals' - or 'savage beasts', as Headmaster calls them. Hector opts for the slightly kinder 'incompetents', and Lintott merely sighs and says, "They're just boys."
No reason why they can't be all three.
If there ever was a time for the staff lunchroom to be repainted, Irwin hasn't the faintest why it ought to be now. Sure, it's springtime, and that's the best time to paint, his father used to tell him - but why now? Why peri-fucking-winkle blue? Just... why?
There are, as always, the whisperings amongst the staff about a pretty hefty piece of work that the Headmaster has against one of the rugby players (Davis? Davidson?) and his use of a certain ability-inducing miracle drug. There's also the fact that the boy's father is the head of his own construction company, wonder of wonders. O'Connor, the Maths teacher, is cheeky enough to wonder aloud one day as to why the staff lunchroom is more of a priority than the section of destroyed lockers in the East Wing, and Lintott nearly snorts coffee out her nose when the Headmaster chooses that moment to enter the lounge.
Truthfully, Irwin's pondered as much himself, but has far more tact and restraint than to actually say so.
No wonder his new students are so disappointed in him.
Pushing his way out through the double doors that lead out into the schoolyard, it's difficult not to spot them at once. While the other boys are running around or making indiscreet attempts to chat up female students on the other side of the chainlink fence, a certain group of eight are all hunched around a wooden picnic table - not one of the ones under the shade of the makeshift tin roof extending from the building, but one pushed out directly into the few smatters of sunlight that the dingy clouds overhead will allow. They're all being loud, acting things out, but one voice in particular rises above the others, with more than a hint of smugness laced into it. Three guesses as to who it is.
He thinks twice about approaching them, and settles for merely watching from a distance at first. Perhaps he should have taken Lintott up on her offer of joining her and the others for lunch at The Black Snake, but Hector was going, as well, and Irwin still isn't nearly comfortable enough to spend a half hour's time in close proximity to the man, even if it is only munching on chips in a poorly lit pub.
Once upon a time (again, not too long ago), he had a group of his own. His lot, as he called them. Although not all of them pursued the same academic interests, they still found enough in common with one another. With each passing day, he sees more of them in his pupils - and vice versa - than he ever thought he would.
Marcusson was obsessed with rugby, and was a fair hand at it, too. He pretty much had his pick of scholarships when it came time to go to university, so many choices all spread in front of him like a deck of cards in garish college colours; something that didn't go by the other boys without a touch of envy. He still meets up with Irwin in the pub on occasional Sundays, and best yet, is usually the one to buy the round.
Carpenter, like Irwin, was also a fan of history, although he went into law. As a public defender. Education wasted there, Irwin used to think, but eight years later, and Carpenter is a hometown hero, mentioned in the paper every other week for some bloody good deed he'd accomplished or fledgling charity he'd saved from the big, evil corporate baddies. And where exactly is Irwin, now? Lucky to get a mention in the school paper as a runner up in the Worst Dressed column, second after the Headmaster. No, he supposes that Carpenter's got him beat for now.
Mulcahy wanted to go into what he referred to as 'the culinary arts', and the other boys gave him more hell for that than they ever did Irwin for wanting to go and actually teach. And not just teaching anyone, either. People - no, boys - like them, even. The horror.
Steiner wanted to be a freelance writer, and if he ever managed to overcome the terminal disease that was procrastination, he might have actually done pretty well for himself. That, and if he hadn't moved to Spain with his girlfriend and in doing so managed to fall completely off the face of the Earth.
Then, there was Fitzgerald, the aspiring journalist. As far as Irwin knows, he is still living with his parents.
"Tommy, m'lad, I reckon you're going to permanently freeze into that position if you don't put the damned book down every once in a while," said Steiner, raising his eyebrows.
"Hasn't your mum warned you on the dangers of that stupid look on your face staying like that, as well?" Irwin returned sweetly, not looking up from his book. It was one of his favourites, on disassociation and the Holocaust. As exciting as discussions on the size of the Choir teacher's tits and how Arsenal was faring in the league were, he'd just as soon forget them both.
"If you freeze like that--" Steiner continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "--you'll never be able to use your hands again. And won't that be a pity for the ages, eh?"
"I'll manage."
"What, you're going to pay someone to wank you off, then?"
Marcusson hid his snickers behind a well-timed cough, unlike Fitzgerald, who laughed loudly and openly.
"What're you laughing at, Fitz? You've got to pay someone off already, haven't you?" Carpenter interjected swiftly. Now it was Mulcahy's turn to laugh.
"Oh, go on, you're breaking my heart," said Fitzgerald, eyeing him. "Just throw one of your pasties at my head and put me out of my misery."
Mulcahy looked hurt, despite the fact that he knew the other boy was only taking the piss. "What's wrong with my pasties?"
"Nothing that any serial poisoner would ever have any cause to complain about."
"Remind me of that next time I bring something to lunch for you lot to sample," Mulcahy sniffed.
"Better put ol' Tom out of his own misery first, if that's how you're going about it," said Marcusson, a wide grin on his face. "Between that book there and a swift death, the answer should be fairly obvious."
"The most obvious answer of all," Irwin said, still refusing to look up, "is that this book is far more interesting than you can ever hope to be, and you can just go--"
"--fuck off," says Lockwood. "Your turn."
Irwin blinks, jarred back to the present.
Timms exchanges a glance with Crowther, then clears his throat. "The dream is gone," he cries in a high, effeminate voice, which at first Irwin thinks is intended to be a rather cruel impersonation of Posner. Timms claws at the air with one hand, drawing snickers from some younger years who have gathered closer to the table to watch.
"But the baby's real," replies Crowther, also in falsetto, albeit one a tone lower than Timms'.
Scripps interrupts before they can continue. "A Taste of Honey!"
"Try something a bit harder, next time, won't you?" says Dakin, catching Irwin's eye and smirking before directing his gaze back to the others. "Hector'll be onto that one before you manage to spit out the first word."
"My nine-year-old sister's a more convincing actor than you lot," adds Akthar, and an orange slice is thrown at him for his troubles. "Cheers," he says, picking it up from the table and popping it into his mouth.
"Who's next?" asks Posner.
"You and me, Pos," says Scripps. "Ready?"
Posner nods, running a nervous hand through short hair before straightening his posture and lifting his head with such grace that he almost becomes a different person. "Look, now, you are king in the chapel," he recites in a voice lighter than usual, tone firm but coy. To Irwin, the transformation is startling. "But I will be queen in my own kitchen."
"You will be queen wherever you walk," Scripps returns, grinning, and the other boys aren't mature enough to keep from erupting into giggles at this exchange.
"What does that mean?"
"I... I should not have said it."
"Why?"
"I have no right to speak to you so."
Posner wanders over to Scripps, who has melodramatically turned his back on him. "Mister Gryffydd," he says, touching his shoulder, "if the right is mine to give, you have it."
Things are quiet until Lockwood lets out a low whistle, and the others follow suit with scattered applause and catcalls.
"Well, yes, but what is it?" asks Posner, breaking character.
The boys look stumped for a moment, and before he can help himself, Irwin mildly interjects, "How Green Was My Valley. Very nice."
Eight heads turn in his direction, some more surprised than others.
"Shite," Lockwood exclaims, scowling at him and fumbling to crush out his cigarette. Posner averts his gaze, lips thinning, and sits back down.
Irwin pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, eyeing the red ash on the far end of the picnic table. The Headmaster won't be very happy about that. "I'm not on lunch duty, boys. Just looking for a place to sit and eat."
"Why, sir, that surely wouldn't be a veiled attempt at asking to sit with us, now, would it?" asks Timms, jumping out of his seat and bowing deeply in a caricature of an distinguished maître d'.
"Skip the theatrics, Timms. I'm sure that bench by the trees will do nicely."
"Well..." says Scripps, watching Posner out of the corner of his eye. "We wouldn't mind if you sat here with us, sir."
"Nonsense, you're all crowded enough as it is."
"Rudge can shove off with the firsties," says Dakin cheerfully. The aforementioned looks up from a half-eaten cornbeef sandwich, confusion furrowed on his brow.
"You say my name?"
"Really. It's all right--" Before he can finish protesting, Irwin's arms are seized on either side by Timms and Dakin and he is pulled roughly into something vaguely resembling a sitting position. "Oh, thank you," he says dryly, pushing his glasses back into place once more.
"Don't mention it, sir!" says Timms, beaming.
Irwin bites back the urge to yell, "Shut it, Fitz!" and instead gets to work on his lunch, pulling out a sandwich wrapped in foil.
"What's that you've got there, sir?" asks Akthar, craning his neck to get a better look. "Not some rare or endangered species that was captured, killed, and sold for raw mass consumption?"
"Tuna, actually."
"That's the P.C. term for dolphin," says Crowther dryly.
Timms immediately turns on him, grinning madly. "And when have you become our token environmentalist?"
"They talk about that sort of thing on the news," says Crowther, looking bored. "Radio programmes, mostly. You know, that great big box with all of the little dials and numbers on it?"
"Ooo-ooooo-oooh."
This eloquent collective comes, of course, from the Greek chorus that is Dakin, Akthar, and Lockwood. Rudge frowns, squinting at his own sandwich and lowering it away from his face, as if expecting it to suddenly sprout legs and cry, "You murderer!"
"On such a full sea are we now afloat," says Posner quietly, and the others nod; not just with recognition, but understanding.
And here's where Irwin realises - finally gets - that despite their endless supply of sonnets and undeveloped theories on war, they're still boys. They're still kids. Just because they're kids and they aren't faking the business with the plays and lines doesn't make it any less... true. A stupid observation, to be sure, but nonetheless a relevant one.
They may not believe in it the way that Hector does, but it's more than just a rung on the ladder to success for them. And he can't help but see flickers of Steiner's sharp observancy in the way Scripps gently reprimands the others. Rudge is a sweeter, and dimmer, version of Marcusson. He sees a bit of Carpenter in Crowther, his calculated words and gestures deceptively simple.
But it's not in Dakin that he sees outspoken, acid-tongued seventeen-year-old Tommy Irwin - rather, it is in the bookish Posner that he recognises his own double. It's in the way the boy refuses to look at him rather than outright express his apparent dislike; it is this that joins the gaps between Irwin's more foolhardy young self and his current, smoother persona that could give ol' Manny Carpenter a run for his money.
Odd, that.
Before long, there's five minutes left in the lunch period, and he excuses himself to prepare for the afternoon lesson. Dakin claps him just a little too hard on the back before he manages to escape, calling, "See you in class, sir!" at his retreating back.
"See you in class, sir!" Timms repeats in a high, silly falsetto.
Akthar smirks, an evil glint entering his eye. "Awful eager to get him to sit next to you, weren't you?"
"It must be love, love, looove!" sings Lockwood, in an eerie imitation of Graham McPherson. He actually doesn't sound half bad.
"Nothing more, nothing less, love is the best!" Akthar and Timms chime in.
"Shut up!" says Posner.
Irwin pretends not to hear them, crumpling his empty paper sack into a little ball and looking for the nearest rubbish bin. He spots one by the back entrance to the school, tossing it in from some distance before heading back inside. And maybe it's his imagination, but he thinks he hears one of them shout, "Ten points!" before the doors slam shut behind him.