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Tucker

  Bandages were getting more expensive. Tucker was familiar—he'd been buying them regularly as far back as he could remember—but raising the price by ten pence was starting to cause him issues. He couldn't afford them this time; they cost more than he had managed to scrounge around and find, but he wasn't about to show up to school without them. So he tucked them into his large, worn-out jacket before silently manoeuvring out of the convenience store.

  He hadn't been home in a few days, and he was getting seriously tired, but today he had to show up. A dismal thing his home was—a ground-floor apartment lacking any form of window that reeked of every bad habit a person could pick up. Tucker didn't care for it much, but his mother kept bringing him back. She wasn't mum of the year or anything, but she was all he really had.

  This time, however, he had a better reason to return. He'd almost been kicked out of his high school, St. Pursuit, the year prior, but whether or not he could return was down to a letter he would receive today. It was sitting on the kitchen table next to his weary mother, who sat there smiling at Tucker as he reached for the envelope, unfurling it and examining its contents. By some miracle, he had been allowed to stay. Tucker wasn't sure why, but he was glad.

  "Looks like good news," a shaky voice rang out from across the table. Tucker's mother, extending the start of a conversation, stated, "I can see it on your face."

  "I get to stay at that school this year," Tucker responded. "Saves you the trouble of having to look for other options."

  "That's good to hear, Tuck. I was really worried for a minute."

  "It's fine. You don't have to worry."

  "Oh, Tuck, you just don't get it. There's something sleeping inside you—it just needs to wake up."

  "I think you think too highly of me, Mum."

  "What can I say? I'm your mum, after all." Her face softened, eyes cast down at the kitchen table. "You have something your dad and I don't."

  "Stop it with that. I'm perfectly average, so just stop it with all your gifted-kid bullshit, 'kay?"

  "Tuck, you really don't understand. I just want you to use what you have. To do your best. Just, please, promise me one thing."

  "Sure, Mum, whatever you want."

  "Promise you'll get out of this town, no matter what."

  "Okay, Mum. I promise."

  "Good to hear, Tuck. Now, best get ready for school, eh?"

  "Sure thing, Mum."

  With that, Tucker's mum stood from the table and walked into the parents' bedroom, leaving him alone with her words.

  When the first day of his second year rolled around, Tucker shook off his mum's words as he usually did, refusing to believe her ramblings had any bearing on his actual life. His wardrobe never let him down, at least. A baggy leather jacket he managed to get from the town's single thrift store was the centrepiece of his outfit, with it clinging to his toned body and making him appear slightly more muscular than he actually was. Tattered baggy jeans—a hand-me-down from his uncle—were his trousers of choice, especially when he coupled them with the few plain white T-shirts that made up his usual outfit.

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  The thought of going back to school wasn't exactly dreadful to Tucker, but the prospect never really thrilled him. Waste of time and useless were the two thoughts that crossed his mind whenever school was brought up, but he kept going back anyway. His mum insisted on it.

  He looked in the mirror, observing his wavy, dishevelled, shoulder-length hair oozing its usual black pigment. It wasn't exactly presentable, but it was good enough to avoid backlash at home. His pearl blue eyes dazzled in the rooms unenthusiastic lighting, reflecting the light in the same lacklustre way that Tucker presented himself as a whole. Tucker took a kitchen knife to his face and began to shave the stubble forming around his neck and jaw. Normally, his razor would have sufficed, but his mother had taken it away the week prior.

  The trip to school wasn't as gruelling as he'd remembered. Maybe it was because he had a pair of cheap wired headphones and a pack of cigarettes to keep him company, but the hour-long walk seemed to pass quicker than it had the year before. On his way, people kept looking at him. He couldn't hear them over his music, but he got the gist of what they were saying. After all, people had been saying the same things about him since he was born.

  "That's Nico Everman's son."

  That's all they ever thought of him. The whole town of Stowe believed he'd never amount to more than the son of a convict. He believed it too. After all, he was a thief, a known petty criminal and an academic failure. Everyone believed he would amount to nothing at all—Tucker Everman being no exception.

  By the time he arrived at school, his phone had almost run out of battery. His mum had got it second-hand for his sixteenth birthday, which he was grateful for, but the battery life was atrocious.

  His first class didn't start for half an hour, so Tucker decided to visit the music room beforehand. His mother always wanted to buy him an instrument, but his dad decided that the money was better spent "elsewhere."

  There was a guitar resting against the wall closest to the entrance of the music room, its strings recently tuned and kept in pristine condition. Tucker liked music. He would do more with it if he could, but that was out of his control. He picked up the instrument, figuring out the chords and keys as he went, discovering a chord progression and solo that fitted what he was thinking before playing both back to back. It didn't sound great, but it was raw. It was his.

  Before he knew it, his first class was less than ten minutes away from starting. Any other day, he probably wouldn't have cared, but he was doing this for his mum—for his promise.

  Tucker began hurrying to his first class, but all of a sudden he collided with a student he hadn't seen before as he rounded the corner.

  "OW! That hurt!" the boy exclaimed as his head hit the wall behind him.

  "Well, that makes two of us," Tucker responded whilst rubbing the back of his head. "Not like it didn't hurt me as well."

  "Of course it hurt you too. Look where you're going!"

  "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," Tucker responded. "Wait, are you in Mr Mitchell's class?"

  "I don't see how that's relevant, but yes, I am."

  "Amazing," Tucker responded with a giggle, a prankish smile spreading across his face. "Looks like we'll be spending some time together."

  "I wouldn't get your hopes up," the boy responded. "I'm far beyond whatever you're capable of."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yes. Harvard agrees."

  "Oooo, Harvard. I'm shaking in my boots, really, I am."

  "Are you always this insufferable?"

  "I've been told so."

  "Of course you have. Well... if we're going to be spending this class together, you may as well introduce yourself."

  "Oh yeah, forgot about that part. I'm Tucker. Don't tell me you're too stuck up to give me your name too?"

  "I think you'll find I am much more sophisticated then you give credit for. So, unlike you, I have some etiquette. My name is Atlas. Atlas Bentley."

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