A pretty youth, pale and wan, enters the room. He is late, so late he could be a ghost.
“You’re late!” shrieks Ms Regan. “Why?”
The waif nods. “Christmas panto, miss!”
He wrote it.
“Detention!”
She’s had it with this boy. He’s either late or absent – or too poetic. Much too poetic. His last late slip was a sonnet. His last essay was mostly metaphors. His imagination is surplus to targets. And he’s stroppy. When she asked him what he was reading he replied: “Words words words!” Teenage boys eh?
And he calls himself “Will”. Well, Will is well weird – with his flowing hair and pointy shoes and fancy earrings and Caravaggio tattoos and headphones full of Dowland – and that quill.
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