Free The Beauty Is in the Walking by James Moloney

to be real.
    We all liked Mrs Schwartz, not because she was the smiley type who tried to brighten up school assemblies with cheerful bullshit, but because she gave every waking hour to us, and we knew it. Mr Lambert was there, too. He’d gone through his version of what happened and then I’d done the same, explaining how I’d ended up on the ground. No one attacked me ; they had to understand that.
    Lambert nodded gravely to confirm my account and Mrs Schwartz seemed relieved that she didn’t have to browbeat the truth out of me.
    â€˜Well, Jacob,’ she said, looking surprised. ‘I can never condone boys getting into fights, but on this occasionI have to commend you. You were trying to protect Mahmoud. You’re sure you’re okay?’
    She glanced at the bandage on my elbow, but what she’d really been saying was that I was a skinny-boned cripple who’d been mad to get in the way.
    â€˜Have you ever been in a fight before?’ she asked.
    I thought of Dan and Mitch and the dickhead from the toilets and wanted to say, Yeah, I’ve been in a fight and my side won, too . I shook my head.
    After a brief knock the door opened and Mum was in the room. Judging by the concern on her face, you’d think I was half-dead.
    â€˜Are you all right, Jacob?’
    Christ, how many times would I have to answer that one?
    Then Mum saw the bandage and the dirt on my clothes and she was beside me, wanting a look at my elbow. ‘Where else are you hurt?’
    I turned my arm away so she couldn’t take hold. ‘Mum, I’m seventeen,’ I said to her, trying not to sound rude in front of the teachers. ‘It’s no big deal.’
    She backed off and seemed to understand my embarrassment, but she was fired up with mother-stuff and it had to go somewhere. She started in on Mrs Schwartz.
    â€˜I saw a boy waiting outside with his parents, the . . .’ She paused, reluctant to describe them because of how it might sound. ‘Is he the one Jacob was fighting with?’
    Mrs Schwartz looked towards the door, frowning.‘Oh, Mahmoud . . . no. He’s the one . . . well, perhaps you should hear the whole story.’
    So everything was repeated, in Mrs Schwartz’s words this time, and that was when I became a hero.
    I wanted to cut in and say, You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was bloody useless , but I couldn’t backchat the Principal in front of my own mother.
    â€˜Best take Jacob home,’ Mrs Schwartz suggested and she made for the door, holding it open as we passed through.
    Outside, Mahmoud sat with a man beside him who was surely his father, bearded and black-haired and wearing the uniform of the meatworks. As soon as he saw us, the father was out of his chair and coming at me in rapid, threatening strides.
    â€˜This is one of them, who attacked my son,’ he said sharply to Mrs Schwartz. It was a question, really, but the way he said it sounded like he’d come up with his own answer.
    I tugged my head down between hunched shoulders and lost my balance in the brief moments before I saw that he’d stopped short. Mum was caught out, too, and almost fell when I grabbed hold of her to keep myself upright.
    Then Mahmoud was beside his father, shooting out words like a fire hose in a language I didn’t know – Arabic, I suppose. I didn’t need a translation to guess what he was saying and soon enough the father had backed off.
    â€˜My son has explained. I’m very sorry,’ he said sincerely and, with his face reddened by embarrassment,he went back to his seat where Mahmoud bent over him, whispering still in their own language.
    Mrs Schwartz was saying something to Mum – maybe she spoke to me as well, but I was watching Mahmoud, who turned to face me, as though he’d sensed my eyes on him.
    Until our paths had crossed an hour ago he’d been the surly-eyed spy who watched