Free Another Life by Keren David Page B

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more mixed than any other school I’ve ever been to. You never know who you’re going to be talking to.
    Lily advised me to stay a little bit separate, not talk too much, keep the girls wondering. It’s not my natural way, but it seems to work. In English, a girl called Sophie (blonde, long
legs in skinny jeans) smiled at me and asked my name, and although I can’t see her in the lounge right now, maybe she’ll come and chat later.
    Right in front of me are two girls talking about some club they went to last night, and one of them catches my eye and asks if I’ve been there.
    ‘Nah,’ I say, not liking to admit that I’m way too young to confidently blag my way into clubs. ‘I’ve not been in London much. Only just come back.’
    And then a guy sitting opposite me looks up. He’s staring at me. I try and ignore him, and carry on talking to the girls. They’re called Georgia and Paige, they live in Chelsea and
Holland Park, and they left their old school after an epidemic of anorexia.
    ‘My parents thought this would be a better environment,’ says Georgia. Paige laughs. ‘Little did they know.’
    They ask me which groups I’m in, will they see me at lunchtime, am I on Facebook? We whip out our iPhones.
    ‘I’m having a party, Saturday. Want to come?’ says Paige.
    And then they wander off to their Biology class.
    He hasn’t stopped staring. Creepy. As soon as they’ve gone, he leans towards me. He’s a tall, spotty guy, long, gangly legs and arms, head slightly too small for his body.
Hollister jeans, Superdry hoodie, black Converses. It’s what passes for a uniform in this place.
    ‘Hey,’ he says.
    ‘Hey,’ I reply.
    ‘I know you, don’t I?’
    I don’t recognise him, but that means nothing. Since Lily styled my profile picture on Facebook (a great pose, mid-air on a skateboard, I look supercool) I’ve been getting loads of
friend requests. I’ve gone from an embarrassing 220 friends to a respectable 740. I know the whole of west London (the independent school bit, anyway). I just wouldn’t necessarily
recognise them in the street.
    So I say, ‘Oh yeah, hi mate.’
    ‘From school – you were at my old school,’ he says. I don’t remember him at all. He must’ve been at prep school – maybe in the year above. I shrug.
    ‘Yeah, from school,’ I say.
    ‘So – how are you?’ He seems a bit nervous.
    ‘Uh. Fine.’
    ‘Did it all . . . you know . . . sort itself out, when you were out of London?’
    Maybe he was at boarding school number one and remembers me getting expelled. I scan my memory, but it’s a bit blurred. I’ve been having loads of late nights, plus getting stoned
maybe three times a week. I’m going to have to timetable in a bit more sleep in the mornings.
    ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m here now and it seems great. Just started last week.’
    ‘It is great here,’ he says. ‘What a contrast, eh? And everyone here’s a bit different. But it’s pricey, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
    ‘So that’s why . . . I was a bit surprised. . .’
    I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t finish his sentence. It’s all a bit awkward. I take a swig of coke and stand up.
    ‘Nice to see you again,’ I say. ‘Umm, sorry, I’m not sure I remember your name.’
    ‘Kenny,’ he says, ‘Kenny Pritchard.’
    ‘Oh right,’ I say. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if someone called Kenny had friended me on Facebook. It’s not exactly a normal name.
    ‘Archie,’ I say. ‘Archie Stone.’
    His face flickers a look of doubt and then he says, ‘Oh right. I’ve heard about that kind of thing. OK, right. Archie. Archie Stone.’
    OK, this Kenny guy is a weirdo. I’m going to have to make an exit. I start putting my stuff in my bag.
    ‘So . . . we’re all right then, Archie? No hard feelings?’
    Is that some kind of euphemism? Is he coming on to me? I’m going to have to ask Oscar about this kind of thing. It must happen to him all the time.
    ‘Absolutely