Noah Can't Even

This is Year Eleven physical education! I don’t see anything physical happening!”

“You would if I came down,” Noah muttered, making Harry snigger.

“Naomi Grimes – get your bony little arse down here – NOW!” Ms O’Malley bellowed.

“My name’s Noah!” he shouted down indignantly. “She knows damn well my name’s Noah!” he hissed at Harry.

“A tat? A ‘tat’?” What had Harry become? Why was he speaking in slang like some drug-dealing street urchin? “You can’t become cool. If you become cool, I’ll be the only uncool person left!”

Harry grinned. “There’s no danger of me becoming cool, innit?”

“Don’t push it. Knob.”

“Speaking of which, how’s yours?”

“It’s worse than ever. If you have a … boy-type issue for more than an hour you have to go to hospital. I read it on the internet. I can’t be hospitalized with a boy-type issue! My mum would have a field day.” He closed his eyes and pictured the scene: the doctors consoling his sobbing mother. We’re sorry, Mrs Grimes, there was nothing we could do… It just exploded. The operating theatre is carnage.

But Noah did have a number of points in his favour: good teeth, feet that didn’t smell, and a relatively new pair of black-rimmed spectacles that definitely made him look like he worked in advertising in London. Yes, there was work to do. Other boys had more muscle tone and looked bigger, whereas he was skinny and a bit awkward. Other boys were more hairy in unexpected (and sometimes alarming) places, whereas he was quite … well, smooth. And he was still shorter than most of the girls – with the exception of Maisie Andrews, who was currently in a wheelchair