A schoolboy dropped onto the bench beside me. Grey blazer, black trousers, loosened tie, scuffed shoes. I noticed everything that didn’t matter. A rough diamond, I thought – though his sparkle wouldn’t cut much around here.

The riverside benches stretched empty, yet he chose mine. I should’ve told him to shove off. His presence made me feel exposed, grimy. How old was he? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? I couldn’t pin it.

He glanced at my book. “What’s it about?” The cover stared up at me like a mute witness. Say something. Anything.

Instead, he dug in his bag and handed over his own. HappyHead. Yellow jacket. Boy in a green hoodie. Like Hunger Games, but better.

A woman passed with a rat-sized dog that barked like it deserved drowning. She glanced at us — too long, too sharp. The boy grinned. “He’s my dad.” I was far too young to be. Her cheeks flared; she looked away.

I slid him The Outsiders. Black cover, five combs — four white, one yellow, streaked with red. The misfit.

He read the first lines aloud –  

“When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman – he looks tough and I don’t – but I guess my own looks aren’t so bad.” 

A smirk tugged his lips, then he handed it back. Game recognised game.