Archie Brackett is the new kid, which isn’t an easy thing to be. I was the new kid a few months ago, but now it’s Archie and he seems to be taking it well - all things considered. 

He’s been a mystery to us from the start. I mean, most of the rest of us wear our ties loose, our shirts untucked and proudly street-stained - small but not insignificant protestations against the establishment that demands our tidy homogenization. Not Archie. His tie is impeccable, his jacket pressed and clean, and he carries, of all things, a briefcase.

And nothing seems to phase him. He smiles nearly constantly, no matter the circumstance. I followed behind him on our way to science class yesterday and a fifth year boy called out “briefcase boy!” before punching him soundly on the arm as he passed. Archie just turned and smiled, otherwise undaunted despite the bruise now undoubtedly flowering on his shoulder. I caught up to him and said “don’t worry, they’ll get bored of you. I was ‘Ginger Pubes’ for weeks but they eventually forgot about me.” Archie extended his hand. “Archie,” he said. “Ginger Pubes,” I replied with a grin.

A few days have passed and we’re sitting in the back of home room waiting for our teacher, Miss York, to show up. Archie is sitting off to the side while me, Chris, and Jonathan are talking about music. Suddenly, Archie punches his briefcase, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. “What the hell are you doing?” Jonathan asks. “Just seeing if I can punch it hard enough to make it come open,” Archie says with a sly smile. He picks it up, sets it upright on the desk and punches it again. “You’re mental,” Jonathan says with a laugh. “You wanna try?” Archie says. 

We all take turns punching Archie’s briefcase. A small split opens up in the imitation-leather in the middle, and there’s a bend in the frame on top where the clasp on the left remains tight. Chris takes a massive swing, knocking it to the floor with a skid and a thump as it collides with the wall. He massages his knuckles with a grimace: “Shit!” We all laugh.

Still, the briefcase remains closed. 

“My turn,” I say. I pick up the briefcase, place it on the desk, lift my leg and kick it with my heel. It skids through the air and strikes Lisa Hanson on the back of her shoulder. She screams and grabs her shoulder at the very same moment Miss York walks through the door, her own face stricken.

“Good God what on earth is happening here?”

Lisa is crying, justifiably upset. “Bloody idiots!” she shouts.

Miss York’s venom-blue eyes bulge behind her glasses. “Who…” she splutters before clarifying: “Who did this?”

“I’m so sorry…” I begin, but Archie cuts in, raises his hand. “It was me, miss. It’s my briefcase. I was punching it, fooling around. Got carried away. I didn’t mean to hit Lisa. I’m sorry Lisa.”

Miss York thunders to the back of the class, grabs Archie by the back of his jacket, lifts him to his feet and shoves him doorwards with a grunt. “Headmaster’s office. Now!”

Mr Bennet, our headmaster, (known to the students as Smackhead, or “Smack” for short), is a villain in his own right - a fan of week-long detentions and the occasional wooden-ruler knuckle-rap. But for sheer ferocity of temper, I’d stack Miss York against him any day. The combination seems explosive. God only knows what Archie is in for. 

The three of us remaining delinquents sit in a horrified and guilt-stunned silence, awaiting our own inevitable fates, but Miss York only lays her terrifying glare on us one more time before marching out behind Archie and slamming the door behind her. 

“Bloody hell,” says Chris. 

“What was he thinking?” Jonathan asks. 

“Dickheads,” says Lisa.

Come Monday morning I’m the first to class. Archie eventually walks in looking sheepish but relatively unscathed. 

“Mate…” I say, standing up but unsure how to approach him. “I am so sorry. What happened?”

Archie sits down with a smile, which surprises me - but then I think to myself, “that’s Archie”.

“Not much really. Old Smack gave me a bit of a bollocking, but honestly he looked more scared of Miss York than I did of him.” We both laugh. “He had me in detention for an hour after school - had to write ‘I will not act like a hooligan in class’ five hundred times in my rough book.”

I shake my head. “Well, you didn’t have to take the blame. I hit Lisa in the back, not you.”

“The whole thing was my idea mate. No worries.”

I breathe out a sigh. “Anyway, how’s the briefcase?” I ask. He smiles and holds up the object in question - it’s clearly damaged but still in one piece. “Tough one,” I say, “but maybe we should try mine?” I place my brand new briefcase on the table - a gleaming but basic red-brown Gateway store-brand version. Nothing fancy, but compared to Archie’s it’s a Rolls Royce. He laughs, eyes wide with shock.

“I can’t believe you bought one!” he says. I shrug.

“Shall I?” I say. And I stand up, pull my fist back, and with all the pre-adolescent power I can muster, I swing…

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