Part 1
The classroom is a scene of mild chaos. In one corner a group of girls are comparing the tartan trim they've sewn into their clothes in emulation of their favourite pop stars. In the center of the room rival groups of football addicts argue over the exploits they expect of their favourite teams over the course of the weekend coming.
You look at these groups and know them all and yet you're not a part of any. You drift around the room exchanging smiles with each of the many vague friends you have in your class but don't stop to talk to any of them. You're not normally a gregarious boy. Today though you're even quieter than usual.
The headache is back. It's been plaguing you for months now and with increasing frequency. At first you'd suffer no more than once every few weeks, now you're finding that the headaches come every day. They start off gently, just an aching pressure behind your eyes, but pretty soon they evolve into pulsing starbursts that your skull can barely contain.
You glance cautiously around the classroom as the teacher enters. This is the last lesson of the day and it's just supervised reading, part of the reason for the relaxed atmosphere in the room. Half an hour of silent reading, you think to yourself, and then you can go home. You should be able to manage that.
You sit down and pull your book from your bag. Your teacher gives it a disapproving look as she settles the rest of the class down but she says nothing. A novelisation of the film 'Star Wars' might not be her idea of taxing literature but it's better than the small kid's books some of the class are reading. Silence is established, interrupted only by the occasional scrape of a wooden chair across the floor or the rustle of a turned page. You stare at the words that swim on the page before you, aware only of the ticking of the classroom's clock and the throbbing in your skull that keeps time with it.
"Jay?" You don't notice that the teacher has left her desk until you hear her speak beside you. Involuntarily, you gasp. "You've not turned a page for ten minutes, Jay. Is there a problem?"
"Ah...just a bit of a headache, Miss." You tell her but even the sound of your own voice hurts enough to make you wince. She frowns, looking concerned.
"Follow me please, Jay." She says and leads you out of the room. You manage to follow without staggering, aware of looks from your classmates. As you leave the room you glance at the clock. Five minutes to go.
Your teacher turns as soon as you are in the relative privacy of the corridor and you lean, gratefully, against the whitewashed wall. The teacher is a middle-aged woman, her blond hair thinning and whitening. To a fifteen year old boy like you she seems positively ancient although she's probably not much past forty years of age.
"Jay," She says gently. "Several of your teachers have noticed your headaches in the last week or two. They seem to be getting worse. Is there something you haven't told us? If your work keeps suffering we will have to ask your parents to come in to talk to us. Is there anything bothering you that you'd like to talk about?
Do you:
a) Talk to her about this?
b) Not talk?
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