Banjo kicks the wall and spins to fall against it. Fifteen minutes. Basically on time. And why send him into the hall? What’s the punishment – missing class? Some genius.

He’s given detention for after school. Banjo would rather have it on Christmas Day.

After that, he manages to get into a fight. It happens like this: Banjo feels a dampness on his leg and stops walking. He pats the back of his knees and finds them wet.

‘Whit,’ he states, right in the middle of the corridor. People look. Banjo looks back. Nobody’s exactly holding a bottle of water. He turns around. There’s a wet trail behind him.

He feels the bottom of his rucksack. It’s his bottle.

‘Aw, yer kidden’!’ Banjo rips off his bag and crouches down. Everything’s soaked. Jotters, textbooks, PE kit. All of it. Banjo slaps it on to the floor, but the need to punch something burns inside his hands. He takes a breath, gathers it all up, and stands.

‘Urgh!’ Banjo stomps a foot.

Everyone within a mile radius jumps.

The short story is that his new school is the same as any other small-time school in East Kilbride, way off the coast of Glasgow. Way off the coast of anything. Same grey corridors. Same smell of dried sweat. Same washed-out sense of despair. He gives it a month, maybe two, then he’ll be out. Not because he’s such the troublemaker, but because Banjo has some wild kind of karma. It’s his first day here. He needs some form of a fucking break.

He’s not got a locker yet, so Banjo goes into the courtyard with his stuff in his arms and thinks about what to do with his dripping bag.

He spots a group of guys milling about. They look about his age. That’s not the reason Banjo notices, though.

He notices because one of the guys drops his crisp packet. Just takes it out his pocket and drops it on the ground as if the world is his own individual bin. The guy grins with all his teeth, like he doesn’t even care about the dying oceans. The prick is blond, tall, and probably popular in that smug-shitebag sort of way. He’s even got a bit of a tan despite Scotland’s version of sunshine, whereas Banjo’s a pasty, red-topped milk carton.

Unfortunately Banjo walks over. First mistake.

‘Hoi.’ His voice is curt.

They all turn.

‘Ye gonnae pick ’at up?’

The prick blinks. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Ye no’ gonnae pick up yer litter?’

Prick looks to where Banjo points and back up. ‘What’s it to you?’

Anger rises, clenching his gut in a hot clammy fist. ‘Can ye no’ pick it up?’ Banjo manages. ‘Bin’s, like, two seconds away.’

Prick grins. ‘Seriously, you part of the environmental committee or something? You go about asking people to pick up litter?’

The other guys laugh.

Banjo’s nails bite into his palms. It dulls the rising hysteria. ‘I saw ye drop it,’ he grits out, forcing his vowels. ‘Can ye no’ be a prick and jus’ pick it up.’

‘Where’d you get that accent? The bowels ay’ Glesga?’ He pitches his voice high and nasal, even though Banjo’s is deep. There are shouts of laughter now. Banjo feels his face flood with heat. As if East Kilbride is in any way posh. Might not be the city centre, sure, but it’s the Central Belt of fucking Scotland.

‘Oh aye.’ Banjo flashes his teeth in a grin. ‘Pure pick’d it oot fae they gutter.’

He can see he’s losing Prick just by the way his ear tips forward to catch Banjo’s words.

‘Bin.’ Banjo speaks clear, pointing to the litter.

‘Ahh, I get it now,’ Prick says, widening his eyes like it’s all some big revelation. ‘You’re working on commission?’

A few of his friends snicker. Irritation prickles across Banjo’s skin, sweaty and stifling.

He speaks slow and steady: ‘Pick. Up. Your. Fucken. Litter.’

‘You kiss your mother with that mouth?’ Prick raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m doing charity here. If I didn’t litter, I’d put janitors out a job.’

Something wild explodes across Banjo’s body. It’s a rupturing of all his organs so strong and sudden it goes black. The world, his vision. All of it. When Banjo returns to himself he’s got Prick’s face pressed against the pavement, a fist in his hair, knee on his back, screaming: ‘Pick it up, ye wee prick!’

He doesn’t feel the hands on him, the people pulling him off; doesn’t hear the shouts, the taunts, until a no-nonsense grip on his arm cuts off his blood pressure.

Banjo’s wrenched upwards.

‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’

Banjo stares at the face of the headmistress, hair scraped back into an unforgiving bun. Her eyes bulge like a dead fish at the supermarket. That’s all Banjo can see when he looks at her. Fish.

‘He just went crazy!’ Prick scrambles to his feet. There’s dirt smeared across his cheek, his hair tufted to one side. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

Banjo rips the litter off the ground and chucks it at his face. ‘If ye fucken tae God picked it up!’

He’s yanked backwards by the arm so hard he might dislocate an elbow.

‘Both of you, my office,’ Headmistress says. ‘Now.’

She stares at them. Her white face is now red, which somehow makes her pastiness worse, odd splotches appearing here and there.

‘I want an explanation, and a reason why I shouldn’t suspend you both.’

‘Me!’ Prick glances around like this is the end of a five-​part drama.

‘I’m sure there’s no reason why he had you pinned to the ground.’

‘Right, he didn’t have me pinned—’

‘Kyle,’ Headmistress interrupts, ‘this isn’t the first time you’ve been here. I told you next time would be your last.’

‘Okay, what the—’ Kyle laughs.

‘He didnae start it,’ Banjo cuts in before Kyle bursts a blood vessel. Because it’s true. Banjo’s no coward.

‘Finally!’ Kyle throws a hand to the sky.

‘Enough.’ She looks at Banjo. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘Wouldnae pick up his litter.’ Banjo lifts a shoulder.

‘Yeah, you’ve saved the planet, well fucking done—’ Kyle claps his hands.

‘Very thin ice!’ Headmistress booms. ‘None of that language or you’re both expelled.’

With that information, they both shut up.

‘Are you telling me you started this over litter?’ Headmistress stares.

Kyle is silent. Banjo nods.

Headmistress sighs. ‘Banjo, I’m aware things might be difficult at home.’

Kyle gives him the side-eye. Banjo’s whole body burns with shame.

‘But that’s no reason to be picking fights. It’s your first day here.’

Banjo’s jaw is glued shut.

‘Right, please leave my office while I call your parents.’

‘Whit?’ Banjo sits up fast.

‘Go wait in the reception.’

They leave.

‘Who they callin’?’

‘Fuck off.’ Kyle pushes him.

‘Aye?’ Banjo spins around, rises to his tiptoes right into Kyle’s space. ‘Wannae try it?’

‘I’m not scared of someone who looks like a wee first-year—’

‘First-year?’ Banjo barks. He’s fucking seventeen. He’s almost finished school. A new, bitter anger takes shape; Kyle’s clearly taking a dig at his height.

‘Boys!’ Headmistress calls after them.

They both sit outside the office. The walls are a weird scrambled-egg colour, and the harsh flickering of the artificial yellow lights makes it worse. The seats are brittle plastic, fraying apart at the sides and melted in the middle by the heat of everyone’s arse cheeks.

Once Banjo’s heart slows down, the anger drains like someone’s flushed the toilet in his stomach. The bruise blooming on Kyle’s cheek doesn’t make it any better.

The only thing that makes it worse is Kyle’s mum coming in.

‘Fed up with this, Kyle,’ she hisses,...