London, 2001
Winter in London wasn't cute.
Not the snowflake-in-your-eyelash kind of cold, but the grim, bone-deep dampness that leaked into your ears at tube station corners—grey, sticky, and smelling faintly of petrol and burnt wires.
Julian's school was somewhere near Highbury. A typical state comp: faded brick, puddles on the roof, and a peeling OFSTED sign outside that still read "Satisfactory." Some days, even the teachers weren't sure they wanted to keep teaching.
That morning, he was late.
Not because he forgot to set his alarm, but because there were five or six boys loitering by the postbox near his front door—smoking, laughing, kicking an empty Coke can.
He recognised one of them. Dean.
They'd gone to primary school together. Now Dean had a buzz cut, Nike Air Max trainers, Adidas joggers, and a mouth full of F-words dipped in London slang. He smiled like he was daring the world to punch him first.
Julian didn't greet him. Didn't change his route. Just kept his head down and walked fast, one earbud in, blasting a bootleg CD of OK Computer he'd ripped from the local library.
"Don't leave me high,
Don't leave me dry…"
That morning, half the class was missing.
The teacher didn't show.
Instead they sent in a supply lady, one of those with a Marks & Sparks tote and that look like she'd rather be anywhere else.
She scrawled some random geometry problem on the board—clearly nicked from a textbook—and sat down with a sigh like she'd just given up mid-life.
Julian was at the window seat, still going over the mistake log from the night before.
Inverse functions. Graph reflections.
He was so focused he didn't hear the paper being torn behind him.
Until a wet ball of tissue hit the back of his head.
"Oi, boffin. Think you're at Oxford already, yeah?"
He didn't turn.
Just closed the notebook, pushed his hair back, and stood up slowly.
Picked up his bag and walked out of the room.
It was the first time he'd ever bunked a class.
Not because he was scared.
But because, at that moment, the desk felt like it belonged to someone else's life.
He walked into Angel station and caught the southbound train.
It was just past 11 a.m.—off-peak, half-dead.
One couple with a buggy.
A few people who looked like they'd been riding the Tube all night, clutching carrier bags and staring past everything.
The announcement came in crackly and bored:
"This is a Northern Line train to Morden…"
Julian stared at the window's reflection, trying to see his own expression and failing.
No anger.
No shame.
Just a quiet, bone-deep exhaustion.
The kind that whispers: even if you ace the exam, it only means you get moved to a colder, lonelier room for the next one.
He got off at London Bridge.
The streets were all construction and pigeon shit.
He walked past a Costa, crossed Borough High Street, and slipped into a secondhand bookshop with no heating.
A little battery-powered radio was crackling in the corner—BBC Radio 4, something about the irreversible class divide in the UK education system.
In the back, a table full of battered finance paperbacks.
He picked up one, Irrational Exuberance.
His thumb landed on the phrase: "market sentiment."
That's when it hit him—
These grown-ups talking about "the market"?
It was just another schoolyard. But meaner.
They looked at your name, postcode, what shoes you wore, where the envelope came from—
Every single thing had a price tag.
He wasn't one of them.
He'd just not made a mistake. Yet.
Julian closed the book.
Stood up and walked back out into the street.
His fingers were red from the cold.
His ears were burning.
One shoelace had come undone.
He bent down to tie it, knuckles stiff, mind still replaying that one sentence from earlier:
"When I get to place a bet, I won't let them win it."
He didn't know if that counted as ambition.
But right then and there, he decided something—
His life wouldn't be scored by a bloody report card.
The kitchen light was that cold, bluish kind—
the kind that made every grain of rice look like it was on trial.
Dinner was last night's stew, reheated—
lamb, carrots, potatoes, all gone a bit grey.
A thin layer of oil clung to the rim of the pan.
Julian sat at the small kitchen table, his back to the fridge.
His bowl was only a third full. He ate slowly.
Every so often, the spoon clicked against the ceramic like a timer.
His mum sat across from him, wrapped in her old wool jumper, sleeves pilled and loose.
She chewed a piece of carrot, then paused.
"You done your uni application?"
Julian looked up. Didn't answer right away.
"Still working on the personal statement," he said.
"LSE might be… a bit of a stretch."
She frowned.
"You get scores like that and you think it's too much for you?"
He looked down, pushing rice around with his spoon.
"You know it's not just grades," he said softly.
She set her chopsticks down and let out a sigh.
"So where, then?"
"Warwick. Maybe City."
"Aren't they good too?"
Julian didn't reply.
He stood up, went to the cupboard, reached for the curry powder, turned back—
"Any rice left?"
She nodded, lifted the lid of the rice cooker. Steam poured out.
And in the space between the rising steam and her breath,
Julian heard a sentence echo in his mind like it was written in chalk:
In this city, being smart isn't an asset. It's a target.
It was already dark outside.
In London winter, half four might as well be midnight.
Julian stepped out of the main building.
Kid A was still playing in his headphones.
His North Face backpack hung crooked, the zip stitched together with three rows of staples.
By the car park, he spotted two familiar faces.
White trainers. Slouched joggers.
A washed-out Nike hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
Dean. And Kyle.
Dean waved, grinning.
"Yo, genius. Got a sec?"
Julian didn't stop, but didn't run either.
He slowly took out one earbud and stood two metres away.
"Got a homework thing," Dean said.
"Some function bullshit. You're the math guy, yeah?"
Julian said nothing.
Kyle stepped forward, held out a can of Fanta.
"Help us out, innit. On us."
Julian took the can, looked at the label.
Then gently placed it on the ground.
"Not doing it."
The air went stiff.
Dean shrugged, smirking.
"You lot, man. Always thinking you're better.
What, gonna go Oxford and save the world?"
Kyle spat near Julian's shoe. Then stamped it in.
"Enjoy your Oxbridge, dickhead."
Julian didn't flinch.
He didn't walk away either. Just calmly put his earbud back in.
"I'm not going to fucking Oxbridge."
He said it low.
Then took a slow step back and walked the long way round them.
But he remembered every word.
Down to the punctuation.
That night, when he opened his workbook,
on the last page he wrote:
"Always think you're better."
"Enjoy your Oxbridge, dickhead."
He wasn't going to forget.
He just wasn't ready to fight back. Yet.