I do mind you asking, actually. But if you must know, he's vanished. Gone missing. Run off or I don't know what else. One day, he was here. The next, he wasn't. And no one can figure out where he's gone or even if he's still alive. And he's been gone for months, now. So there you go. I answered your question.
And, the prompt:
It is Monday morning, eleven o' clock, and the yard is awash with bright red and navy blue, the colours of Folkshire County School. Students gather near the walls and cluster around benches; the middle of the yard is reserved for a somewhat half-hearted game of football, the June heat making the players languid.
A boy and a girl stand side by side, leaning against the red brick wall of the science block. They are both small for their age - one might take them for first formers rather than the third formers they are. The boy is stocky and compact, with yellow-orange hair and watery blue eyes. The girl's long, straggly brown hair is the dull, ashy brown of tree-bark and her eyes, too, are brown, though of a lighter hue. She has the yellow-pale, knobbly-kneed look of a person who spends far too much time indoors.
"I don't see why you care what he said," she says sniffily to the boy, whose face is set - obstinate. "You don't like him."
The boy shakes his head slowly. "He doesn't like me," he corrects her, "I don't mind him. He's alright, when he's on his own."
"Yes, but when he's not, he's a complete show-off," the girl's tone is exasperated; the taut exasperation of one still making their case, not the weary, heavy exasperation of one who is resigned to what they are hearing. "Stop trying to be friends with him."
"Stop bossing me around," the boy counters. "I can be friends with who I like."
"He's not your friend."
"He will be."
The girl huffs out a weighty sigh. "The thing is, Hadrian," she says with forced patience, eyeing the boy's rumpled uniform and sticking-up hair, "You're not like Gavin Robson. All Gavin Robson cares about is hair gel and football. He's boring. You'd hate hanging round with him all the time."
"I wouldn't," Hadrian protests, "He's quite funny really. Have you ever tried talking to him?"
A brisk, impatient shake of her head. "Don't want to, either. And if you start going around with him, don't expect me to tag along."
"But, Auden -"
"Ever. And that's that." This decided, she crouches to rummage in the rucksack at her feet and extracts a thick paperback book.
That's it. Discussion closed.
SOPHIE: BtN's resident whimsical insomniac fairytale-junkie!
“Hope is the thing with feathers"