Ackley Bridge’s a school in Ackley—of course. Took no genius to work that out. 2017, when it began.

Ups and Downs. Mrs Carter wanted to open a place for everyone. And, damn, she made an effort. Maybe she wasn’t always excellent, maybe she didn’t always make the right decisions. But she was pleased with the outcome in the end nevertheless.

You know—a school that united whites and browns. People said it wouldn’t work. But it did, maybe not straight away; but presently a good progress nonetheless.

Sam Murgatroyd was a new arrival. A pleasant one? Not exactly—to not only you. Cousin to Candice Murgatroyd, teen mother.

Walking into the canteen, where you alongside your mates sat, people’s eyes followed and gasped; the movement of pulling out phones for the schools group chats—boys and girls—as well as the possible secret chats people were in.

Sam, the slur written on her forehead under her ginger short hair; jumped on a free seat three lads were sat at; as she then stood on the table. People got up out of their seat to go towards the scene, as teachers mainly froze—even the lunch lady, Mrs Paracha, paused and watched with a wide mouth.

“Have you all got a good look? Yeah? This is what a dyke looks like.” Sam shouts across; not directing at anyone in particular—Candice stood beside the table in defence of her cousin.

“You think you can embarrass me? Scare me?” She mouths off—narrowed, purely frustrated, eyes flickering towards where Razia Paracha, youngest daughter of the canteen lady, along with her group sat.

“Well, you can’t, ‘coz i’m a lady-loving, no, you can’t watch,” Sam tells—in which a few girls giggle out of shock and other girls grimace while a boy, who was one of the three sat on the table the ginger girl was standing, recorded.

“Raving lesbian, an’ I don’t care who knows!” She finishes. Mrs. Keane shouts her name, and the recent deputy head called Mr. Saah commands her to get down.

With a scoff, Sam pushes herself off, jumping down—then goes directly to Razia’s table, whereas she flips over two lunch trays; fish and chips that weren’t even touched spilling, a muffin rolling onto the floor—in which someone stepped on; as girls shout.

One stands up—Shannon—though Candice is quick to stop her; “Wan’ another go? You’re gonna have to go through me first.”

Sam attempts to scrub off the black pen written slur on her forehead with the blue uncomfortable toilet paper—you begrudgingly walk into the loo; bag slung around your shoulders.

She must’ve saw you out of the corner of her eye—or, well, in the mirror. As she lowers the paper.

“Did you put them up to this?” With the same narrowed, but less frustrated, eyes.

You decline, shaking your head with, “No, of course I didn’t.” In disbelief. “I would not do that!” You make it clear, furrowed brows.

Her expression softens just slightly, she turns back to begin scrubbing the top of her head once more. “Well, I bet they regret it now. Shut ‘em all up, didn’t I?”

The Murgatroyd girl chucks the piece of toilet paper to the bin, washing her hand and lifting her hair out of her forehead—scrubbing at it with her fingers.

You go and attempt to help. “Here you go.” You hand it, genuine kindness—or well; the basic decency of a human. Not like there was much generosity here at this school nowadays.

Sam peers behind her shoulder, gazing down at your hand; as if in surprise, and suspicion. She takes it after a moment of silence—without a ‘thank you’.