"You're late, Charlie," said Mr Stevens. "Do you have a note from your mother?"

  "No, Mr Stevens," said Charlie.

  At the back of the class, one of Ryan's friends sniggered.

  Mr Stevens folded his arms. "Why were you late?"

  Charlie shrugged and looked at the ground. No one liked a snitch. Part of him thought that his status at this school couldn't get any lower. Maybe it was time to tell someone about Ryan and his gang.

  But the playground rule still held. Snitches got stitches. And there were no other schools within half an hour of Te Kohe.

  "No reason?" said Mr Stevens, and a small titter of laughter ran around the class. Mr Stevens silenced it with a glare. "This is the third time you've been late this term, Charlie. Next time will mean a detention, and a letter to your mother. Go to your desk."

  Charlie slunk along the line of pupils to find his desk, halfway to the back of the class. He dumped his bag on the floor and slumped into his chair. His lunch was gone, and his essay for English class was crumpled and mud-stained.

  "Hey, weirdo," hissed Jay. Charlie didn't look around.

  Mr Stevens wrote 'Chief Hone Heke' on the whiteboard, and began listing important dates.

  "Next time we'll chuck you over the fence too," whispered Jay, and the girl behind Charlie giggled.

  Charlie hunched his shoulders and stared at his desk, wishing he was home with his mum, where the kitchen always smelled of baking, and the garden bloomed all year round.

  *

  At lunchtime, Charlie sat by himself on the bench outside room B3, while kids ran and yelled and played on the jungle gym and swings.

  He was hungry, and wanted to do something other than sit and feel his empty stomach grumble, but he didn't have anywhere else to go.

  A shadow fell across him and he looked up.

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  "Hi Charlie." It was the tall, dark-haired boy from that morning by the fence. "Mind if I sit down?"

  Charlie shrugged.

  They both sat, side by side, staring at the riotous play. Charlie remembered a nature doco he'd once watched about the African savannah, and how every animal had a place in the ecosystem.

  There were the predators: lions, cheetahs, and leopards. In this world, that was Ryan and his gang. Then there were the zebras, deer and giraffes, who ran in herds and stayed out of trouble. That was most of the other kids there. The teachers were like the elephants who lumbered around, and tried to keep some sort of order.

  And then there was Charlie. He was like a wounded animal, or a fawn separated from its herd. Easy prey, always attracting the attention of predators.

  "I'm sorry about this morning," said the boy. "I would have helped you if I could."

  Charlie huffed a quiet laugh. "It's a bit late for that."

  "That's not true," said the boy. "You're just—" he broke off as footsteps sounded on the concrete.

  Ryan and Jay approached, hands in the pockets of their designer jeans, baseball caps at a jaunty angle on their artfully ruffled hair.

  "You talking to yourself again, weirdo?" said Ryan.

  "He's got no friends," loud whispered Jay. "So he has to invent them."

  Charlie stared straight ahead. This was run-of-the-mill bullying. Ryan was not nearly as inventive as his predecessor, the god-like Tommy. When Tommy had ruled the school, Charlie had considered running away from home to join the circus, or the navy, or anywhere to avoid the daily pain, humiliations and torments that had rained down on his head.

  "Ryan," came a voice. It was Miss Greenberg, the new teacher. She strode across the courtyard, cardigan flapping. "Go and bother someone else. Well? Go on." She made a shooing motion with her hands, and Ryan slouched away with a glare, Jay trailing in his wake.

  "Charlie," Miss Greenberg smiled. "Why don't you go spend time with the other kids?"

  Charlie closed his eyes, briefly exhausted. He opened them to see Miss Greenberg's face, open and friendly. Right then, he felt like he was far older than her, a world-weary thirteen year old, who may as well by ninety.

  "They don't like me, Miss Greenberg," he said. "They wouldn't talk to me."

  "Well, have you tried them lately?" she said.

  Charlie shook his head.

  "I'd offer to go with you, but I know that'd make things worse," she said. "But I feel sad to see you sitting here by yourself every lunchtime."

  "It's ok," said Charlie. It was certainly better than getting dead arms, or dead legs, or having his face ground into the sand of the playground.

  Miss Greenberg studied him. "You're a good kid, Charlie. And smart. I'm going to have a think about what to do about this situation. Hang in there."

  She strode away, and Charlie dug his fingers into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. Just three more hours, and he could go home.