Hero. Sarah Lean

to be a gladiator in the real world, not when the nearest we have are boxers and wrestlers. I wanted to be like a gladiator though. I wanted other people to think I was fierce, brave, strong and worthwhile. Which was entirely different.

      I dropped my bike. Took an uneasy breath. Walked over to the scooter. They couldn’t see what I could see: me, the victor, and the abandoned chariot of a defeated gladiator.

      “Le-o!” they chanted again.

      The moon made a shimmering target on the dark pond, like a trap door in the amphitheatre where all the destruction, the losers, the broken and defeated things go. I pushed hard against the mobility scooter and ran with it, down the slope, and let it go. The scooter tipped over into the pond. It bubbled and sank, disappeared into the black depths. I punched the air. They laughed, roared and cheered my name. It made my teeth tingle. This was being a gladiator for real.

      

      School for the next few days was completely different. Fist bumping all over the place, back patting, sitting on the back row, being one of Warren’s mates while George was still off school. I was famous now. People I hardly even knew were asking me to take out their teacher!

      I was following Warren and his mates to our corner (our corner!) of the playing field at break time when Beatrix Jones caught my sleeve. She stood in front of me, narrowed her eyes and asked, “Why’s George not here?”

      “He’s sick,” I said.

      “Hmm,” she scowled. “Sick of what?”

      I shrugged. I didn’t know what she meant.

      “I’m surprised,” she said.

      I hesitated. “He’s got flu. Why’s that surprising?”

      “Not about George, about you.”

      I guessed it was a compliment, that she was surprised I’d done something people noticed and was now one of the popular kids.

      “Thanks,” I said.

      She huffed. “I mean surprised you’ve been fooled by Miller, idiot!”

      Beatrix Jones was weird, so I didn’t listen.

      I went to catch up with Warren which was when I overheard him saying to Josh to spread the word that they were meeting at the Rec again on Friday after school. The message didn’t exactly get given to me, but I didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be. The thing is, once you’ve tasted fame, you just can’t get enough of it. You know when you’ve eaten half a bag of crisps and you’re saving the rest for later, but you go back to the kitchen to finish them after only a few minutes of waiting, plus you get a piece of cold chicken from the fridge and maybe some cheese? That’s what fame feels like. A feast.

      So, on Friday, I went.

      Warren was leading the others across the field, all of them on glossy newish bikes. Warren looked down at my bike, at the torn seat, the clunking gears, the tyres worn smooth. Then I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t exactly invited this time. My bike was half the size of his and everyone else’s, and the brakes had just about had it. “Hey,” I said. “What are you all doing?”

      Warren grinned.

      “We’ve got business in town. Private business. Maybe see you some other time.”

      “Yeah, sure, I was just, you know …” but he wasn’t listening.

      Warren’s knees bent, he yanked up the front of his bike and they cycled past while I cringed inside. My cheeks flamed. I kept my back turned. Why had things changed so quickly?

      Behind me I heard barking. It was Jack Pepper, darting about in front of Warren’s bike. What was he doing here? Warren twisted and put his foot down quick, but Jack ran away. He tore past me, turned and raced back, straight towards me. He stopped, looked up. I didn’t know what he was doing there or asking me to do.