Pj proved it when he left the lessons whenever he wanted and the teachers never questioned it. He'd provenВ it when Phil saw him punching a random student in the hallway because he felt like doing it. Pj didn't care about what others thought of him, he proved that many times. Phil knew that that wasn't the truth, it never was. I mean we're not spreading it around or something, we're just making sure that we're not the ones they talkВ about.' 'And that makes it any better?' Phil thought heВ would never fathom the idea of pretending. Pj opened his eyes, tilting his head 'Because were not a part of it' 'Why are we still sitting here, listening to that rubbish?' Phil asked his more or less rhetorical question, like he did at least twice a week. Would he ever betray his friends? Would he talk about them behind their back? His eyes wandered over to Pj, who was sitting there with closed eyes and furrowed brows in concentration. Pretending to care, flashing smiles and making you believe that clouds are made of smoke. It was the second after, when the person you just talked about turns to you, flashing you a smile and you return it.Д®verything felt so tense, like there was always someone listening to what you did and what you didn't do and maybe there actually was. Rumors weren't just white lies, they weren't even the lies themselves. It was an usual Thurday that had just begun and Phil was already tired of hearing all these rumors, he always was. About teachers being assholes because of students being juvenile. They were listening to the bullshit that was going around about girls being sluts because of guys being players. Next to himВ were Pj and Chris, as usual, friends that he had made throughout the past couple of weeks.

'The clouds keep you warm when the sun can't, when you're too cold and turn up the heat in your room, the clouds leave through the chimney to tell the sun to be warmer the next day' and Phil couldn't understand how there were clouds in the summer then and his dad didn't either. They stillВ reminded him of the white lie his dad once told him, when he was crying over the lack of sunshine in London. Swarmed with wispy curls of white and not so white. Not grey, not indicating the heavy storm that lingered in the cold air, but clouded. He was sitting on one of the yellow benches that were placed randomly on the schoolyard - and the sky was above.

Phil lester quiff