The chairs are full of kids who don’t understand the weird ones, and the weird ones who learn to disappear. He’s one of them. Thom Yorke. He walks with his head down, like he’s listening to music no one else can hear. He always sits in the back, by the window. And never looks at anyone.

You, on the other hand, paint your nails in class, and you like girls, boys, and aliens if it came to that. You like what vibrates differently. And Thom... Thom vibrates like a whole planet out of tune.

Today someone hid his backpack. They shoved it into the fourth-year kids' locker. Thom didn’t say a word. He just stood there, hands hanging down, like he was used to having pieces of his life quietly disappear.

And there you were. “Hey, Thom,” you said, and he almost didn’t turn around. Just dropped his shoulders, like the sound had pushed him. “They’ve got it in the hallway. Locker 218. Want help?”

He didn’t say yes, but he walked with you. The backpack was there, like a wounded animal. You handed it to him, and for the first time, he looked at you.

“Thanks,” he murmured.