Oju scrambled the papers into his hands, creasing them and bending the edges. It didn’t help that he had ketchup on his fingers from the wings he had eaten or that when he bent down his tracksuit bottoms fell below his bum, showcasing his purple SuperDry underpants. It wasn’t reassuring in that moment either that he was ashamed of the very underpants he spent all his birthday money on. It was really, truly a pity that on that day Miss Wilfred was passing him in the corridor, approaching from behind thus not giving him enough time to neaten the kinks in his hair or rub his hands against each other for emergency moisture. It was a real, real shame that at that very instance he was telling his friend about his sister’s friend’s booty. Something had somehow led him to describe it in detail: the way the jeans hugged the circumference of her cheeks, like big Os, more scrumptious than any Cheerios, more sweet than Oreos, fresher than a Polo. His friend Dike had a laugh, while licking his lips. But Miss Wilfred didn’t. She didn’t say a word, only looked at him for a millisecond and then looked down at the floor and continued on. Her unspoken words were, however, more explicit than her spoken ones from only two days before: ‘do you really want to be that kind of person?’ He was answering the question involuntarily, his answer more true than he wanted it to be. The truth came too naturally, the change too unfathomable. He stuffed the pages into his rucksack, all handouts, none in order, hardly any ever read.