Soon as I get home from school, I’m just waiting until I can clear away the tea and escape upstairs. ‘That’s a nasty bruise on your forehead,’ Dad says, putting down his mug and peering at me. ‘How did you come by that?’ I press the swelling a bit too hard and flinch. ‘I tr-tripped,’ I say. ‘A-at the b-b-b—’ ‘Bus stop?’ I nod. ‘Like the arm of your blazer got torn at the bus stop?’ Dad frowns. I look away. I’ve spent all day waiting to be called to the Head of Year’s office for hurting Oliver. When he reports me, I’ll probably get excluded from school. Dad clears his throat. ‘I didn’t fall off a Christmas tree, you know, lad. If somebody’s giving you bother, I want to know about it.’ ‘I-I’m f-fine,’ I say. I stack our greasy plates in the sink and edge towards the hallway. Dad means well but he doesn’t understand how things work at school. Upstairs in my bedroom, I turn on my computer. While it’s booting up I watch the 5.45 train zip past on its way to Lincoln. Our house is right next to the railway tracks, so even though we’ve got double glazing, you can still really hear it. I can see the bobbing heads of all the commuters heading home at the end of their long day. I bet they’re thinking about what they’re going to have for tea or watch on TV later, they might be planning how they’ll spend their wages at the end of the month. I’d much rather be at work than at school. When me and Dad first moved to Colwick, I used to sit right here in my bedroom for hours, logging the times of the trains. I even designed a proper sheet, so it looked neat and professional. I didn’t do anything with the pages and pages of numbers, but it felt really important at the time. If I missed logging a train, I felt all panicky. Like something bad was going to happen. One night Dad asked me what I was doing, so I showed him the lists. After that he bought me a computer – and that’s when I found out there was a whole online community out there, playing Scrabble. Me and Mum used to play Scrabble all the time. If Dad was watching football in the living room, me and Mum would set the board up on the kitchen table. Now I play online with different people from all over the world. This week, there’s been Todd from Kansas, Markus from Germany, Jasminder from India, and Sarah from London. Secretly, I think that Markus might be cheating. Some of the words he comes up with, even I haven’t heard of. There’s no chit-chat or messing about, we just get on with playing the game. The other players don’t know anything about me at all. They haven’t got a clue that I can’t even say my own name or string a sentence together. I’d like to be that boy in real life. You know where you stand, playing Scrabble online; there are never any surprises. Except tonight. Tonight when I sit in front of the screen, there’s a player waiting for me. Which wouldn’t be that unusual, apart from the fact it’s not one of my regular group. It is someone completely new. A message window pops up. Hi . . . I’m Alex. Want to play? Why not? Fresh competition is always good. OK, I reply. I’m Finlay. We begin play and Alex is quite good. But I have a decent rack of tiles. A scratching noise distracts me but it’s only Neville, pootling out of his little house. Hamsters are what you call crepuscular animals, which means that Neville is usually out and about during the twilight hours. Depending on his mood, he is awake between about eight in the evening until three or four in the morning, and that’s when I get to chat with him about my day. ‘Evening, Neville,’ I call. He looks over and twitches his nose. He’s my best friend and I don’t care if that sounds crazy. Neville doesn’t give a toss how I speak and I don’t care that he doesn’t speak at all. We understand each other perfectly. Soon, Alex’s score is lagging. We’re both coming up with standard words and there’s nothing unusual about the game at all. Until the message box pops up again, twelve minutes in. I’m knackered from football training, but I’m not making excuses, you’re really good. How long have you been playing, Finlay? Chit-chat is frowned upon during both face-to-face and online play. No talking, which suits me just fine. I stare at the message box and the words in it. It has blocked off part of the board. It’s my turn. I was planning to play M-O-C-K-E-D, using the D of one of Alex’s words and placing the K, worth five points, on a double-letter square. But I’ve already forgotten the exact letter layout and the total points I’ll score. Before it affects my game any more, I click on the tiny cross up at the top right and close the message box down. I play my letters and wait for Alex to play his word. Within seconds, the box pops up again. How long have you been playing for, Finlay? I tap in my reply. Since I was six. Maybe he’ll stop chattering now. Another couple of turns each and then I play my next word that gets me forty-two points and brings the score to 278–199, my favour. That’s when the box appears again. You’re REALLY good! Soz for delay, went to make a cuppa but could only find this weird lapsang souchong stuff ☺! My stomach lurches. I’d forgotten about that tea, the strong smell of it. Mum used to drink it all the time. I thought it smelt of old kippers. Great to find an online pal, Alex types. I’d hardly call us mates, we’ve only been playing for nineteen minutes. Got no mates at sch, he says. Glad I’ve met you! I think about telling Alex I know how that feels but I’ll sound like a loser. I like how he seems to be looking up to me. That must be tough, I reply. Another turn each and that should complete the game. Where do you live? he asks. Just rough area. Alarm bells start jangling in my head. Be great if we could be mates in real life, he continues. Might as well be straight about it, whether it offends him or not. Sorry, don’t exchange personal details, I type. He’s getting Scrabble confused with a chat forum. No probs. I’m not a 40-year-old psycho . . . honest! I grin at that. Maybe I’m being too paranoid. Alex seems all right, but he’ll never improve his game if he keeps chattering on. The Scrabble clock clicks to 20:00 minutes. Game over. My fingers hover over the keyboard to say goodbye but the message box has disappeared. He’s already logged off. I sit on the floor in front of Neville’s cage, open the door and scoop his warm body into my hand. ‘Do you think I’ve found a new friend, Neville?’ I ask him. I settle him on my stretched-out legs and he sits back on his hind paws and looks up at me. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I grin. ‘We’re n-not all anti-social like you. Having friends is a good thing when you’re a human.’ Syrian hamsters, like Neville, are solitary animals. They’ll fight if they have to share their cage, sometimes to the death. But Russian hamsters become very close with their mates and get depressed if they’re separated. Which is quite nice, I think, in a funny sort of way. I would be like a Russian hamster if I were a rodent. There’s no fun in being lonely all of your life.