Three Chords
“Do you fancy her?”
Toms voice, always louder than it needed to be, startled Max so much he almost dropped the broom in his hands. The broom jerked wildly and clipped Tom, who yelped down the corridor, drawing the attention of the whole class.
“Oi, Max, have you lost your mind? Whyd you hit me?”
It was too late for apologies. The class erupted in laughter, tossing aside their cleaning tools, while Mrs. Robbins peered out from the staffroom.
“Whats all this racket? Its still lesson time!”
Year 9B, newly scolded by their favourite history teacher, quickly grabbed their brooms again, acting as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
No one ever wanted to cross Mrs. Robbins. If she summoned your parents for bad behaviour, that was only the beginning of the ordeal. Her real punishment was her infamous hour-long lectures spoken in a completely monotonous voice, undisturbed by protest or pleadingso effective that even the most rebellious boys broke down by minute five, and by minute ten would beg to go home to their mums, desperate for it all to end. No one who had spent half an hour alone with Mrs. Robbins in the maths classroom ever risked her displeasure again.
But for those who respected her, Mrs. Robbins was more than a teachershe was leader, judge, and counsellor all in one. She could sort out any trouble, from a rubbish mark to a squabble with a mate. She could make even the fiercest enemies see reason and would offer support in words and in action.
Everyone knew thisespecially since Emily Carter came under Mrs. Robbins care. Emily was left behind when her mum ran off to start a new life with Emily’s stepdad while she was still in year seven. Knowing Emily had no one, Mrs. Robbins took her in, let her become part of her family with her twins, and Emily soon saw Mrs. Robbins as the mum she could actually trust, the one who wouldnt leave no matter what.
No one quite knew how Mrs. Robbins managed to convince Emily it wasnt her fault her mother left, but over time, Emily did stop blaming herself. She promised herself shed never abandon someone who needed her, because you couldnt count on finding someone like Mrs. Robbins everywhere. There arent enough of them in the world, she reckoned.
“Got poor Miss Lewis frazzled last week and now youve set your sights on me for practice?” Mrs. Robbins narrowed her eyes, and the brooms started swishing so fast the corridor was gleaming in moments. “Do you want me to hold a form-time session?”
“No!”
Year 9B shouted in such unison that something crashed in the chemistry lab next door, and Sophie Harrisonwhom Max had been watching for at least an hourmissed the volleyball she was supposed to catch.
Year 9A groaned, sensing defeat while Sophie looked lost, scanning the pitch and not quite sure how shed managed to miss the ball.
Max leapt from the windowsill, accepting a friendly thump from the wounded Tom, and gave a sheepish grin as Tom rubbed his reddened cheek.
“Sorry, mate! Honestly, didnt mean to!”
“Yeah, right! You whip me with the broom in front of all the girlsby accident!”
“It was!” Max insisted, but Tom was done pouting.
“Alright, I forgive you! Youve got a soft spot for Sophie, huh? Id have whacked someone for her too.”
Max dropped his gaze.
“I”
It was hard to say out loud what had been keeping him up at night. But if he could trust anyone, it was Tom.
“Ive written a song…” Max blurted out, feeling suddenly exposed. “But shell never know, will she…”
“Why not?” Tom hopped onto the windowsill, checking the staffroom door behind them out of habit.
“Because I can’t singor play guitar. Even if I wanted to, I couldnt do it.”
“Oh, thats nothing! Ill teach you!” Tom gave him a poke in the ribs, knowing how Max hated being tickled.
“Oi!”
“And did you write all the words? Or did you pinch them from somewhere?”
“I wrote them! Myself!” Max said, digging a crumpled page out of his blazer. “Look!”
The lines werent his best work, but they were true. They captured Sophies skipping walk, her wide open smileunlike anyone else’s in Year 9and all the hopeful ache Max felt when he watched her, this girl who seemed not to know he even existed.
Just some lad from a different class. No big deal.
Tom snatched the paper from Maxs hands before he could protest.
“Lets see! Who do we have hereShakespeare or Wordsworth?”
“Dont be daft! Shakespeare did plays, not poems! Wellmostly!” Max tried to grab the sheet back, but Tom gripped it like a limpet.
“I do know, thank you! Besides, Miss Jenkins would have my head if I mistook Dickens for Carroll!”
That dragged a smile from Max. Miss Jenkins, their English teacher, was a bit of a legend in Year 9B. She never yelled about the classs nonsense, mostly because her lessons ran in an atmosphere of hushed awe. Nobody fancied catching up on extra work, since Miss Jenkins would go right back through the curriculum, all the way to year five if needed. Miss a question, and you could kiss your “C” goodbye.
But Miss Jenkins made literature vividshe could make even the recipe for a shepherds pie sound dramatic enough for the telly. Her lessons were never boring, and she answered any question openly, sometimes pulling questions straight from anonymous notes. Some parents hated this approach, fearing it was too honest, but Miss Jenkins held her ground: it was better to tell teens the truth than to let them make mistakes they couldnt fix later.
It was Miss Jenkins Max finally confided in when he was desperate to speak his heart.
“Max, love is a wonderful thing,” shed said gently.
“Really?”
“Yes, I believe it entirely.”
“But how do I tell her?”
“Say it simply, when youre sure the time is right.”
“I dont know if I am…”
“Then wait. Treasure your feelings and give loveif it is lovethe chance to grow.”
“Im scared…”
“And thats good!”
“How?”
“Because it means youre thoughtful, Max. A fool runs in blindly. If youre scared, then maybe its not quite love yet, just something close. Youll know it when you stop being afraid. Because love isnt afraid; it does what it must. Give it time.”
“I see…”
“Write her a letter or a poem, even a song. If you don’t know how, learn. While youre learning music, youll learn about your heart as well. Put everything down on paper, Max. Its patientit can handle anything.”
“Ill try…”
Max worked on his song for almost a year.
The words refused to come when needed, nothing said what he wanted. He fought with himself, not just the page. But he kept at it.
Bit by bit, the right words arrived. The storm inside eased. Now Tom was waving the pageand strangely, Max felt nervous.
Pushing the worry aside, Max nodded to Tom, letting him read what he’d poured his heart into.
By the end of the first verse, Tom was serious. By the chorus, his brow was furrowed. He finished the page and handed it back, saying quietly:
“Give it to her.”
“Are you mad?!”
“Why write it otherwise?”
Not knowing what to say, Max simply did as Tom advised. As Sophie was heading to her next lesson, hair damp from PE, he gave her the paper with a babble of confused words. Sophie took the note, smiled, and hurried off as the bell rang for physics.
Max felt like hed grown wings. He dashed down the stairs, grabbed his jacket, and dashed outside, praying his mobile would buzza sign his feelings might not go unanswered.
His phone did buzz, but the tune was more like a funeral march than a love song.
“Oi, Max the Poet! Songwriter! Check this out!”
A photo of the crumpled note was posted in their class group chat, gathering likes and laughing reactions by the second.
Some laughed, others ignored it, not wanting to get involved. But the one who Max least expectedTomled the banter, acting all worldly-wise.
“Tom”
Max nearly chucked his phone into the park pond, unable to face the betrayal. It stung deeper than he had words for, and it took him a while to realise a short video had been filmedTom, commenting on his poem, right outside the staffroom where theyd joked with brooms that very morning.
Returning to school took only a few minutes. Tom hadnt left; he sat on the windowsill, chuckling at the comments under his post.
“Why?” was all Max managed, voice thick.
“Oi, chill! Its just a laugh!” Tom flipped his phone to show Max. “Youre famous now! Shell really notice you. Right, Sophie?”
The question was for someone behind MaxSophie herself. But Max didnt turn to look. He already knew the answer.
He pushed past Tom towards the stairs, catching just a glimpse of Sophie’s impassive nod as she walked away, utterly unmoved.
The crumpled sheet on the floor told Max more than words ever could.
Max didnt quite know how he got to the river just outside town, watching his own feet as he walked. He only snapped back to himself when he heard his phone buzzing non-stop: his mum had rung every five minutes for the past hour.
“Mum” Max croaked out, dialling her.
“Oh, Max! Are you alright?”
His mum sounded terrified, and that was enough to send Max running home, taking any shortcut he could find.
It hadn’t been even a year since his dad had left, deciding Max was old enough and that his “old” wife could be swapped for a new one. Max never did learn what went on between his parents; they said their troubles were not for him to see. They told him he wasnt losing either parentbut that was only partly true. His dad still came round, and his mum didnt stop him. But Max saw how much she struggled, so he tried his best never to upset her.
They missed the dentist appointment that day, but Mum didnt scold him. She saw something was wrong in an instant.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked gently.
Tonight, Max didnt want to be all closed off. Hed reached his limit when he saw his poem trampled on at school.
“Mum… How did you do it? How did you get through what Dad did?”
His mums eyes darkened, but she answered honestly.
“With great difficulty, love. Theres nothing harder than being betrayed by someone you trusted completely.”
“Completely?”
“Not quite. If Im honest, Im not sure people even trust themselves completely. And it hurtstill does, sometimes, even now that things have settled. But I have you. I had many happy years, and thats what matters.”
“And now? Are you happy?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Im alive. Youre here. Im healthy. If somethings left, then thats just its time gone. Life will bring something new.”
“And it will come, Mum?”
“Always does. Thats how life works, Max. For everything you lose, something new appearssometimes when you least expect it. Now, tell me what happened. Only if you want, of course.”
His mums patience and pain were so clear that Max couldnt hold back.
Who else loved him like her? No one. So Max shared his painand she understood him.
Mum listened closely, more carefully than ever before. Once, theyd always been rushing, but now they simply sat, side by side, finally hearing each other out.
“She just turned and walked away, Mum! Said nothing!”
“I can understand her. If someones hurt her feelings, sometimes its the only thing to do.”
“But she tossed my poem in the bin!”
“That could be anger, or indifference. If its anger, you still have a chance. If its indifference, you dont.”
“And how do I know?”
“Ask.”
“That easy?”
“Lifes hard enough, Max, without making it harder. People complicate everything and wonder why nothing grows. Just talk to her.”
“Why do people make life so hard, Mum?”
“Because they think simple things are dull. Struggles give us stories, excitement. If you ask me, the straight paths usually best.”
“Ill try”
“Be ready for any answer?”
“Not sure.”
“Then promise me something: whatever she says, dont react right away. Sit with it for a bit.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now off to bed. It’s Saturday tomorrow, and weve got something important to do.”
“What?”
“Were buying you a guitar.”
“Why?”
“Youll see. Trust me. And Ill find you a proper teacher. Wait for the restI’ll explain later.”
It was a simple, brilliant plan. When Sophie refused to explain her actions, Mum suggested singing the new song aloud.
“Mum, you cant be serious! After everyone laughed at meno way!”
“Yes, Max. Otherwise, youll let your first love be crushed, and always think you were shamed. But you werent. No one was mean, really, except Tom. Everyone only cared until the next funny thing happened in the chat. Right?”
She was rightby the next day, no one remembered the song when someone posted a video of their cat stuck up a tree, with the fire brigade rescuing it. That was all anyone talked about. The silly poem vanished into oblivion, and Max learned to ignore any leftover sniggers, knowing it was all Toms doing.
The reason Tom had betrayed him was simple: Tom liked Sophie, too, and couldnt think of any other way to cut out his rival. It nearly workedexcept Tom never guessed Max would find the courage to stand up, if not for his love, at least for his right to express it.
On leavers night, when Max took the stageguitar in handhe felt no fear. Mum had been right: let someone knock you down once, and its ten times harder to stand again.
His guitar playing was still shaky; his song was built from just three chordshe hadnt managed to learn more. The lyrics sometimes stumbled, his voice wavered from nerves, but he sang with the kind of heart that silenced the room.
Everyone listened.
Miss Jenkins dabbed at her eyes, smudging her mascara. Mrs. Robbins wept openly, hugging a sparkling Emily. Maxs mother beamed with pride, mouthing along. Sophie frowned, uncertain, and Tom looked down in shame.
But Max saw none of this.
He just kept singing.
The lesson: Even if youre mocked or misunderstood, never let your voice be silenced. The courage to be honest outlives every laugh and every scar. And that, above all, is what it means to grow up.
