Leo was a mardy bum. Not always, but when the mood took him, he could sour milk at twenty paces.
Leo slumped deeper into the sofa, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt so low it became a fabric cave. The world, he decided, was too loud, too bright, and too happy without his permission.
“It could be,” said Maya.
“Love you too, Mardy bum.”
He scowled at the bird. The bird did not care. mardy bum
“Stop what?” Maya asked, genuinely confused.
“That’s not me,” he said, but his voice had softened. Leo was a mardy bum
By lunchtime, the mard had reached critical mass. He refused to play football because “the grass was the wrong shade of green.” He sat alone on the damp bench, watching everyone else laugh, kick, trip, and get back up again.