‘OK,’ I said, when it was obvious Will wasn’t going to let it go. And he was right, of course — if we didn’t act now then something really awful could happen.

  Something really awful has already happened.

  ‘OK,’ I repeated. ‘But let’s go see her first, see what’s up.’

  Will came over and helped me to my feet. ‘Sure, but you have to promise me we’ll call the cops.’

  And I looked straight at him and said, ‘I promise.’

  I wasn’t lying.

  Twiggy’s front door was unlocked, the house seemingly empty. I led Will upstairs to her bedroom, the one down the end of the hallway with her name spelled out in wooden letters on the door. I had a set of letters just like that, as had Sophie A. Mrs Abercrombie had given them to us for our tenth birthdays.

  A Trio of Sophies no more.

  I knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open.

  ‘Twig?’ I whispered. When she didn’t answer, I walked in, Will close behind me. The bedside lamp was on, casting a glow over her swollen face — swollen with tears. No marks, no bruises.

  He’s good like that, no visible trace. I should know.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Twiggy said, more tears curling beneath her chin. Her breathing was shallow, like it hurt a lot.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Will said.

  I said, ‘What did he do?’

  ‘We were arguing. He pushed me, and when I fell over, he …’ She let out a half-sob, half-whimper. ‘K-kicked me.’

  ‘Jesus, how many times?’ Will crouched beside her, sucking in his breath when she tugged up her top to show him the discoloured skin on her right flank.

  ‘Just once. James said he was s-sorry.’ Twiggy took a small, wet, breath. ‘He wanted me to stay the night, but I said I was coming home. He said I had to say it was an accident.’

  ‘I bet he did.’ Will looked at me. My mind was racing, going down various blind alleys and ducking out again, trying to find my way through the maze. I needed to be strategic. I needed to be smart Sophie, smarter than everyone else.

  ‘Twig,’ I said, still thinking, still plotting. ‘We’re going to call the police.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘No. No, you can’t. My parents will kill me.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘They won’t.’ I glanced at Will. ‘Can you give us a minute?’

  Will straightened up. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  This is what Twiggy told the police.

  A couple of months ago, her English teacher, James Bacon, offered to give her extra tutoring. The first couple of times, she stayed behind after school and he tutored her in the classroom. Later they’d meet at his house.

  He didn’t touch her at first.

  Then, a month ago, Mr Bacon asked her to kiss him. He told her he’d give her a good mark for her essay if she did. Twiggy refused. Mr Bacon had been pestering her ever since.

  Tonight Mr Bacon asked Twiggy to come over for dinner. He made it clear if she refused, then he’d tell everyone she was cheating on her tests and exams. Twiggy, feeling trapped, went to Mr Bacon’s house. Mr Bacon fed her ravioli and white wine. When he asked if he could kiss her, Twiggy said yes.

  She’d thought that would be enough, but of course it wasn’t. Mr Bacon wanted more. Twiggy let him touch her breasts.

  (Can we not just leave it at the kiss?

  Trust me, you need to make this hurt him as much as he hurt you.)

  When he tried to unzip her jeans, she pushed him away. He persisted. They struggled, and Twiggy fell onto the floor. He kicked her and called her a slut. Struggling to her feet, Twiggy ran out of the house and drove home, then called her best friend.

  That would be me.

  I always used to beat you at chess, James, do you remember that? You didn’t like that much.

  Here’s a chess term for you, Mr Bacon: check.

  You’re in a corner now.

  DAY 141

  This morning, following a sleepless night, I went into Mum’s bedroom and said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. I’m getting the feeling it’s just the beginning.

  Mum, who was sitting with a pillow behind her back, reading a book, patted the spot beside her.

  ‘Has this got something to do with last night?’ When I nodded, she said, ‘I can’t believe James Bacon wasn’t sacked as soon as you told the police what you saw him doing with Sophie. And now Twiggy — God, what was she thinking?’

  ‘He’s a dirtbag,’ I said, sitting beside her. ‘Mum … he’s going to say a few things about me.’

  ‘Such as?’ My mother set her book aside.

  ‘Um.’ Man, there was no way I was going to emerge squeaky clean from this, but if I slid fast then maybe I wouldn’t get too much dirt sticking to me. ‘Last summer I met this guy. He told me he was nineteen.’

  Mum frowned. ‘A guy? What guy? Wait, are you talking about Mason? You told me he was at high school.’

  ‘Can you not interrupt me?’ My voice shook. ‘It’s really hard to tell you this, can you just listen?’

  She pressed her lips together. I took a deep breath.

  ‘The guy I was sneaking around with wasn’t Mason. It was a guy called Jimmy. He told me he was nineteen, but he didn’t tell me he was a teacher until the day before I went back to school.’

  ‘A teacher?’ I could almost see the steam coming out of her nostrils.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Carry on.’ Her expression was much as it had been when she’d discovered my pill packet, which was pretty fricking scary.

  Another deep breath. ‘So, it was Mr Bacon. I tried to break up with him when I found out, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He told me he loved me, and I believed him.’ I kept my gaze on Mum’s book, the letters of the title swimming in front of me. Lone Wolf. I was starting to feel a lot like that.

  ‘And then,’ I said, ‘he started pushing me around. Like, he never really hit me, but one time he shoved me into a lamppost and I had to go to hospital to get stitches.’ I flipped my hair up to show her the scar.

  I felt Mum’s cool touch behind my ear. ‘Sophie, how could you hide this from me?’ She sounded close to tears, too. ‘Why did you feel you couldn’t tell me?’

  ‘Because I was s-scared.’ My tears were coming thick and fast. ‘And then I did break up with him, because of what I saw him doing with Sophie A just before she went missing. I thought it was all over, but then Will and I got that call from Twiggy and he could have killed her, and I wish I’d reported him sooner, I wish—’

  ‘Sophie.’ Mum’s embrace was tight, her tone fierce. ‘What he did to Twiggy and you is not your fault. He’s sick, and he’s scum, and I hope to God he gets locked up for this.’

  That’s not to say I didn’t get a subsequent lecture, interspersed with hugs, push-pull, as if my mother didn’t know what to do with me.

  Then the phone rang. It was the police. They wanted to speak with me.

  Please note for the record that I told the police exactly what I told my mother. Please note that I didn’t change what I told them about Sophie A and James kissing in his car. Please note that I said they were welcome to access my records from the Emergency Department earlier this year, as I know they will.

  Perhaps the doctor, a woman in her twenties with a kind face, will remember me. She asked James to leave the cubicle at one point, and asked me if I felt safe.

  Of course, I’d said. Can Jimmy come back in now?

  For the record, Twiggy does have a cracked rib, but no internal injuries.

  For the record, James was arrested last night.

  For the record, I am the smartest Sophie. Just saying.

  DAY 143

  Mum stayed home from work today. She said she had a headache, but really I think she was just keeping an eye on me.

  At lunchtime, she dropped me off at Twiggy’s house. She and Sonia, Twiggy’s mum, talked for ages outside while Twiggy and I sat in the lounge, nibbling on slices of homemade pizza.

  ‘How are your exams going?’ Twiggy asked.

  ‘Fine.’ I wasn’t so sure about that. I was so, so distracted, for obvious reasons. ‘How about you?’

  She grimaced. ‘Not great. Apparently I can apply for compassionate consideration, though, because of this.’

  ‘How is your chest, anyway?’

  ‘It’s bloody sore.’ Twiggy gave me a sideways look. ‘Do you want to know why Jimmy and I were arguing the other night?’

  Jimmy. My blood began to boil. Everyone calls me James, but you can call me Jimmy.

  Screw you, James Bacon.

  I set my slice of pizza down. ‘Only if you want to tell me.’

  ‘Well, it’s to do with you, so I thought you’d want to know.’ Twiggy didn’t wait for me to reply before carrying on. ‘After you warned me about him the other day, I asked him about you. I asked him if you’d ever been together, and he said, Maybe, once upon a time. I asked him if he was still in love with you.’

  ‘He really isn’t,’ I said faintly.

  ‘But that’s the thing.’ Twiggy glanced outside, where our mothers were still having what looked like an equally heated conversation. ‘He just said, Let’s not talk about that, shall we? She’s got nothing to do with you. And I said, But she’s got everything to do with me. He said you’d screwed him over. But he wouldn’t answer my question. He just looked really upset.’

  ‘He hates me,’ I said. ‘Just like I hate him.’ But … what if he doesn’t?

  Twiggy’s left eyelid began to flicker, tic tic tic. ‘Do you want to know why he beat me up, Mac? It was because I couldn’t get him to answer my question.’

  ‘Whether or not he was still in love with me?’ Yeah right.

  ‘No. I asked him whether he loved me the way he obviously loved you. He said, Just leave it, will you? And I said, I should have known. I’m just third choice, aren’t I, now you’ve worked your way through my two best friends. And that’s when he lost it.’

  ‘He’s a bastard,’ I managed. ‘What else do you want me to tell you?’

  Twiggy looked away. I knew how she was feeling. She’d just lost her boyfriend and it hurt like hell, even if he was a bastard. But did I feel sorry for her?

  No. Because at the moment Twiggy told me that James might still have feelings for me, I felt an enormous, almost vomit-inducing rush of — what? Anger and hate. Regret and grief.

  And triumph. Yes, triumph. Because maybe, just maybe, I’d hurt him as much as he’d hurt me.

  After that, we didn’t talk much. Sonia came back in and offered us freshly squeezed orange juice. Draining my glass I thanked her, and told Twiggy I hoped she was feeling better soon. Then I left.

  But now I’m home, staring at my Chemistry notes, and the question I can’t answer is this: if I hadn’t got it all wrong about Sophie A, would Jimmy and I still be together?

  Jesus, what am I thinking? Why would I still want to be with someone who hurt me, who made me bleed, inside and out? I’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s gentle, and he loves me, and I love him.

  I do. I do.

  DAY 144

  I had to go to school today, even though I’m on study leave. The vice principal, Mrs Gardener, wanted to have a chat with me. I was dreading it. Mum asked me if I wanted her to be there, but I said No, I can handle it. So she dropped me off and waited outside in the car.

  Mrs Gardener is scary. I don’t know if that’s a prerequisite for being a vice principal or if it’s just her personality. She has tortoiseshell bifocals and snow-white hair, which she always wears in a French plait. Mrs G was accompanied by Ms Bevan, the school counsellor, who is a lot less scary and probably about the same age as my mum.

  We sat in three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of Mrs G’s desk. I was pretty sure Ms Bevan would have suggested that, so I didn’t feel so intimidated. It wasn’t really working.

  ‘Sophie,’ Mrs G said, ‘as I’m sure you’re aware, there have been some concerning events over the past few days regarding Mr Bacon and your friend Sophie Twiggs. In fact, I believe that you and Will O’Reilly called the police, is that right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Mrs G said, peering at me through the bottom of her glasses, ‘I have reason to believe that Sophie Twiggs was not the only student that Mr Bacon may have had a relationship with. I’d be quite interested to hear what you may have to tell us about this.’

  ‘Well,’ I said steadily, ‘I guess you heard what I told the police about Mr Bacon and Sophie A a few months ago.’

  Mrs G’s lips tightened. ‘Indeed,’ she murmured. ‘Unfortunately, that evidence could not be … corroborated.’ I wondered if she watched CSI as often as I did. The cops hadn’t sounded half as formal when I’d been questioned the other day.

  ‘And,’ I glanced at Ms Bevan, who was sitting with her chunky legs crossed, ‘earlier in the year, I was — well, to tell you the truth, Mr Bacon and I met last summer, before school even started.’ I looked down at my sneakers. ‘He told me he was nineteen, and I believed him.’

  I told them the same story I’d told my mother. I even showed them the scar behind my ear.

  ‘Oh, that’s awful,’ Ms Bevan said. ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Sophie.’

  There was nothing much I could say to that, so I stared at my shoes again.

  Mrs G said, ‘We obviously take these sorts of allegations very seriously. I’d like you to know that Mr Bacon has been stood down until the police investigation has been completed.’

  Ms Bevan leaned forward; so close I could smell the coffee on her breath.

  ‘If you’d like, I can refer you to Victim Support,’ she said. ‘Or, if you’d like to talk to me, then I can arrange a time. Anything you tell me would be strictly confidential.’

  I fiddled with my watch. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘The police have already given me the number for Victim Support. And really, I’m just trying to get through my exams.’

  Mrs G and Ms B looked at each other. ‘Well, there’s one more thing,’ Mrs G said. ‘We’ve obviously had a … chat to Mr Bacon, and he’s made some disturbing allegations relating to …’ She sighed. ‘Cheating on schoolwork.’

  ‘Cheating?’ I frowned. ‘Who’s been cheating?’

  ‘He says you’ve been writing Sophie Twiggs’s English essays for her,’ Mrs G said.

  I let out a short laugh. ‘Really? I hardly have enough time to write my own, let alone someone else’s.’

  Ms G’s face relaxed a little, as if that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

  ‘Of course, I thought that was unlikely. You’d hardly want to jeopardise your exams, would you?’

  I met her gaze. ‘Why would I be trying to do someone else’s work when I’m meant to be competing against them?’ I’d already told Twiggy she needed to read through the essays I’d written for her, in case someone quizzed her about them.

  Deny, I’d said. Deny, deny and I’ll do the same thing. They can’t prove anything. At least, I didn’t think they could.

  ‘We just thought we should let you know,’ Ms G said, smiling. ‘With your record of academic excellence, we were pretty sure that was untrue.’

  I felt Ms B’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘We’re dreadfully sorry this has happened to you,’ she said. ‘And obviously we’ll be taking steps to try to reduce the chances of this happening again.’

  ‘Would you like to add anything else?’ Mrs G asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m just really sorry about what I did,’ I said. ‘But I was really scared of Mr Bacon. Twiggy, too.’

  ‘Thank you for being so honest with us.’ Ms B said. ‘And if you change your mind, my door is always open.’

  I don’t know who was more relieved at the end of that conversation, me or the teachers.

  For the record, I think I aced that one too.

  DAY 151

  This evening, a group of us went to the beach to celebrate the end of exams. We ate takeaways and swam in the sea, even though it is yet to warm up from the long, dark winter. In three more days it’ll be summer, at last.

  We laughed. We talked about our dreams and where we’d be ten years from now.

  ‘Will will be in Hollywood, drinking champagne with the stars,’ I said.

  ‘Snorting coke with the stars, more like,’ Mitchell added. Even Mitchell was smiling. He’d managed to sit most of his exams, although he wasn’t sure he’d passed. It didn’t matter. At least he was alive.

  ‘Only this kind.’ Will screwed the top off a bottle of soft drink and took a sip. ‘Meanwhile, the CSI producers will be paying Mac mega-bucks for her expert opinions.’

  Twiggy zipped up her hoodie. ‘And Mitchell will have collected his first Booker Prize.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ Mitchell said, but he gave her a smile anyway.

  A small part of me is hoping that maybe they’ll get together over the summer, but a more realistic part of me is thinking they probably won’t.

  Your heart will heal, Mitchell. You think it won’t, but it will.

  God, who am I kidding?

  ‘And Twiggy’s going to be a physio for the All Blacks,’ Peter burped.

  ‘Right on,’ Twiggy drawled, taking a swig of cider.

  ‘How about you, Schmidt?’ Will asked. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be a politician.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Twiggy said. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse.’

  ‘And Sophie A?’ Peter asked. ‘What do you think she would have been doing in ten years’ time?’

  I expected everyone to flinch, but for once they didn’t. It’s been five months since Sophie A went missing. I guess we all know she’s not coming back, and maybe it’s OK to start talking about that.