Year Nine. We should all get a special medal and six months of counselling on the NHS.

  Something serious went down at the Awfuls’ New Year’s Eve party. I could taste the gossip the moment I got into school on the seventh of January. The air was ripe and thick with it. Whisperings of suspicion were confirmed when, that very lunchtime, Laura Goddard sat alone in the canteen – staring into her buddha bowl like a punished vegan puppy, while Grace, Amelia and the boys walked past and deliberately ignored her.

  By the end of the week, the third most popular girl in my year group was formally christened as “that slut, Laura Goddard”.

  “What’s her supposed crime then?” Elijah asked, on a cold, bright lunch hour two days into term. We’d escaped through the back entrance of school to this little park around the corner, our hoods up to protect ourselves from the bitter wind. I twisted my face towards him and felt my cheeks burn cold.

  “Word on the toilet stall is that she got drunk at New Year and got with Sam Hutchins.”

  Elijah nodded solemnly. “Right. Okay. And that’s a problem because…?”

  I mock punched him. “Elijah! Don’t pretend you’re not aware of the huge and historical romantic entanglement of Grace Langdon and Sam Hutchins?”

  “Sorry, I missed this week’s copy of heat magazine.”

  “Look. I don’t TRY to know this information, it just sort of seeps into my life. So, Grace and Sam went out for a month in Year Nine but broke up because Grace said it was too intense. She said it’s clear that they’ll get married one day because there’s ‘such a thing’ between them, but she’s too young for that right now. They make out at occasional parties, before Grace doubles down again and tells him they have to wait for each other.”

  He clutched his heart with a gloved hand. “Oh my God, Shakespeare, you’ve been usurped.”

  “Shut up.”

  He was still cackling.

  “Anyway, Sam is off-limits, even though Grace hasn’t technically dated him for two years. But, as I said, Laura, ‘the slut’, broke ‘girl code’ and ‘betrayed’ Grace in a way she ‘never thought possible’ and so ‘she’s out’.”

  “I like your enthusiastic use of air quotes there.”

  “I’m using reported speech.”

  “Always the journalist.”

  “That’s me. God, it’s good to be back.” I sighed and readjusted my fluffy hood. “Best days of our lives.”

  What was hard to admit was that the past two school days had been some of the best of my life. Because I had a friend again. Elijah had sent me a message the night before our first day back.

  Elijah: Lunch tomorrow? Anywhere but the canteen? It’s too early in the year for Darwinism.

  That started a new daily ritual of sneaking out the back entrance and escaping for one blissful hour.

  Elijah turned towards me and I mirrored him, so we were hood to hood. His hair, stuffed inside, needed cutting and fell into his eyes.

  “So, will all of this be in the newspaper? Front page news, surely?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m going to win the Pulitzer… No. I’ve stopped the paper for now, I told you. The yearbook is too much as it is. Plus, the whole school knows about it anyway.”

  “The whole year group,” he corrected me. “I can promise you that no one in the sixth-form common room even knows who Lauren Goddard is.”

  “Laura.”

  “You see.”

  I sighed again and the cold air hurt my throat. “I’ve got yearbook tonight after school.”

  “You keep telling their stories for them.” He said it in such a superior, knowing voice that I felt a jolt of anger.

  “Don’t. Come on. You make me feel bad when you say stuff like that.”

  His face softened and he reached out and brushed my hand. “Sorry.”

  I scrunched up my nose and batted off his hand. Too angry to even enjoy the physical contact. “I get what you’re saying but it’s just not worth the energy. Nothing I do or say will make any difference to how that lot behave. I’d be throwing myself under a bus for no reason.”

  “Can you at least put a typo in there? Spell Grace’s name wrong or something in the yearbook?”

  “Activism by typos?” I smiled, despite myself.

  “Hey, it’s better than no activism at all.”

  “Hmm.”

  His words had been festering in me since New Year’s Eve. Making me think I should do something about it all, rather than just write about it in my spiteful notepads. But I also felt this shrill anger at him for not getting it. Lack of fear isn’t always a sign of a stronger person, it’s often just a sign that someone has an easy life.

  With that all said, Elijah’s judgement was still marinading in my brain later the same day when I was back in the newsroom with Ms Gordon and the rest of the committee.

  “Paige, Happy New Year,” she greeted me. “This is the first time I’ve seen you all term.”

  “It’s only the third day.”

  “Still, I missed you.” She was particularly hipster that day, experimenting with a giant pair of red prescription-free glasses, paired with a neon-pink corporate jumpsuit. Her hair was pulled up in a bun to showcase a new undercut above her left ear.

  I slouched in my chair next to Daisy. “I like your make-up today,” I found myself telling her, without thinking first.

  Her hand went to her face in surprise. “Oh, thanks. I got the eyeshadow for Christmas.”

  I had spoken to someone unexpectedly and the world hadn’t imploded. Shocked, I continued. “It suits you,” I added. It did. It was green and she’d put it all around her eyes the moment the bell had gone.

  “Cheers.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I wondered where my burst of social confidence had come from.

  “They’re late again,” Daisy muttered.

  I didn’t need to ask who.

  “They won’t miss the meeting about Year Nine. Not when that’s the year Sam ate the battery.”

  Daisy smirked. “I’m surprised they’re not writing their own screenplay about it.”

  The door pushed open just as I was sniggering, feeling warm at the unexpected social interaction, and in they came. Minus a Laura but, surprisingly, plus a Cara.

  “Sorry, are we late?” Grace didn’t sound sorry at all. The current drama suited her. She’d made even more of an effort with her appearance. She seemed to have curling-tonged her hair before she’d tied it into a ponytail.

  “We were just starting,” Ms Gordon said. “Cara! What a surprise! Sit down. It’s good to see you. Are you coming to help with the yearbook?”

  “Yeah, if that’s okay?”

  Cara looked slightly shell-shocked at her sudden leap up the social greasy pole. I mean, she’d always been somewhat popular. She was pretty and had developed a weird mystique after coming back from hospital.

  “The more, the merrier. Brilliant. Lovely!”

  We all moved our chairs to make space and none of them said thank you. Amelia, in particular, seemed to be in total bitch mode.

  “Make room, for God’s sake,” she hissed at Daisy.

  Ms Gordon put her glasses on top of her head. “Right,” she said. “We’ve got Year Seven and Eight sorted, so we’re pretty much on track. It’s looking good. It might be the most polished yearbook this school has ever produced.”

  Grace and Amelia lit up, taking the compliment for us all. Cara watched them and then sat up in her chair too, pretending she’d had something to do with it.

  “So, those pages are all ready to be signed off, and we can move on to Year Nine. Yes, Amelia?”

  Amelia had shot her hand up. “Yeah, miss, about those pages.” She spread her gelled fingernails out on the table. “Well, sorry Laura isn’t here today because she’s not feeling very well. She’s gone straight home. But she told us to tell you, urgently, that she doesn’t want some of those photos of her used any more. She’s got all insecure about there being photos of her before her braces.” Amelia was going for best actress and best supporting all in one go. Her performance of concerned and caring friend was utterly faultless. “We told her she was being stupid and that she’s gorgeous.” She rolled her eyes. “But she got really upset. So, like, is it okay if we take some of those photos out? Put some of the backups in?”

  The room was still. We all knew that Laura wouldn’t want her photos to be taken out. We waited, wondering if Ms Gordon would fall for it. “Oh no, of course,” she said, swallowing it whole. “We don’t want anything in there that upsets people. It’s supposed to be a happy thing to cherish.”

  “Cheers, miss.” Amelia gave everyone a smirk, confirming we were in on the joke. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  I, as usual, did absolutely nothing to stop this. I pondered how Laura might be feeling. She had given five years of service to popularity. She’d sacrificed her kindness, her integrity and her identity to the pursuit of being best mates with Grace and Amelia and being that popular kid in school. One drunken mistake at one party, and it was gone. All for nothing. She was being wiped not only from their table and the canteen, but from the very yearbook. Her entire legacy eroded. And I was doing nothing.

  “Fine. Well I hope she feels better soon,” said Ms Oblivious.

  “Thanks, Ms Gordon.” Grace smiled serenely like an angel in a stained-glass window. “We don’t mind staying behind to show you the pictures.”

  “Bless you. Right, now…” Ms Gordon looked down at her notepad. “Let’s look at the list of submitted stories for Year Nine memories. Cara?”

  Jumpy, she nodded at the mention of her name. “Yep?”

  Ms Gordon smiled as she lowered her glasses. “It says here that you…er…bunked off school for a whole term?”

  “That’s a joke, miss. I was away cos I was sick.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. We don’t have to have a memory about that.”

  Cara darted a look at Grace. “It’s fine,” she said, not sounding particularly fine. “I don’t mind writing about going to hospital.”

  “Oh, really? That’s quite a…huge thing to do…”

  “Isn’t she so brave?” Grace interrupted like a crashing truck. “Cara, it’s just so inspirational.”

  Cara swelled up from the compliment. “I don’t know…”

  “No, it’s the actual bravest. Like, telling everyone about how mentally sick you were and what you’ve overcome, that’s just…you’re like a celebrity or something. It’s going to give the yearbook such an…authentic honest vibe.”

  I saw Cara wince. Like this story didn’t fit the horror of what she’d gone through. But she was in the clan now. And they wanted an emotional tell-all for their project. “Yeah, I guess,” she said.

  Ms Gordon took that as a yes. “Well, only if you’re sure.”

  “Are you sure?” I found myself asking Cara loudly.

  I felt the room take a breath.

  “What?” said Cara.

  My voice shook. “I’m just saying, it’s a big deal. I mean, if you really want to do it, that’s great. But, well, is that how you want to be remembered in the yearbook?”

  I had no idea why I was saying this stupid, dangerous thing. Well, I did. Elijah’s voice in my head: You keep telling their stories for them. I owed nothing to Cara, I hardly knew her. But I could tell she was uncomfortable. Unsure if her mental breakdown was the legacy she wanted to leave behind.

  Amelia’s face was red with instant anger. “Fucking hell, miss, what is she saying?”

  “Don’t swear, Amelia.”

  “But she’s being really offensive.”

  Cara’s head twisted around to check their response, trying to figure out if she should be mortally offended or not. I was finding breathing quite hard but forced my face to stay neutral.

  “Yeah,” Grace said. “You’re being so stigmatizing right now.”

  “I’m not trying to stigmatize anyone.” I turned to Ms Gordon. “It’s just, isn’t it my duty as a journalist to double-check she’s really sure she wants this? A whole page dedicated to her illness?”

  “What’s wrong with having a mental illness?” Amelia practically shouted.

  “Nothing at all,” I said. “But that still doesn’t mean Cara wants it to be the main thing she’s remembered for in a yearbook she’ll look back on for the rest of her life. It’s about informed consent.”

  “At least she’ll be remembered,” Amelia sneered while the room watched us silently, slack-jawed. “Unlike some people. I mean, who even are you?”

  “Girls!” Ms Gordon warned. “That’s enough.”

  “It’s true, miss,” Grace said, her pretty lip curled. “Who even is she? She’s making Cara feel bad, when she’s being so brave…”

  “Stop saying ‘Who is she?’” Ms Gordon clapped her hands three times. “Honestly, girls. Be kind, please.” She had that bulging gaze of a teacher out of their depth. Amelia and Grace started laughing nastily, whispering, “Who is she?” and descending into hysterics, while Cara stared down at the empty page of her notepad.

  “I’m sorry,” I backtracked, voice jittery, suddenly terrified of the attention I was drawing to myself. “I honestly didn’t mean to offend you, Cara.” I turned to her. “I was just checking. I’m not saying it’s not really brave, it is. That’s why I wanted you to be sure.”

  And you know what? I could tell Cara wasn’t sure. She was confused. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to write it, and she wasn’t sure if she should be angry at me. It must’ve been a weird week already – plucked out by Grace and shunted up the popularity ladder, given one chance to shine for the last term of school, but on what condition? That she bares her soul in their vanity project? Didn’t she want to be remembered for more than this? Like the time she won a prize in Year Ten for her maths coursework? Or the amazing spoken word poem she performed in the school assembly. Grace had never mentioned putting that in the memories section. The stories about the worst things that happen to us always eclipse the good stories. People love to define us by the worst, rather than the best.

  Amelia gave her a pointed look and Cara surrendered. She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “I think you should mind your own business.” She glanced at Amelia again and smiled. “Whoever you are,” she added.

  I kept blinking, like it would dislodge the pain ripping through me. I’d told myself so many times that I didn’t care, but…

  Who even is she?

  Whoever you are.

  Nobody knew.

  It was confirmed. Via the official channels of popular spokesperson.

  I was nobody.

  I knew that already, but it still hurt.

  “Girls, please! Or I might have to start giving detentions.”

  I was blinking so much I basically had my eyes shut. Nobody defended me. Nobody spoke up, or took my side. I couldn’t blame them. That was all I’d ever done too.

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed.

  I wished I could unsay it all. Elijah’s reassurances about how these girls didn’t matter meant nothing. Yes, nobody cared about them outside my year group but, like it or bloody not, I was in this year group, and it mattered, and I didn’t matter and that hurt. Also, I’d just broken all my own rules for clearly no reason at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, now terrified about my punishment. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

  Cara shrugged. Grace and Amelia looked bored already. Ms Gordon remained useless. “Shall we move on? See who wants to cover Joe’s, umm, big night?”

  The meeting burst back into normality. Matty put his hand up to volunteer. Jade had some feedback on font choices. From the outside, we had moved on. But I knew differently.

  I’d gone from Who even are you? to painting a bullseye on my own forehead.

  Time would tell which was worse.

  The house was disquietingly quiet when I got in. I closed the door, listened. Sent out bat signals to pick up emotional radar readings. I couldn’t sense Mum’s nervous energy. There was something not quite right though. I slipped my shoes off, careful to tuck them properly under the shoe rack. I went to check out the living-room. Empty. Fine. I walked into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

  A smashed plate on the floor.

  My heart cracked – sending fault lines throughout my body. I stared at the smithereens of the plate, like it could somehow grow a mouth and tell me what happened. Who smashed it? Why had nobody cleaned it up? Nightmare stories played themselves through my head…then I was startled by a cough upstairs, the squeaking of floorboards.

  Adam. I found him in his room, his rucksack wide open, moving piles of clothes into it.

  “Adam?”

  “Woah, Paige. You scared me.” He flicked me a grim smile, then went to his wardrobe to remove a pile of scented, folded jumpers Mum had laundered for him. He scrunched them into a ball and stuffed them into the bottom of the bag.

  “You alright?” I nodded towards his packing, my heart unable to keep up with all these developments.

  “What? Yeah. I’m going to go back to uni tonight.”

  “I thought you still had another week off?”

  “I do.”

  He removed more clothes from his wardrobe and I was too scared to ask what happened. We never talked about anything in this house. “Right.”

  I watched him pack with an urgency I hadn’t seen before. He kept looking at his ticking clock. He pushed in a few T-shirts, and his going-out shirts. Then he started on electricals, crouching under his desk and yanking out numerous charging cords, wrapping them into a tangled ball, stuffing them on top. I just stood and watched, scared. Waiting for him to tell me what happened. Not wanting to know. Not wanting him to break the code and make it real.

  “Adam?”

  He paused. He wouldn’t look at me, but he pushed his thumbs into his eyes.

  “Christ, Paige,” he said into his hands. “What even is this house? I can’t stay a second longer.”