Elijah tilted his head. “Of course you’re scared,” he said. “But you don’t have to do it all at once. And you don’t have to do it alone.” He patted my back platonically. “I’ll help you.”

  One of Charles Dickens’s most-sifted quotes is, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times” and it certainly rang true in the month following the devil-worshipping rumour. I started living the thing I’d been dreading for years. I was a laughing stock. A target. People snorted when I walked past. But I also had Elijah at my side, making it weirdly enjoyable.

  He’d come into school the next day with a pentagram drawn onto both cheeks with his red pen. It caused pandemonium, with Reverend John asking to speak to him immediately, and the news going through the school like a superbug.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked, when I met him for lunch with freshly-scrubbed cheeks.

  He laughed. “Well, one, it’s hardly fair for you to go through this all by yourself, is it? And two, the rumour is ridiculous. Everyone knows it’s not true. So we may as well have fun with it.” He got out his red pen and took the lid off with his teeth, a glint in his eye.

  “Elijah, no.”

  “Come on. It will be freeing, I promise you.”

  “We go to a religious school.”

  “Yes, but it’s also a human right to respect people’s religious identities. Reverend John can’t argue with the Human Rights Act.” He moved forward, his breath tickling my face. “Come on.”

  And I embraced the weird liberation that comes from a nightmare coming true – in that, things can’t get much worse – and I leaned in, trying not to swoon too much at our physical proximity, and let him decorate my cheek. When we walked into school after lunch, he picked up my hand and squeezed it, and the crowds parted for us, staring, whispering, laughing, getting that we were in on the joke. I’d never felt freer. The shackles of the rumour loosened and I giggled non-stop, even when Ms Collins made me wash my face in the bathroom.

  “How’s Satan?” someone asked me in the corridor one morning, a week later.

  “Your mum’s fine, thanks for asking.”

  They didn’t ask again.

  Then another rumour went around about someone else, and the heat died down for a while. Spring arrived right out of nowhere – shocking everyone with weird hot days likely caused by climate crisis, but enjoyed nonetheless. I heard that Sam had commented that Laura had good legs, and thus Laura was punished for having legs by being exposed as having super gonorrhoea. She practically lived in the library now. She’d stopped wearing make-up altogether and actually looked much prettier – younger, innocent. I wasn’t fooled however. I still had pages of the awful things she’d done in my books at home. I knew she’d happily claw my eyes out, poke them onto sticks and eat them like lollipops, if it meant winning her popularity back.

  “I mean, when you make up metaphors like that,” Elijah remarked, grinning as always, “you can kind of see where the devil worship idea comes from.”

  I hit him over the head with the book I’d been reading.

  “Also, have you considered she might have learned from the whole thing? Grown?”

  I pulled a face. “Yeah, right.”

  “Ask her if she’s okay. She might surprise you.”

  “Come on, Elijah.” I picked up another book at random and forcibly changed the subject. But, as bloody usual, his words burrowed in and I wondered how Laura saw everything now she was on the other side of it. Later that afternoon, while popping to the loo to change my tampon, I found new graffiti about her scrawled in Tippex on the back of the stall in large writing.

  I stared at it for some time, imagining what it would feel like for her to read this. To know it was here for all to see. To be so punished for something when the boy involved, Sam, had got off totally scot-free. It wasn’t the largest bit of activism in the world, but, after I’d flushed, I got out my pen and added an arrow to the graffiti and the words:

  I laughed as I read it back, at how pathetic it was. A bleat of protest that was unlikely to ever be noticed, but it was something. It wasn’t in my notepad for one. And it was the simple truth, told without malice.

  A week later, I’d done the same to a piece of graffiti every time I went to the toilet at school.

  “Do you think I’m pathetic?” I asked Elijah one lunchtime in the library, as we were reading Noughts and Crosses together to sift it for the best line. “Just scribbling on a toilet stall.”

  “I would never think you’re pathetic,” he replied, putting his book down. “This is all new to you. You’ve got to start somewhere.” He put both hands under his chin, to make himself look all cheesy. “As my mother would say to somebody else’s child she’s helping rather than me, ‘You’re learning a new language here, be patient and kind to yourself.’ This is a muscle you haven’t used before.”

  I laughed, while also feeling a pang of sadness for how he felt about his mum. I wanted to reach out and console him, but we still hardly touched since the rumour.

  I was getting better at speaking the language of activism though, and caring a tiny bit less about the consequences.

  “Do you think she’s paying Elijah to go out with her?” Joe asked one morning when Mr Sanders was out of the room, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Maybe he’s paying me?” I said.

  There was then a further flurry of rumours that I was a prostitute, and it hurt less than the first burn. Especially as, that very week, I found some more graffiti on the loo door. Somebody had written Sophia D is a slut, which must’ve been about someone in another year, as I didn’t recognize the name. But, under the graffiti, I almost cried when I saw somebody had copied me.

  I held my heart, traced the words, and let it give me strength to continue living down all the untrue things about myself. I checked on other graffiti and saw people had added to that too.

  Why doesn’t the school stop this? someone wrote.

  Another had said, Oh, I see sociopathy is still A Thing. Pathetic.

  One more had just scrawled, BE FUCKING KIND. JESUS.

  As spring continued to spring, I felt brave enough to go back into yearbook meetings.

  In the first I’d attended since it all kicked off, the Awfuls arrived late as always, and Grace smirked at me as she took her seat. A smirk of victory. A smirk of How about you shut up now?

  My hate bloomed like the blossoms on the trees outside. The smirk may as well have been two tonnes of high-quality compost.

  “We’ve been thinking,” she said, before they’d even sat down, “that we should save a page at the end of the yearbook for photos of the Leavers’ Ball. I know there’s only two weeks between the ball and the Leavers’ Assembly, so, Ms Gordon, can you have a chat to the printers or something?” She gestured to Ms Gordon like she was her employee. “But we thought it would be such a great ending to the book, you know? To tell the full story.”

  Her eyes found mine again and she raised one perfect eyebrow. I received it as the challenge it was. Grace was daring me to disagree with her, seeing if I’d learned my lesson.

  I opened my mouth, wondering if I dared say anything I wanted to say. Things like, Seriously? and Don’t you think your narcissistic personality disorder has had enough enabling in this yearbook?

  But I bottled it the second I started speaking. “I actually love that idea,” my stupid scared mouth said. “It would mean a very last-minute turnaround, but Grace is right. The Leavers’ Ball is such a rite of passage. Even if it leads to a tight deadline.”

  Grace nodded, accepting the truce, and turned away from me.

  While I spent the following two days hating myself for being such a coward.

  “It takes time,” Elijah kept saying. “Give yourself time.”

  The devil-worshipping prostitute rumours died over the next few weeks, and I was vaguely safe again. Forever tainted, but safe. Petals continued to erupt on previously bare tree branches. Teachers couldn’t breathe without mentioning revision timetables. Easter eggs dominated supermarket shelves, and the yearbook really started to come together. We soon had all the memory pages laid out, and could move onto the most treasured section of all: Most Likely to. The closest thing you’ll ever find to a social version of the Olympic Games.

  “Okay, gumshoes,” Ms Gordon said in the week before Easter. “Here is a shortlist of the Most Likely to categories. We need to pick which ones we think will work in the yearbook. Then each form will nominate one boy and one girl candidate – and we’ll put it to a vote.” She handed out a list of the sterile topics the school had approved.

  Most likely to be a film star.

  Most likely to win an Olympic medal.

  Most likely to be a head teacher.

  They were all pretty neutral, allowing the obvious people to win all the most obvious categories. Fulfilling the destiny of how Most Likely tos worked.

  “I bet you win model AND film star,” Cara stage-whispered to Grace.

  Grace simpered and pretended to blush. “Don’t be stupid. I can’t act!” Her fake modesty made that very clear. She would win regardless.

  At the edge of my vision, I saw Daisy roll her eyes, and I smiled and looked downwards, so they didn’t see.

  “We also need to finalize the questions we’re sending out to students to put with their Year Eleven headshot,” Ms Gordon said. She distributed two hardback books each around the circle. “Here are the last two yearbooks to give you some ideas.”

  We all quietly flicked through the pages of earnest school photos of past students. My eyes were searching for him from the second I opened last year’s yearbook. It seemed insane that Elijah existed within something so conventional. And yet there he was. I flattened the page down to get a better look.

  His Year Eleven portrait was Elijah personified – dishevelled, unkempt, oozing energy. He had both eyebrows raised and stared directly into the lens, face deadpan – all like, And what? He looked attractive, as usual – though younger, obviously, and his hair was longer last year. I reached out to stroke the photo before remembering where I was, and pretended to stretch my hand instead. I glanced up to check I hadn’t been caught, but Grace, Amelia and Cara were poring over the photos of an old Leavers’ Ball, laughing and taking the piss out of girls’ dresses.

  “I mean, who wears an actual ballgown to a school Leavers’ Ball,” Amelia whispered, jabbing some poor girl on the page. “Does she think she’s in a Disney movie or something?”

  Grace vibrated with laughter beside her. “Do you think she got a horse-drawn carriage too?” she added and they honked like geese.

  I tuned them out, returning to Elijah’s segment.

  I hope people remember me as…

  favourably as they’ll no doubt remember themselves.

  My favourite thing about school was…

  the excitement of seeing Darwinism be proven in real-time.

  In the future, I hope to…

  work everything through in therapy.

  A little voice wiggled into my heart, curled up, and made a bed in there.

  I love him, the little voice told me, like a mewing kitten. I love him. I love him, I love him.

  I held my heart through my jumper to try and shut it up, grinning until my face strained.

  I couldn’t help myself. I was so proud of knowing this boy. I tried to make my face and heart calm down so I didn’t draw attention to myself.

  After we’d all looked through, Ms Gordon got out a pen and stood next to the whiteboard.

  “So, guys, what questions did you think worked?”

  Grace didn’t bother putting her hand up. “I like the first one,” she said. “We should keep that. ‘I hope people remember me as…’”

  Amelia poked her in the side with her elbow. “I hope people remember me as hot,” she muttered and they all giggled.

  I’ll remember you as being a brutal bully, I thought.

  I found my arm going up in the air and everyone noticed.

  “Could we change the last question maybe?” I suggested. I looked down at what I’d scribbled. “I was thinking…‘What would you like to tell your future self?’ Then it’s sort of like time travel for everyone. We’re all leaving messages to our future selves, and, because it’s a shared artefact, all of those messages hold us accountable to what we say?”

  An impressed nod by Ms Gordon. “What do you think, guys?”

  There was a room full of more impressed nods, and even reluctant ones from the Awfuls.

  “Brilliant. In it goes. Right, anyone else?”

  I leaned back in my chair as the conversation moved on and thought wistfully about Future Me for a moment. The one living in a city, and being brave, and telling the truth – with friends and purpose and laughter. Going back occasionally to visit the padlock by the river and reflect on how much she’d grown and changed. I was in such a state of deep reflection that, when my phone buzzed, I jumped in the air like I’d sat on a pin.

  “Paige, you know you’re not supposed to have your phone on during meetings,” Ms Gordon scolded.

  “Sorry.” I pulled my phone onto my lap to check who it was – the only two options being Polly or Elijah. Or so I thought, because…

  It dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  “Paige! I told you. No phones.”

  “Sorry.”

  I bent down with wobbly hands. The message was still on my screen.

  A message from my brother.

  A message from my brother who never sends me messages.

  Adam: Look, sorry, but I’ve been thinking about it and I’m not coming home for Easter. I’m doing this Slum it to Slovenia charity hitch-hike thingy, which is a good cover and, to be fair, sounds like a laugh. I know Dad will be Dad about it. Not told them yet, but thought I’d give you a heads up.

  My selfish prick of a brother who only thinks of himself.

  The meeting was finished. Everyone scraped their chairs back and filtered out into the empty school, but I couldn’t stand.

  “You okay, Paige?” Ms Gordon asked. She took a photo of her whiteboard notes then packed her stuff into her feathered handbag. “It was nice to see you contribute today.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can’t believe it’s almost Easter. Where did the year go?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Paige?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to lock up the classroom now.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I knocked my chair onto the carpet in my haste to get up. “Sorry.” I straightened it and it wobbled before settling.

  “Are you okay, Paige?”

  “Yep. Brilliant. Bye, see you tomorrow.”

  Why, Adam? Why? Why? Stupid selfish brother. Never, ever thinking about anything other than HIMSELF and what is best for HIM and how to make HIS life easier. He was just like Dad. Which wasn’t surprising, as Dad had raised him to be just like Dad. Oh God. I couldn’t go home. What would Dad do when he found out? I couldn’t. Couldn’t. But Polly was away for two nights for some cat mental-health conference, which, she’d said, had a disappointing number of cats actually attending.

  I paced the empty hallways, lockers smudging to a blur. What time did school close? I could hide here for a while? I honestly contemplated climbing into a school cupboard and stowing away there overnight.

  My phone went again.

  Elijah: How was the yearbook meeting? Have you won most likely to be a total legend yet? Or do I need to rig the votes?

  I typed out and deleted the same message twice – wondering whether to tell him about Adam. Still aching with that self-protective urge to come across as perfect to him. Then I sighed and tapped out the truth.

  Paige: Meeting over. Fine. Not so fine news about my family though. I’ve just got a terrible message from my brother.

  Elijah: Yikes. You okay? Obviously not. Sorry.

  Are you still in school? I’m just leaving the library. Can come fine you?

  Elijah: *Find. Stupid predictive text. Being fined is the last thing you need.

  I stopped in the maths corridor and let out a hiccup of love. At this kindness. This friendship. This life raft of a message. I wasn’t alone in this. I had someone.

  Paige: In maths block.

  Elijah: I’ll meet you by the side exit in five?

  Take you for a milkshake?

  Paige: See you in five.

  Paige: Thank u xxx

  Oh God, Elijah’s face when I found him at the side exit. I was overcome. He may as well have been riding a white horse and fighting off a dragon, rather than slouching with his hands in his pockets and a worried expression.

  “Paige.” He pulled me in for a hug, and his smell was so restorative they should provide it on the NHS.

  I could’ve easily glued myself to his coat, but I reckoned that would give away my growing feelings. “What were you doing in the library?”

  “Philosophy revision. There’s blossom on the trees, Paige. That means, exams-wise, we are screwed.”

  “Yep. Spring is here. Wanna know how I know? Because we’ve just agreed to delay the printing of the yearbook to include a double-page spread of the Leavers’ Ball. I, of course, just nodded like the freaking nodding dog coward that I am throughout the meeting.”

  Elijah looked at me intensely for a second, and clocked that I wasn’t quite ready to talk yet, so he followed my conversational lead. “Ahh, yes. The all-important ball. That non-clichéd rite of passage. Got your dress yet?” he asked, as we fell into step towards town.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been getting all my animal friends to help me make it for ages now. Who knew mice were so good at sewing? On the big night, all I need to do is shower and then let some birds drop it over my head and I’ll be good to go.”