I smiled. “I’ve just flicked through. But, I, er, am really thinking of taking English onto A level, but don’t want to if the books are really boring.”

  She laughed. “Books? Boring? I’m glad you didn’t say that in the library where they could’ve heard you and had their feelings hurt.”

  I laughed politely at her teacher joke.

  “Umm, well, it depends if you do English Lit or Lang, or both, but, er…off the top of my head, umm…Atonement? And BirdSong? They’re both about war. Jolly stuff. Then there’s The Handmaid’s Tale in the first term. Umm, more Shakespeare. King Lear maybe? And poetry. Maybe Sylvia Plath if you’re lucky what teacher you get.”

  I punched them into my phone. “Brilliant, cheers.”

  “Are you going to stay on here at sixth form?” she asked. “Or go to the college? I’d miss you if you went.”

  “I…”

  Nobody had asked me that question yet. My future was so uninteresting to my family that sometimes I doubted they even knew what subjects I was taking – reminded only when they had to attend parents’ meetings to keep up appearances.

  “English is a great choice if you want to get into journalism. This is exciting.”

  I obviously showed my shock at anyone being interested in my future, because she tilted her head. “Everything okay? You’ve got loads of time to decide. And you’re enjoying your yearbook assignment, aren’t you? It’s nice to get a bit out of your comfort zone, isn’t it?”

  I paused on the cusp of honesty. But what can you ever say to a teacher to get them to understand? I always wondered how they’d forgotten how school worked. I mean, they were once teenagers themselves, and still spent five days a week in secondary school. Yet they really did seem to inhabit a totally different universe from the students they taught. Oblivious to the pain and torment, bullies and rumours.

  I just picked up my bag and played along.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m loving yearbook.”

  The second I left the meeting I felt drama fizzing in the air. The corridors were dancing with excitement. Something had gone down over lunch. The crackle of gossip invaded lessons. Mr Sanders told us all to calm down. His face was wrinkled like his badly-ironed shirt. Eyebrows ruffled. The gossip, whatever it was, had hit him too.

  “They’re saying he’ll be expelled.”

  “Who dared who?”

  “Is he going to die?”

  “I SAID BE QUIET.”

  By the end of the day, the school was ablaze. The official line was: Joe had thrown a Brazil nut at Charlie over lunch to punish him for the group detention. Charlie was allergic to nuts – everyone knew this as we got a letter about it at the start of every school year. Charlie was, miraculously, fine, but Joe was suspended. Maybe even going to be expelled…and it’s not fair because Charlie wasn’t hurt at all and it was only a joke anyway and Charlie is clearly a dick and poor Joe because suspension goes on your permanent record.

  Grace and co had emerged from the meeting and set the agenda immediately. There was a petition against Joe’s suspension. Nobody was allowed to talk to Charlie. All this was his fault. The chaos of it bred more chaos. By the end of the day, the whole school was infected with random drama. I walked past multiple arguments across multiple year groups on my way out of my last lesson.

  “Admit it, you copied Jenny’s pencil case,” a group of Year Sevens told a tearful former friend. “We all know you copied it.”

  I walked past a group of Year Nines, one of them crying.

  “Oh my God, you need to stop being so sensitive. It was only a JOKE. Can’t you take a joke?”

  Outside, on the concourse, two Year Ten boys were fighting each other on the grass for no discernible reason. Grappling in the dust, while everyone gathered and cheered and Mrs Collins ran over to try and break it up.

  I wanted to press my hands over my ears. I wanted to scream.

  “So then I told Jessica that I didn’t want to be her friend any more and I can’t believe she just cried. It was so pathetic.”

  “Nick, MATE, wait up, you VIRGIN.”

  “Mrs Collins is such a bitch. I swear she, like, goes to sleep in an actual dog bed.”

  “Did you see Georgina’s haircut? Yeah. I know. I know.”

  The air was choking me. I couldn’t even bring myself to walk to the school gates. Not now, not when everyone was there.

  I wove my way through the chaos and back into the school building. I stared at my shoes making their way along the blue industrial carpet. A few more steps. Just one more corridor. I pushed through the door, with that stupid ugly photo of Lisa on it, and…

  It was basically empty in the library. Even Ms Gordon wasn’t there – just her assistant. Perfect.

  I headed to the fiction section with one thing only in mind. Hope. I needed something to believe in. I needed to hope this crazy idea of mine could work. I needed to hope we could find one another. That there was a reason to come to school every day…

  I found The Handmaid’s Tale and yanked one off the shelf at random. There were seven copies. They clearly hadn’t started studying it just yet. There were a million reasons why this wouldn’t work. Red Pen may not pick this copy. They may not take library books out any more. They may not’ve taken English onto A level. They may not have stayed on at sixth form at all. But the urge to reach out was so overwhelming. It was like when I met Ruby for the first time and just felt, instantly, that we were going to be friends. Like my gut yawned open and said, Yes, this person. Well done for finding them. So many reasons why it could fail but I was going to sail a ship of hope out into the universe and wave my hanky at it and believe it would return safely with a treasure chest inside.

  I checked over my shoulder, opened my one chosen copy to the first chapter, and, without thinking too much about it, I got out a pen and I wrote.

  The house smelled of cigarette smoke when I got home. A warning sign. It didn’t just smell of smoke. It smelled of smoke and open window to let out the smoke and air freshener and perfume all over Mum’s clothes.

  I was too consumed with hope to notice it at first. I’d walked home in a daze of optimistic fantasy. Picturing Red Pen finding my note, getting in touch. I calculated the amount of time it would likely take for them to find it, and then to reply. It could be the whole term. I played “Guess Who?” – wondering who they were. How many times I’d passed them in the corridor without knowing it. What they looked like. I hadn’t tried to connect with anyone since Ruby and my heart thudded like crazy at the thought.

  “Paige?” Mum called, as I closed the front door.

  “Yep?” I inhaled the warning smell cautiously.

  “Can you come into the kitchen?”

  I dumped my bag on the bottom of the stairs, ready to take up to my room, and went to meet her.

  “Everything alright?”

  The window was still wide open, the air cold. She wasn’t wearing a cardigan. She sat at the counter, hands clasped, looking at an envelope.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  I stared dumbly at the brown envelope. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s from your school.”

  “Addressed to you?”

  She sighed. “Paige, I don’t have time for your nonsense today.”

  I pulled a face. My nonsense?

  “I was genuinely asking.”

  “Well, yes, of course it’s addressed to me. To both of us. Your father and I.”

  “Why don’t you open it then?”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

  My hope started vaporizing into the air and out the open window. Every time I tried to believe life could be better, it threw me down the stairs again. This was so typical. I only got noticed by my parents when there was a problem. Never a how was your day, what would you like for dinner, what’s your life like, I’m asking because I love you and I care.

  I was just as baffled as Mum but then remembered the Brazil nut incident, and the pieces arranged themselves into place.

  “It might be about this year group detention,” I guessed. “I thought they would email, but maybe they’ve sent letters.”

  “Detention?”

  The word was foreign on her tongue. That was not a word for our family. Adam had an unblemished academic record.

  “It’s just this stupid thing they gave our whole year group.”

  “And you think that’s what this letter is about?”

  “Probably.”

  Mum stared at the envelope like it was filled with anthrax while I got myself a glass of water.

  “Your dad will probably want me to wait before opening it.”

  I closed my eyes. “You don’t have to tell him. Honestly, it’s nothing.”

  “Since when are you getting detentions?”

  I gulped at my drink. “I don’t! The whole year group got one.”

  “Well you must’ve been part of it.”

  “It happened during the year group photo and I was just standing there.”

  “Well, they can’t just make you all go into a detention if you’re innocent.”

  “They can and they do.”

  God, she really stank of smoke. I wondered where she hid her cigarettes in the house. Probably the cleaning cupboard where he’d never find them.

  Mum’s voice softened at random, and she smiled at me. “Let’s open it to check, shall we? Your dad won’t want to be bothered with something like this.”

  “He won’t care.”

  She inserted one painted fingernail into the envelope and ripped the top off, before sliding out the headed paper. She reached around for her reading glasses. She only wore them for the shortest amount of time as Dad teased her – calling her Professor Trelawney, even though they were small, designer frames.

  “Okay, so, yes, it’s about this detention. Hmm…hmm.” She glanced over the rest of the letter. “Well I’ll sign it. So you’re not home till at least five tomorr—”

  The key went in the door and we both jumped like frightened children. It opened quickly. It slammed back on itself. Mum’s wide eyes met mine, and for a moment we connected. We were both on the same side, we both heard the slam and knew what it meant.

  “Your dad’s home,” she whispered.

  “Who the fucking fuck left their fucking bag on the fucking steps?”

  My insides shrank. My hope died. All that mattered right then was surviving the next few hours.

  “Sorry,” I called brightly, like he hadn’t sworn four times. “I’m about to take it up.”

  He was at the kitchen door. It was his eyes that scared me the most when he got like this. They were so cold, glazed, almost like he was being programmed remotely by some evil robot. “Well it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? I’ve already almost tripped over it.” His shirt was wrinkled, tie loosened, hair mussed.

  “But you didn’t.” Mum walked over bravely and kissed him on the cheek. He flinched. “You’re home early, dear.” Her voice was so faux chirpy I’m surprised she didn’t grow feathers.

  “Do I need to tell you my every movement?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just I’ve not started cooking dinner yet.”

  “I’m not hungry anyway. Don’t worry about cooking.”

  “Well, we can order takeaway?”

  “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

  Dad stormed past to get himself a pint glass, before opening the fridge and withdrawing a beer. We watched him like you’d watch an angry hippo with a splinter in its hoof…aware, waiting for the charge. I wanted to just tiptoe backwards out of the kitchen.

  “Well, I’m not hungry yet either.” Mum pretended nothing was wrong. “But we might be later.”

  Dad snapped the cap off his beer using the countertop.

  “How was your day?” I asked, knowing the response would be horrible, but also knowing I’d get in trouble for not asking.

  “How do you think it was? I’m home at four!”

  “Oh honey, what happened?” Mum asked him.

  “Nothing. Just lost a stupid client is all.” Dad tipped the beer into the glass so roughly it almost foamed over. “It’s all bullshit. They’d made the decision to leave before I even got a chance to try and make them stay. But I’ll get the blame, because everyone is keen to pass the screw-up to someone, and why not stick the knife into the one person who’s actually good at their job?” He gulped his beer, wiped his mouth, poured more in. “I mean, if THEY had been good at THEIR jobs, then the client wouldn’t want to leave EVER, would they? There’s only so much I can polish a turd. Idiots. All of them. Utter idiots.”

  This was a Code Red situation. Dad was enduring his most feared emotion – humiliation. I feared Dad’s humiliation more than I feared my own.

  Mum and I made eyes again.

  “Oh, darling. I’m sorry. They really do sound like idiots.”

  “What do you know about it? Nothing. Literally nothing.”

  He slammed the glass down, sloshing beer over the rim. We knew not to jerk away.

  “All you do is sit around here, spending my money. You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “No… I’m sorry… Sorry…”

  The whites of Dad’s eyes were almost all red. “Just forget it. I don’t want to talk about it. Why do you always make me talk about everything?”

  Silence slid down from the ceiling and encompassed us all. I was too scared to move, but also knew he’d flip if I watched him for too long. He started circling the kitchen, looking for bait. Mum and I glanced at one another and then down at the brown envelope and, like a highly attuned bat, Dad noticed, grabbing it off the table.

  “What’s this then?”

  “I…er…it’s just this stupid thing that happened at school.”

  “Detention? You’ve got yourself a detention?”

  “It’s not just me, it’s the whole year.” Panic was making me throw up words without thinking them through properly. “I was explaining to Mum…”

  His lighthouse beam swung violently in her direction. “You knew about this?”

  “I only just opened the letter a minute ago.”

  “Without me?”

  “I didn’t know what it was.”

  He flicked the paper. “It has both our names on it.”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  I tried to take the heat off her. “It isn’t important,” I said, waving my hands like I was trying to distract a charging bull. “It’s just this stupid year group detention. I didn’t do anything, I promise.”

  Dad’s glare swung back to me. “If you didn’t do anything then why do you have to go?”

  “That’s exactly what I said.” Mum stepped behind him, arms crossed. They visibly joined ranks on the kitchen tiles.

  “Adam’s never got one detention.”

  “I’ve not got a detention. The whole year has. Even, like, the super geeky people at school. It had nothing to do with me.” My voice came out as a hoarse whisper. I blinked as my heart tapped out urgent SOS signals against my ribcage.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Dad picked up the form again. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Sign this piece of paper that tells me my only daughter is being punished for not doing anything wrong?”

  I nodded, eyes wide, wanting it to be over.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  And, before I knew it, he was on his mobile, googling the school’s phone number.

  “Dad? Dad? What are you doing?”

  He paced around the kitchen, chest puffed out, ignoring me. “Of course they’re closed,” he said. “Right then, I’ll leave a message.”

  “Dad, no. Come on.”

  I wanted to grab the phone off him but honestly, truly, I was worried he would hit me if I did. All I could do was stand and watch as he yelled into his mobile.

  “Hello, yes, this is Glynn Vickers, I’m leaving a message for the headmaster as it’s come to my attention that my daughter, Paige, has to attend an after-school detention tomorrow for something she didn’t do…or so she claims…”

  No. No no no no. I soaked myself in humiliation, picturing the secretary listening to this the next morning. “…this doesn’t make much sense to me as a parent, so I’d appreciate it if you’d get someone to ring me back to explain it. Meanwhile, I will not be signing any piece of paper agreeing to something like this.”

  I closed my eyes, counted to one, two, three, four…

  He hung up, eyes still red, searching for more meat. “Well, hopefully we can clear this up. Jane? Next time, can you please not hide important things from me? Especially about our children?”

  She opened her mouth for a millisecond before the training kicked in. “I’m so sorry.” She nodded meekly. “I honestly only opened it a moment ago. I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t know why I put up with it. Honestly, some days, I don’t know why I put up with it. It’s pathetic. My life, you…it’s all pathetic.”

  Mum kept nodding. She didn’t know why he put up with it either.

  Now we were both quaking with fear, Dad softened. He surveyed the kitchen with satisfaction. His chest deflated. He actually even smiled.

  “So?” he asked. “What’s for dinner?”

  I mean, it’s ludicrous really that they’ve mentioned Melissa at all. Melissa left our school because she was bullied out. THAT’S why she was on national television – she was on a documentary about bullying. In Year Eight, for some reason no one fully understands, everyone woke up one morning and decided to detest Melissa Nutley. The hate campaign spread within a week. She went from being a slightly odd girl, to being called “Dog Face” and tormented relentlessly. Everyone barked when she entered the room. Amelia left dog treats on her chair. Melissa was a reactive victim. She didn’t go quiet, or shake, or cry. Instead she fought back – swearing at anyone who barked at her. She threw the dog treats at Amelia’s head. For six months, “Dog Face” provided our entertainment. She was our own personal bull and we were the matadors, waving red rags at her, until the day she didn’t come in.

  And she never came in again.