Five.

He's not in History or English, at lunch or in Form. I'm disappointed he's not anywhere. But if everyone carries on talking about him as much as they are, I'm sure he'll appear from thin air through sheer willpower.

The story goes like this:

Ben was wasted.

I was wasted.

We were doing things that wasted people do.

New boy appeared.

He picked a fight with Ben.

Ben lost. (Not that he'd admit it.)

Apparently this happened in the bedroom or the bathroom, in the rain, maybe behind the garage.

It's sixth, seventh, eighth-hand by the time I hear it, something born out of Chinese whispers and fabrication. This school is like a murky swamp with rumours spilling into it daily.

They all believe Ben's story.

I can't remember, but even so, I know he's lying. It's the way he won't look at me, eyes darting all over. He has this habit of getting louder the bigger the lie. I hear him holding court three rooms over.

I also hear a handful of things about the newbie. He's a transfer. He was expelled from his last school. His parents couldn't pay posh school fees anymore.

Truth is, no one has a clue.

I think about him more than I should. I can't put my finger on why.

The final bell can't come quick enough. I'm on my way to catch the bus for a date with my bed, when Cope calls my name as I walk past her room.

I consider pretending I didn't hear, but she's not someone to mess with. Unkind years have been corrected with a severe bun that stretches her eyes like a cat, and a slash of plum lipstick. A shade that fades through the day until she looks frostbitten.

I don't mean to sigh, but she spots it and the temperature falls below freezing. "I do apologise, Bella, for interrupting your busy day."

It's a trap so I keep my mouth shut.

"Is there anything you have for me?" She holds out her hand. I look at it for a few seconds too long. She's got chipped pink nails.

"Erm, I—"

"Your assignment?"

I swear under my breath, but her ears pick it up easily.

"Unless there's a good reason that your work isn't ready to hand in, you can spend tomorrow's free periods working on it under supervision."

I bite down the urge to groan, thinking of the half-finished mess sitting on my bed at home. "I'll have it done tomorrow."

"Good." She turns her back on me and cleans the whiteboard. "You've only got this year left, Bella. Make it worthwhile. If you're going to give up, then you might as well drop out now and save yourself the effort."

Reverse psychology from the psychology teacher. How cliche.

I have to catch two buses home. I'm not from the same world as the others, which is why I hate that Cope has a point. I was somehow gifted with enough sparks to be noticed by a kind and determined primary school teacher. Her help and my desire to be something more than my postcode, got me into Elmwood High.

So, I don't know why I'm fucking things up. It feels like it's out of my hands when I get home and have to walk past burned-out flats and smashed glass, past the gang who run this place, watching me like hungry vultures in the blank space at the centre of our estate. Then there's the new Do Not Cross police tape blocking off my building—another druggie, another robbery, another death. I get home and there's nothing in the fridge. My mum's got the curtains drawn, fast asleep on the settee. Another man's shitty aftershave invades the walls. It wasn't always like this, but it's getting harder to remember before.

I close my door to block it out. There's no way I can stay here. Something's clawing out of my chest like panic on acid. I change and head to Rose's without writing a word on my assignment. I'll have to give in to Cope.

Nine o'clock on the dot the next day, I seek out her room.

Turns out I'm not the only one in her bad books.