Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Holly Smale 2015

Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007574582

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007574605

Version: 2017-01-31

Some glittering reviews for the GEEK GIRL books:

“Loved Geek Girl. Wise, funny and true, with a proper nerd heroine you’re laughing with as much as at. Almost” James Henry, writer of Smack the Pony and Green Wing

“I would highly recommend Geek Girl to anyone who likes a good laugh and enjoys a one-of-a-kind story”

Mia, Guardian Children’s Books website

“Smart, sassy and very funny”

Bookseller

“Brilliantly funny and fresh… A feel-good satisfying gem”

Books for Keeps

“There’s laughter and tears in this hilarious roller-coaster story”

Julia Eccleshare

“Simultaneously hilarious and heart-warming. Everyone should read this book”

We Love This Book

“Pure fun”

School Library Journal

For Mum. Who has given me so many stories.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Geek Girl

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

glitter [glit-er] verb, noun

1 To sparkle with reflected light

2 To make a brilliant show

3 To be decorated or enhanced by glamour

4 Tiny pieces of shiny ornamentation.

ORIGIN from the Old English glitenian: ‘To shine; to be distinguished’

y name is Harriet Manners, and I am a genius.

I know I’m a genius because I’ve just looked up the symptoms on the internet and I appear to have almost all of them.

Sociological studies have shown that the hallmarks of extraordinary intelligence include enjoying pointless pursuits, an unusual memory for things nobody else finds interesting and total social ineptitude.

I don’t want to sound big-headed, but last night I alphabetised every soup can in the kitchen, taught myself to pick up pencils with my toes and learnt that chickens can see daylight forty-five minutes before humans can.

And people don’t tend to like me very much.

So I think I’ve pretty much nailed this.

Other symptoms of genius I recognise include:

“I’m confused,” my father said when I triumphantly showed him my ticked-off list. “Aren’t they also the symptoms of being a sixteen-year-old girl?”

“Or a baby,” my stepmother added, peering over at the list. “Your sister also appears to fit the list.”

Which just goes to show why so many of the intellectual elite are misunderstood. Even our own parents don’t recognise our brilliance.

Anyway, as the biggest sign of a high IQ is asking lots of questions and I got to the page by googling …

Am I a genius?

… I’m feeling pretty optimistic.

Which is good, because this morning is my first day back at school so I’m going to need all the extra brain-power I can get.

That’s right, I am now an official sixth former.

By my calculations I have spent exactly eleven years of my life at school so far: 2,145 taught days, or approximately 17,160 hours (not including homework or the free tests I downloaded to take on holiday).

In short, I have invested over a million minutes in education in preparation for this precise moment. The day when all my carefully collected knowledge will be valued and appreciated, instead of just irritating people.

Finally, school is getting serious.

Gone are the homework-haters and eye-rollers, and – thanks to an influx of new students from other schools – in their place are people who really want to learn. People desperate to know that gerbils can smell adrenaline and a caterpillar has twelve eyes, or that there’s enough carbon in your body to make 900 pencils.

People just like me.

And I couldn’t be more excited.

As of today, I have five A levels to study, two universities to introduce myself to early and a bright career in palaeontology to begin pursuing in earnest. I have statistics to analyse and frogs to dissect and thigh exercises to start so I don’t get cramp when I’m brushing soil away from dinosaur fossils in the not-so-distant future.

I have brand-new, like-minded friends to make.

It might be the same school with a lot of the same people, but things are about to change. After eleven years of scraping insults off my belongings and retrieving my shoes from the cisterns of toilets, this is my chance to start all over again. A new beginning.

A chance to shine.

This time, everything will be different.

Luckily, one of the really great things about being a genius is that it’s easy to multitask.

So this morning I decide to make the most of it.

I learn that there are forty different muscles in a bird wing while I’m getting out of bed.

I discover that a sea urchin can walk on its teeth while I’m combing my hair, and that parasites make up 0.01 per cent of our body weight while I’m brushing my teeth.

Clothes, socks and shoes are all picked out and donned as I fully absorb the fact that a snake smells with its tongue and hears with its jaw. I study the names of British kings and queens as I run down the stairs, and by the time I reach the kitchen I’m on to Secret Service code names (Prince Charles is “Unicorn”, which is a shame because I was hoping one day they’d use that one for me).

“Did you know,” I say as I lean down to kiss Tabitha on her little round cheek, “that the average person will eat 500 chickens and 13,000 eggs in a lifetime?”

My baby sister clearly didn’t, because she gurgles happily at this new and unprecedented information. Then I reach over her fluffy head to grab a hard-boiled version of the latter listed from the table.

“Harriet,” my stepmother says.

“And we’ll each eat thirty-six pigs,” I continue as I start peeling the egg with one hand. “And thirty-six sheep.”

“Harriet.”

“And eight cows.”

“Harriet.”

“And 10,000 chocolate bars.” I pause with the egg halfway to my mouth. “I think I may have eaten my rations for that already, though. Maybe I should become a vegetarian to balance it back out.”

A hand lands on my arm.

“Good morning, Annabel. How did you sleep? I’m fine, thank you. Isn’t it a beautiful day today? Thanks for making me breakfast, even though I am now leaving bits of shell all over the kitchen floor for you to clean up.”

I blink at my stepmother a few times, then at Dad. I’ve lived with Annabel since I was five, yet sometimes she is still a total mystery to me.

“Why is Annabel talking to herself?”

“She’s an alien unsuccessfully trying to fit in with the rest of the human race,” Dad says knowingly, dipping a bit of toast in egg yolk and then dripping it on the table. “Is there anything in your book to help us figure out what she wants with us poor earthlings before she sucks our brains out with her tentacles?”

I start flicking eagerly through the chunky tome in my hand. There are 729 pages and I’m only 13/20ths of the way through, so there’s almost definitely some kind of precedent.

Or at the very least something interesting about spaceships.

“Sadly, all signs suggest that your brain is already gone, Richard,” Annabel says grimly. “So I’m probably going to starve.”

Then she pulls a chair out and gestures at it.

“Put your fact book down, Harriet, and have some breakfast. I start back at work tomorrow morning and none of us have heard a sensible word out of you for the last twenty-four hours.”

I don’t know what my stepmother is talking about. Every single sentence I’ve said has been scientifically and historically accurate. There’s a bibliography proving it in the back.

I shove a piece of toast into my mouth.

“Can’t,” I say through a spray of buttered carbohydrates. “No time. Things to learn, places to go, kindred spirits to meet.”

Quickly, I stomp into the hallway and grab my satchel from the corner whilst simultaneously discovering that in 1830, King Louis XIX ruled France for just twenty minutes.

“Look how awesome she is,” Dad says proudly as I open the front door. “That’s my daughter, Annabel. My genetics, right there. Harriet Manners: model and style icon. Fashion legend. Sartorial maverick extraordinaire.”

I stick one ear of my headphones in.

“Harriet,” Annabel says. “Hang on a second. Where are you going?”

I’m not entirely sure how I’ll use the Louis XIX information, by the way. Not everything I read is potentially useful or relevant, even to me.

“School!” I put the other ear in. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake starts blaring out at full volume. “See you this evening!”

And my first day as a proper sixth former begins.

o, I’ve done a little studying on the art of making new friends and I’m happy to report that there appear to be a few basic rules for us all to follow.

I have boiled it down to: find things in common, smile and laugh lots (this indicates a sunny and welcoming personality), ask questions, remember details and never wear the same outfit as them without asking first.

Which sounds deceptively easy.

Over the last sixteen years I’ve successfully made just four friends: my stalker classmate, Toby Pilgrim; my dog, Hugo; a Japanese model called Rin (who would happily befriend a sausage); and my Best Friend Nat, who I met when I was five and literally couldn’t have less in common with if I tried.

So I think it’s fair to say I need all the advice I can get.

The way I see it, the fact book in my hand isn’t just fascinating trivia, relevant to the trials and tribulations of daily living (which it also is). It’s a bridge between me and other people. With these scientifically proven nuggets of information, I’ll be able to find things in common with everyone.

Oh, you like tennis? Well, did you know that the longest ever match lasted eleven hours? You’re a big fan of keeping fit? The most push-ups ever performed in one day was 46,001!

Have a cat? Cats kill more than 275 million creatures a year in the UK alone!

It doesn’t matter whether it’s film or sport or songs or animals or a fondness for fizzy drinks (they dissolve teeth!): somehow, I’ll be able to find a connection. A link between me and them. Something to pull us together.

All friendship requires is focus and dedication.

And a little bit of knowledge.

I learn all about crocodiles as I wander down the road to school and past the bench where Nat usually meets me (except now she’s at fashion college on the other side of town).

Caterpillars get a brief look-over as I quickly glance around for Toby – there’s no sign of him – and pull my phone out of my pocket to check for texts from my modelling agent, Stephanie (as per usual, absolutely zero – my fashion career appears to have fallen into some kind of coma).

US presidents fill in the gap as I clumsily open and walk through the school gates.

The world’s largest lakes occupy my opening of the stiff front door and stroll down the silent corridor into my empty classroom.

Then I take a seat, turn to a page about the London Underground, and wait.

I’ve specifically chosen to get to school early today so I have plenty of time to adjust before my new form arrives. Thanks to Dad’s job at the time, I was living in America for the first few weeks of term – being tortured by a tutor who turned out to be a fake, and fainting on fairground fashion shoots – so I really need the extra time. This way I can acclimatise to my new environment, cram some last-minute knowledge in and maybe stop my stomach from rolling over and over like a sick guppy while I’m at it.

Nervously, I clutch my book as tightly as I can.

Focus, Harriet.

The London Underground is the world’s first underground transport system. It has a network of 402 kilometres, carries 1,265 billion people a year and is actually more overground than it is undergr—

“Harriet Manners?”

I swallow. This is it. This is where my new beginning starts. Be cool, Harriet. Be casual. Be as full of relevant yet breezy information as physically possible.

With a deep breath, I plaster on my biggest and friendliest smile and put my book down.

“Good morning,” I say in my brightest voice. “It’s super nice to meet y—”

Then I stop.

Because standing in front of me is a group of what appear to be fully grown adults, holding clipboards and pens.

And every single one of them is staring at me.

or the first few seconds, I assume my classmates have just aged quite a lot over the summer holidays.

That’s how weird teachers look in casual clothes.

Then – like the Magic Eye picture of a galloping horse Dad has stuck in the garage – strange colours and shapes slowly start to make sense.

Mr Collins from biology in high-waisted jeans and a green polo-neck jumper. Drama teacher Miss Hammond in a beige jumper, tie-dye pink skirt and woolly lilac socks. Receptionist Mrs O’Connor – devoured by an enormous yellow jumper that says DEFINE ‘NORMAL’!!! – and my English teacher Mr Bott in his standard black suit, white shirt and thin black tie, like a magician on his way to a funeral.

I blink as the entire school staff gradually crowds in from the corridor so they can stare at me curiously, the way little children gather around a pink-bottomed rhesus monkey at the zoo.

Any minute now, somebody’s going to throw me a banana and ask me to dance.

You know what?

I’m so confused right now, I might just go ahead and do it.

Finally Mr Bott takes his pen out of his mouth. “Would you like to explain what you’re doing here, Miss Manners?”

“Umm.” I look back at my book in bewilderment. “I’m studying, sir.”

“That’s as maybe. But the school is closed for teacher training today. You’re not supposed to be here.”

And – just like that – I suddenly see my morning all over again. The empty roads. The blank phone. The closed school gates. The wedged-shut front door, silent corridors and empty seats.

The fact that Toby wasn’t following three steps behind me for the first time in known history.

Annabel’s confusion as I left the house.

Oh my God.

There’s a special kind of reef fish called the Enneapterygius pusillus that glows with a bright red light in order to communicate with the fish around it. From the heat in my cheeks right now, it feels like I’m attempting it too.

Every other student on the planet is trying to get out of school. I’m the only one who accidentally breaks in.

I stand up quickly. Think, Harriet.

“I was just, umm …” What? “Bringing a gift for you all. For the … errr … teachers. To wish you luck. With … the training.”

Then I hold out the stupid Big Book of Trivia for the Loo that got me into this mess in the first place. In fairness to the authors, the warning was in the title. I probably should have left it there.

Miss Hammond beams and takes it off me. “That’s so sweet of you, Harriet! How thoughtful! And what a spectacular outfit you’ve chosen for today,” she adds brightly. “You’ve really harnessed your inner rainbow.”

I look down and my cheeks promptly go supernova.

Thanks to getting dressed while reading, I’m apparently wearing a yellow T-shirt, a red jumper featuring a Christmas pudding – in October – a pair of pink pyjama bottoms with blue sheep all over them and the bright purple knee socks Nat bought me “as a joke”, slouched down around my ankles.

On one foot is a green trainer.

On the other is a blue one.

My daughter. Model and style icon. Fashion legend. Sartorial maverick extraordinaire.

Maybe I’m not such a genius after all.

nyway.

While I’m stuffing my mismatched shoes in my satchel and shuffling home in my not-a-whole-lot-better socks, I may as well update you on what’s been happening since I returned from New York, right?

That’s what you want to know.

Exactly what I’ve been doing with myself since I split up with Nick Hidaka – Lion Boy, ex-supermodel and love of my life – on Brooklyn Bridge just over three weeks ago, and flew home without him.

So here it is:

Nothing.

Not literally, obviously, or I’d be dead.

Over the last three weeks I have breathed approximately 466,662 times and processed 4,200 litres of blood with my kidneys. I have produced thirty-seven litres of saliva and 9,450 litres of carbon dioxide.

I’ve had eighteen showers, four baths, brushed my teeth forty-two times, eaten sixty-seven meals and consumed more chocolate bars than I can be bothered to count (and that’s really saying something).

But that’s about it.

Other than basic survival – and packing up the house in Greenway while we waited two weeks for our flight back to England – almost the only thing I’ve done voluntarily is read. With my curtains shut and my bedroom door closed, I’ve devoured words like never before: buried myself in books and submerged myself in stories.

I’ve read during breakfast and lunch and dinner; until the sun’s come up and gone down and come up again.

And not just fact books.

I’ve fought dragons, attended balls and chased a whale. I’ve won wars, lost court cases, travelled India, ridden broomsticks and stranded myself on numerous islands.

I’ve died a dozen times.

Because here’s the thing about a book: when you pick up a story, you put down your own.

For a few precious moments, you become somebody else. Their memories become your memories; your thoughts turn into theirs. Until, page by page, line by line, you disappear completely.

So until today – until my new beginning – that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Because I thought maybe if I could just bury myself deep enough, for long enough, I could shut the world out and myself out with it.

And then I wouldn’t have to think about how the last time I saw Nick is the last time I’ll see him, and the last time I kissed him is the last time I’ll kiss him. About how life keeps going on as it always has.

Or how my heart can beat 100,000 times a day.

Even when it’s broken.

nfortunately, vanishing has its side effects.

And – as I quietly turn on to the path leading back up to my house – I can see two of them: standing on my front door step.

Without a sound, I quickly dive into a nearby bush.

Maybe there are advantages to walking around in your bare socks after all.

“Are you sure?” Nat is saying, shifting from one foot to the other. Her dark hair is curly, and hanging down her back like well-behaved snakes. “You’re certain Harriet’s not here?”

“I’m definite,” Annabel confirms gently. “Unless she’s scaled the outside wall and re-entered through her bedroom window, but given Harriet’s inherent fear of PE it seems unlikely.”

That’s putting it mildly. Frankly, there’s more chance of me growing wings and flying back in.

“It’s actually easier than it looks,” Toby says cheerfully.

Even from a few metres behind I can read the orange letters on the back of his T-shirt: VOTED MOST LIKELY TO TRAVEL BACK IN TIME, CLASS OF 2057.

“If you take the first flowerpot on the left there’s a little toe-hole in the wall just above it, and then you can use the ivy trellis as leverage the rest of the way.” He pauses. “You should probably reassess your exterior plant framework, Mrs Manners. It’s not very security-conscious.”

The corner of Annabel’s mouth twitches. “Oh, I’d imagine we will now.”

“If you want, next time I’m up there I’ll stick a little warning note on the outside of the window telling all other stalkers to go away.”

My stepmother laughs because she obviously assumes that Toby is joking.

I, however, know better.

I am literally never opening my bedroom curtains again.

“Focus, Pilgrim,” Nat says crossly, leaning to the side and poking his arm. “What kind of rubbish stalker are you, anyway? You don’t even know where Harriet is.”

“In fairness, my concentration has been a little distracted with an exorbitant level of homework, and also the TARDIS I’ve been building in my garden.”

Toby holds out bright blue fingers as evidence.

Nat stares at him for a few seconds in disgust. “What is your problem?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Toby says happily. “I’m struggling to make it look as if it has truly travelled through time and space. Any suggestions?”

There’s a silence, then my best friend sighs and turns back to Annabel. “I haven’t seen or heard from Harriet all weekend. She’s not picking up calls, she’s not answering texts and she didn’t remind me seven times about the parrot documentary on telly. I really need to talk to her.”

“She’s just jet-lagged, sweetheart. It takes a little while to settle back into a new time zone, that’s all.”

“And you don’t know where I can find her?”

There’s a tiny pause. “I don’t, I’m sorry.”

“Right.” Nat’s shoulders slump slightly. “Well.” She looks sharply up at my bedroom window, and then kicks the front doorstep a couple of times. We’ve been home six days and my best friend is not an idiot: we’re five hours ahead of New York, not in a different solar system. “I have to go to college. Will you tell her I called again?”

“Of course.” Annabel nods and looks at Toby. “And I’ll tell her you popped by too.”

“You don’t need to,” he says proudly. “She’ll know. I’ve left one of my new calling cards.” He points to the wall and there’s a little round, bright green dot stuck there. “It says TPWH™, which stands for Toby Pilgrim Was Here, Trademarked.”

“I’m impressed,” Annabel smiles. “Very organised and efficient.”

Literally nothing fazes her. She’s like Gandalf but less beardy.

Nat glances at my bedroom window again.

She kicks the doorstep a few more times.

Then, with an audible exhalation, my best friend swirls round and stomps back down the garden path in bright silver shoes.

With my stalker trailing after her.

watch Nat leave with a guilty twist of my stomach.

Then I wait as long as I can.

I am invisible. I am undetectable. I am a ninja of imperceptibility, as hidden as a leafy sea dragon, elaborately constructed to blend into my surroundings, and—

“You can come out now, Harriet.”

Oh. So – maybe not.

Slowly, I creep out from inside the bush and brush dried mud and dead leaves off my pyjama bottoms.

“You know,” Annabel says, gently removing a small spider from my eyebrow. Apparently I’m even more camouflaged than I intended to be. “I’m not enjoying all this subterfuge very much, Harriet. It’s much more your father’s style.”

“I know,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for lying again.”

In Greek and Roman mythology there’s a three-headed dog called Cerberus who guards the entrance of the underworld to prevent the dead from escaping and the living from entering.

For the last few days, that’s exactly what my stepmother has been doing for me.

On cue, my phone beeps three times in quick succession:

When one door of happiness closes, another one opens! :) xx

A break-up is like a broken mirror. It is better to leave it broken than to hurt yourself trying to fix it! :) xx

If you walk away and they don’t follow, keep walking. :) xx

And this is exactly why I’m avoiding Nat.

Ever since I returned from America, it’s been like having my own personal therapist crossed with a woodpecker. What exactly happened? Peck. What did Nick say? Peck. Do I miss him? Peck. Was it definitely the right decision? Peck peck. Can’t we make it work? Has he been in contact? How do I feel?

Peck peck peck peck until the tree falls over.

And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to talk about it, Nat has decided that we are heartbroken and she’s committed to working through it.

Together.

Incessantly, over and over and over again.

Without a single moment’s peace, and with the help of quite a lot of fridge magnets, motivational T-shirts and quotes off the internet.

Never mind picking the lock: my best friend is trying to smash me open with a sledgehammer.

I take a deep breath and type:

Very wise! Speak soon! :) x

Then I put my phone back in my pocket and glance desperately over Annabel’s shoulder at the house. I’ve got the works of Terry Pratchett waiting on my bedside table. If I take two stairs at a time, I can be balanced on the back of four elephants and a giant turtle within thirty-five seconds.

I love Nat.

She’s my best friend: the person who knows me inside and out, who can finish my sentences when I don’t even know what it is I want to say yet. But – as a magnet might tell me – I can’t start the next chapter of my life if I keep re-reading the old ones.

I just want a new story, that’s all.

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I start racing desperately towards my next escape.

I turn round blankly. “Hmm?”

“You don’t need to shut us all out, sweetheart. Me, your dad. Natalie. You can talk to us about it.”

“Sure,” I say, and then start heading back to my bedroom.

Because for the first time ever, that’s exactly the problem.

Maybe I don’t want to.

o, my plan for the next morning is as follows:

Admittedly, the last point on the list is a bit vague, but I’m leaving it up to the teachers.

That is what they’re paid for, after all.

The way I see it, yesterday was just a dress rehearsal: one that went spectacularly badly. Statistically, a first impression is usually cemented in seven seconds (although obviously I’ve disappointed people far more quickly than that).

This time, I’m not taking any chances.

At 8am, I stand on the doorstep and double-check my carefully selected outfit. A quick study of the psychology of colours has established that white clothes make strangers think you’re honest, yellow clothes make them think you’re friendly and orange implies that you’re a whole lot of spontaneous fun.

So I’m wearing a white jumper, orange leggings and yellow pumps. Hopefully this will silently represent an excellent personality before I’ve said a word.

It may even be powerful enough to make me appealing after I’ve said some too.

Then I roll my eyes at the enormous rustling purple hydrangea to my right. “Come on, Tobes. We’re friends now. Why don’t you just walk to school with me instead of hiding in bushes?”

There’s another rustle and a small squeak. Then Annabel’s cat, Victor, struts out from behind the pot with a piercing expression that says: I’m not going anywhere with you, weirdo.

Flushing slightly as a neighbour gives me the kind of glance you give to people who talk to plants, I decide to go ahead and just start walking to school on my own.

“Tobes,” I say with a small smile when I reach the tree at the bottom of my road, “you’re not being very subtle. I can totally see you …”

A squirrel runs out.

“Toby …” I say as a jogger runs past.

“Tob—” I start again, but it’s just a leaf skittering along the ground.

With growing confusion, I continue walking: past the bench Toby isn’t crouching behind, in front of the lamp-post Toby isn’t pretending to fix with a small screwdriver, past the old man with a big newspaper held up to his face.

“Sorry,” I say after I’ve pulled it down and shouted “Ha! Gotcha!”

“Girls these days,” the man snorts angrily, burying himself in it again. Which is really unfair: I’m pretty sure I’d have done that if I was a boy too.

By the time I approach the road to school and – somewhat reassuringly – spot a group of students in school uniform, I’m starting to feel a little off-centre. I hadn’t realised quite how much of my day is constructed around various degrees of pretending to be irritated with Toby.

Finally, I spot him: crouched on the floor next to the front school gates in a pale brown T-shirt with little flecks all over it. He’s obviously pretending to be a boulder. Or a huge tortoise. Or something else that would never, ever be found outside a British school in a million years.

“Toby,” I say with a huge wave of relief. “There you are. I really don’t think you need to—”

“Hello, Harriet!” he says, redoing a shoe and standing up. His pale sideburns are fluffy and sticking out, and I realise he must have grown another four centimetres over the summer: he’s starting to look like a lightning bolt. “Did you know that Velcro was inspired by the tiny hooks on a burr that stuck to the inventor’s dog? I prefer it to laces, even if evidence of string does date back 28,000 years.”

I beam at him.

That is exactly what I needed to make me feel grounded and secure this morning. A fascinating, shoe-based historical fact, guest-featuring dogs.

“That’s interesting, becau—” I start enthusiastically, but I don’t get any further because Toby sticks two thumbs up and starts powering towards the school gates, slightly-too-short trousers flapping around his ankles.

“See you later, Harriet!” he calls over his shoulder.

“But,” I stutter in amazement, “w-wait, Toby. Don’t we have class together? Shouldn’t we … go in at the same time?”

Or – you know – with him ten paces behind me.

It’s kind of a tradition.

“We’re in different forms now, Harriet!” Toby says cheerfully. “Plus I have a super important project to get on with before class starts. Have a great day!”

And my stalker disappears into school.

Leaving me following ten paces behind him.

t’s amazing what a difference a day can make.

Or – you know.

An open and functioning school you don’t have to break into.

As I push through the glass sixth-form doors, I can feel a terrified, nervous hopping sensation starting at the bottom of my stomach. It takes fifty hours for a snake to fully digest a frog, and for part of that time the frog is still alive. Given the feeling in my stomach, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve accidentally swallowed one too.

Everything has changed.

There is now noise and chaos everywhere. Classrooms and corridors are filled with people: giggling, laughing, shouting, singing. Chair legs are being scraped on the floor, various items are flying through the air – rubbers, crumpled-up notes, packets of crisps – and there’s a faint smell of board-marker and furniture polish that’s halfway between a cleaning cupboard and a sofa shop.

People I don’t recognise are stomping up and down the stairs proprietorially, and students I do know have transformed completely. Braces are off, long hair has been chopped, short hair grown and extended. Acne has erupted or disappeared. A few tentative moustaches have sprouted like shadowy upper lip infections. Everything that was banned last term is scattered defiantly: heels, short skirts, piercings, lipsticks, shaved heads. All worn with pride and triumphant chins.

It’s the same school, yet – somehow – not at all.

Sixth form has been open just four weeks and it already feels like everyone has made this world their own. Now it’s my turn.

With another froggy stomach hop, I reach the door of my new classroom and stand outside on one foot for a few seconds, peeking through the window.

Then I anxiously pull out my phone.

Really wish you were here. Hx

I press SEND and wait a few seconds.

There’s a beep.

Me too. Raid the vending machine for me. ;) Nat x

I smile – I was obviously going to do that anyway – and take a deep breath.

You can do this, Harriet. You are a goddess of insight and possibilities; a warrior of chance and fate. A goldfish of optimism and opportunity.

Oh God. My brain is shutting down already.

Then, with all the courage I can muster, I hold my breath, square my shoulders and lift my chin high.

And push into my brand-new world.

he really great thing about having the head of drama as my new form teacher this year is – thanks to my role in last year’s production of Hamlet – I already know her.

The not so great thing?

She already knows me.

“Harriet Manners!” Miss Hammond looks up from her desk so enthusiastically that the beaded fringe on her tie-dye scarf gets caught on a pencil pot. “You’ve returned to us for the second time! How utterly wonderful!”

Oh, sugar cookies. I really hope she’s not going to bring out the book I gave her. I don’t want my first introduction to the class to involve the word loo.

“You guys,” she continues chirpily, waving a hand around. There are so many bracelets, she sounds like an enormous Slinky. “For those who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her before, Harriet Manners has veritably boomeranged back after a glamorous adventure in Nooooo Yaawwwk!”

I flush a little bit harder.

“Apparently Americans eat more bananas than any other fruit,” I blurt anxiously. “And twenty-five per cent of them think the sun orbits the earth.”

Oh my God. What is wrong with me?

“Which isn’t why I came back,” I add quickly, the back of my neck starting to prickle. “I like bananas.”

I like bananas.

Yup. There are over a million words in the English language, and I chose those three in that particular order to impress a group of strangers.

I am never reading a fact book again.

The students in the class murmur “Hey, Harriet” while they try to make sense of me too.

“Why don’t you plop yourself down there?” Miss Hammond says, pointing to a free seat. “We’re doing a team-building exercise first thing, so it’s perfect timing! You’re going to fit back in like a kitten in a straw basket full of other kittens. I can tell already.”

Still blushing, I walk cautiously to the corner of the class and place my satchel on the floor. Then – trying not to notice the thirty-two eyes still following me – I take out my new folders: three colours with dividers for easier organisation.

Followed by my new school diary and a set of biros.

Five pencils, an eraser, three highlighters, glue, a hole punch, ruler and Post-its. A tape-dispenser and compass. A calculator and protractor.

A full, rainbow-hued box of felt-tip pens. A traditional fountain-pen.

With little ink-pot.

Finally, I add a couple of shiny blank notepads with pictures of dinosaurs all over the front.

What? I just really like being prepared, that’s all.

When it’s all laid out neatly and at perfect right angles on my desk I feel much calmer again, so I fold my hands tightly on my lap and survey the slowly expanding class with a growing sense of excitement.

I vaguely know some of them already.

The two leads from the play last year are on opposite sides of the classroom: Christopher (Hamlet), sullen and still wearing a black polo-neck, and pretty Raya (Ophelia, obviously) with a glossy black ponytail, camel-like eyelashes and permanently pouted lips. I also recognise Eric, the school football captain, now slightly pirate-like with a shaved head and a gold hoop earring, and my old classmate Robert, who has apparently developed an interest in hair gel – the front of his hair looks like if he ran fast with his head down he could probably kill somebody with it.

Two of Alexa’s key minions – Liv and Ananya – are seated together at the back: one with pale skin and a bleached white top-knot, the other with dark skin and a large, black high-bun. They’re wearing the same floral onesies in contrasting colours and are united by identical, intensely bored expressions.

But much more excitingly, there are also at least a handful of faces I don’t recognise at all.

Which one of these is going to be my new kindred spirit?

The girl with pink glasses? She looks like she’s on first-name terms with her optometrist too. The girl with neon purple hair and a rainbow-coloured nose ring? I’m a big fan of bright colours too. How about the boy with freckles and a red bag? I, too, have freckles and a—

OK, I think I might just be clutching at similarity straws now.

Finally, almost every chair but the one next to me is taken.

“Oh, shoot a hamster,” Miss Hammond says, slapping her head lightly with her wrist. “What a twit I am! I left the register in the staffroom.” She stands up and jingles a few times. “Back in two ticks, peeps.”

And – in a whirlwind of orange and pink – our form teacher disappears into the corridor.

The room immediately starts bubbling with noise again, and I cautiously start staring hard at individuals and then giving them my brightest, friendliest smile. The kind that says I can’t wait to ask you questions and then remember the details!

A few of them actually smile back.

You know what? I like sixth form already. People are glancing at me, but it doesn’t feel hostile.

It feels curious; quizzical and interested.

I can feel my entire body starting to relax.

I was so right: this was exactly what I needed. A fresh start. A new beginning. The closure of an old page, and the opening of a new one. The unfolding of a different story.

Except it isn’t.

Because, just as I’m congratulating myself on making such an excellent – albeit fruit-enthused – first impression, the classroom door opens again. And in walks the Captain Hook to my Peter Pan; the Voldemort to my Potter.

The Cruella De Vil to my hundred spotted puppies.

Alexa.

o.

o no no no no no.

O NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NONONONONONONO NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO NONO.

f you yelled for one year, seven months and twenty-six days, you would produce enough sound energy to heat one cup of tea. Hook up my brain right now and I should be able to boil ten in three seconds flat.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be.

Alexa isn’t doing any of the same subjects as me. She has a totally different schedule: English, History, Geography. I was sure she had a different form room. I rang and checked with Mrs O’Connor to confirm that I’d been moved to another class, just in case.

And emailed. Five times. With a supporting text.

I thought I was finally free.

With a flick of the grown-out blonde hair which Nat chopped off for being horrible to me nearly a year ago now, Alexa strolls into the room and looks at us through heavily lined eyes.

“Hi,” she says with a small cat-smile.

“How are you all today?”

She’s the only person I know who can make a general greeting sound like a specific death threat.

“Lexi! Over here!” Ananya sits up straighter and sticks a hand in the air. “Thank God you’re here: this class is so boring.”

“Ohwowowow,” Liv squeaks, bopping up and down in her seat, “areyoukiddingLexiyoulookamazingtodayIlove yourskirtI’vetotallygotonejustlikeitexceptit’sredanda differentlengthandshapebutit’sprettymuchidentical.”

When an elephant lies down it only needs to breathe four times a minute. Every time Liv gets excited, I can’t help wondering if she has a similar lung capacity.

Alexa ignores them and swivels to look in my direction.

I’m not kidding: her entire face has just lit up. As if she’s six, it’s Christmas morning and I’m a solid gold bike somebody’s left under the tree.

The frog in my stomach has suddenly gone very still.

“Do you mind if I take this seat?” she says, sashaying towards me in sharp-heeled black boots: the kind you can skewer somebody’s soul with.

“Yes,” I say as clearly as I can. “Immensely.”

But apparently it’s a rhetorical question, because Alexa kicks back and puts her feet on our desk, knocking my compass on to the floor.

I’m going to leave it there. I don’t think drawing my bully’s attention to a sharp metal object with a stabby point is the smartest possible decision at this precise moment.

“I’m so delighted you’re finally back,” she says flatly, picking one of my notepads up and staring at the T-Rex on the front with a wrinkled nose. “Overjoyed, in fact.”

“Are you?” I say tightly.

“Totally.” She’s now fiddling with my ink pot. “School’s so dull without somebody fun to play with.”

Which would be quite sweet if we were five and she didn’t mean the way a tiger plays with a three-legged goat or a cat plays with a mouse just before she rips it apart.

Skeletal muscle consists of 650 striated layers connected to bones, and I’m so cold and rigid now every one of my fibres feels like it’s made out of stainless steel.

This is a disaster.

Actually, no: it’s a catastrophe; a cataclysm; utter ruination. A meteorite could be about to obliterate England, and it would still be second on the Worst Things That Could Possibly Happen Today list.

There’s no way I can make new friends and start again with Alexa snapping at my heels. She’s going to make everybody hate me before I even get a chance.

Again.

“And I just love the look you’re going for today,” she adds in a voice so loud it could blister paint. “Ducks are so hot right now.”

Ducks? I look down in confusion at my white jumper, orange leggings and yellow shoes and then flush bright red. She’s right: I look exactly like a member of the Anatidae family.

That is not the sophisticated first impression I wanted to give at all.

“Hey, you guys,” Alexa continues at the top of her voice, gesticulating with one of my pencils. Everybody in the class is now staring at us in silence. “For those of you who haven’t met Harriet Manners, we’ve known each other a really long time, haven’t we?” The frog in my stomach is now totally frozen. No. No no no no. “A really, really long time. Eleven years, in fact.”

“Alexa—”

“Oh, they’re just going to love our childhood memories, Harriet. They’re adorable. Do you remember when we were five and you peed yourself on the story-time carpet and they had to buy a whole library of new books?”

“OMG!” Ananya laughs from behind me. “I remember that, Lexi! That was hilaire.”

“So gross,” Liv squeaks. “Like, ewwww.”

I feel sick. “It was milk and I squeezed my carton too hard.”

“What about the time you took your skirt off during Year Four Cinderella and ran around the stage in your knickers?”

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God –

“The button fell off and I didn’t notice.”

“And goodness, everybody,” Alexa says, taking a nice big breath while she unsheathes her claws and gets ready to rip my metaphorical intestines out. “Just wait until you hear about the time that Harriet Manners—”

The door smacks open.

uys!” Miss Hammond breezes into the room, carrying roughly twenty-five toilet rolls. “I just found these and had the best idea for our team-building game. This is going to be so much fun and—”

She abruptly stops and peers over the top of them. As if she’s protected by the world’s softest, strongest, most absorbable wall.

“Alexa Roberts?”

“Hey, miss! Wow, is your tummy feeling OK? Are they all for you?”

Miss Hammond is slowly changing colour.

Six months ago, Alexa single-handedly attempted to destroy Hamlet before getting detention every day for a month. From the energy crackling between them now, it looks like neither of them has forgotten about it.

“What are you doing in here?” Miss Hammond says sharply, dumping all the rolls on the desk so hard that three bounce straight on to the floor. “This is Form A. You’re in Form C, with Mr White.”

“Am I?” Alexa stands up and flicks her hair. “Oh no. I must have got lost on my way there, somehow. Or maybe I was just drawn here by some invisible and irrepressible force.”

She smiles and I can’t help thinking that if Alexa put this much obsessive compulsive behaviour into her schoolwork she’d have graduated school by now. And university. And possibly obtained some kind of PhD.

“Out,” Miss Hammond snaps, pointing at the corridor. “Now.”

“But miss …”

“Now.”

“I just think …”

“Immediately.”

“Fine.” My nemesis stalks towards the corridor, and then turns round. “But I think it’s really important that you all know about the time that Harriet once—”

“Nobody cares, Alexandra,” Miss Hammond snaps, slapping her hands on her desk. “And if you come near this room again, you’re suspended, effective immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

“But—”

“No buts. Scoot.”

Miss Hammond crosses the classroom quickly, slams the door on Alexa and pulls down the blind so we can’t see her. Then she turns back to a stunned, silent class and smooths down her skirt.

Like a warrior in 100% organic cotton.

“Right,” she says softly, and her voice is all sunshine and kittens in baskets again. “Grab a toilet roll each, guys, and let’s get out on the playing field, build teams and really connect.”

I’ve never brought an apple in for a teacher before, but – as almost the entire class smile at me sympathetically and start grabbing their bags – I think I might just do that.

I’m getting my fresh start after all.

o, here are some facts about toilet roll:

1 It was invented by the Chinese in 600 AD.

2 Britons use 110 rolls each a year, which is the equivalent of six miles of tissue.

3 72% of people hang toilet paper with the first sheet going over the roll.

4 The US military used toilet paper to camouflage their tanks in Saudi Arabia during the Desert Storm war.

5 Novelty paper includes: glow-in-the-dark, money, Word of the Day and Sudoku.

How do I know this?

Let’s just say a few months ago I had a bad cold combined with a long car journey with Toby that I’ve never fully recovered from. I’ve sworn not to blow my nose anywhere near him again.

Miss Hammond appears to be even more excited than Toby about its possibilities.

She giddily ushers all of us outside: past the enormous tug-of-war being conducted by Mrs Baker, beyond a taciturn Mr Bott and small groups constructing tables out of newspaper, far away from Mr White and rings of students passing balloons between their knees and laughing.

(Every couple of minutes there’s a loud BANG that I suspect is not unrelated to Alexa.)

“Right,” Miss Hammond says cheerfully, planting a stick in the ground with a stripy pink sock taped to the end. “We had a very enlightening teacher training session yesterday, didn’t we, Harriet?”

The whole class turns to look at me.

Excellent. Now I look like an undercover teacher trainer.

“And we were reminded of how we are all part of the same beautiful puzzle. Held together by the invisible threads of harmony and happiness.” She pauses. “Please stop hitting Robert with the roll of tissue, Eric.”

“But we’re just bonding, miss,” Eric objects, doing it again. “Our thread of happiness depends on it.”

“Lovely! That’s the spirit!” She beams at us all and then gestures at a blonde girl to take her roll off the top of her head. “So we’re going to play a little game to help us form lifelong connections. After all, there’s no me in team!”

“Yes, there is,” Christopher objects. “It is literally right there.”

“And meat.”

“Mate.” “Meta.” “Atem.”

“That’s not how you spell atom, idiot.”

“See how you’re already working together?” Miss Hammonds claps. “So in a burst of inspiration, I am calling this game The Riddle of the Mummy.”

Liv’s hand goes up.

“Mine is in Vegas right now, miss. She goes there after every summer holiday to recover.”

“Er, excellent, Olivia! And your eventual arrival, Mr King, is always a pleasure, however unpredictable.”

A boy in a yellow T-shirt shrugs and takes a place at the back of the group.

“So,” Miss Hammond continues brightly, “I’m going to ask you all riddles, and in teams of three you’ll try to answer them as quickly as possible. The team that gets it right first gets to take three steps towards The Sock of Survival.”

I can feel an excited, fizzy feeling starting to run down the back of my neck.

I love riddles.

They’re like facts, except backwards and you can solve them and that’s even better. Plus, competition really helps to sharpen my mind and bring out the best in me. Miss Hammond couldn’t have picked a better way for me to make new friends if I’d sent in a handwritten request form.

Which I didn’t, just to clarify.

“To make things a bit more jolly,” she continues, beginning to wind the end of a loo roll round her ankle, “I’m going to turn myself into an Egyptian mummy and chase you, to help motivate you to keep moving forward! If I tap you on the shoulder, you become a mummy too and you’re out of the race. And so on and so forth.”

Oh my God.

This is getting better and better. I love ancient history too (although mummies technically originated in South America but maybe that’s not super relevant to the game right now).

Miss Hammond keeps winding the tissue until it’s binding her legs together like a penguin after knee surgery.

“The team that reaches The Sock of Survival first – without all turning into mummies – wins!”

A flurry of hands immediately go up.

“What do we win, miss?”

“The satisfaction of knowing you did it together!” There’s a pause while all the hands come down again, and Miss Hammond adds slightly reluctantly: “And a ten-pound voucher for the school tuck shop.”

A murmur of approval goes round the class.

I’m now buzzing so hard it’s as if I’m filled with bees or electric toothbrushes, and not just because the prize is sugar.

This is it. This is going to change everything.

From this point onwards, I will no longer be Harriet Manners, pee-er on books, skirt-dropper and irrational lover-of-bananas. I’ll be the Riddle Master. Sweet Winner. Saviour of Socks. Avoider of Mummies and Destroyer of Toilet Rolls.

This is going to be amazing.

Miss Hammond starts grouping people together, and then hops over to me. “Harriet Manners? I’ve put you with India Perez and Olivia Webb.”

I smile shyly as the girl with neon purple hair and Liv walk towards me. India smiles back and my insides do another excited little frog hop: and so my new close and irreplaceable lifelong friendships start.

Honestly, I’m kind of fascinated by her already.

Apparently Queen Elizabeth the First used to pretend that there was a piece of glass between her and the rest of the world to make her feel more royal, and it kind of seems like India has one too. Beneath My Little Pony hair and scowling eyebrows, she has dark eyes and an air of dignity and nobility. She reminds me of a powerful Egyptian princess.

We are definitely going to win now.

“Anya!” Liv calls as we stand behind a line made out of skipping rope. “Ans! A! Ani! Over here! We’ll totally share answers, right?”

India frowns as Ananya pretends to have temporarily lost her hearing facilities.

“You will totally not,” she says steadily. Then she turns to me. “Does this sort of exercise happen a lot at this school? Because it would have been extremely useful to have that in the brochure.”

“Umm, I think it says We are a school dedicated to the creative exploration of the individuality of our students,” I admit. “Page eight. Halfway down, under the photo of people making forts out of boxes.”

India lifts a black eyebrow so it looks like a tick at the end of an essay. “Did you memorise the sixth form brochure?”

“N-no,” I lie. “I just … umm …” Sound more hip, Harriet. “I used that page as kindling to build a really cool fire … for no reason, because I … err, burn stuff I don’t care about, etcetera.”

India puts her eyebrow back down.

“OK,” she says, and I relax again.

I think I just passed my first social test.

“All right, my little intrepid puzzlers!” Miss Hammond calls, now covered head to toe in white, like an overexcited golden Labrador puppy. “Are you ready to journey back 5,000 years to a time of mystery and intrigue?”

There’s a chorus of “yeah,” “suppose so,” “whatever,” “I guess,” are we going to be recycling all this tissue because this is kind of environmentally unfriendly?”

(That last one was me.)

“And …” She shakes a tiny tambourine that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. “Go!”

t starts off perfectly.

“How far,” Miss Hammond says, looking up and down the line, “can a person run into the woods?”

There’s a short silence while people whisper.

“We don’t know how big the woods are,” India murmurs as our group crowds its heads together. “There must be information missing. That can’t be the whole question.”

I grin at the other two while my brain clicks away happily. This is so much fun already. It’s so intimate. So bonding. I really feel like part of a team.

“I’ve got this one,” I whisper back conspiratorially, and then stick my hand up. “Halfway, miss. Because if you run any further, you’re running back out of them again.”

“Excellent, Harriet Manners! Take three steps forward!”

I high-five Liv and India like BFFs and we move towards our goal. Miss Hammond closes her eyes, shuffles forward with a small embalmed-dead-person groaning sound and taps Robert on the shoulder.

“Ah, man,” he says as he starts wrapping himself up in toilet tissue. “This is utter b—”

“Language, Robert.” Miss Hammond claps her hands. “I am the beginning of the end, and the end of time and space. I am essential to creation, and I surround every place. What am I?”

“God!” Christopher’s group yells.

“Santa Claus!”

“Taylor Swift!”

“Nope!” Miss Hammond says to all three groups. “Sorry! Take a step backwards, guys.”

I wink at my group jubilantly as two more people are reluctantly ingratiated into ancient Egypt.

“You are the letter E, miss,” I say loudly.

“I am indeed, Harriet!” We step forward again. “What loses its head in the morning but gets it back at night?”

My hand goes straight up, with the speed of a question-answering ninja. “A pillow!”

And – riddle by riddle, answer by answer – my group starts racing towards the goal. I know what is so fragile that saying the word breaks it (silence). I know what has many keys but can’t open a door (a piano) and what gets wetter and wetter the more it dries (a towel).

Between us, we even know how many months have twenty-eight days in them. India lowers her head to whisper, although we’re so far ahead by now that there’s no real point.

“All of th—”

“Four!” I shout in excitement. “Twenty-eight days hath September, April, June and November!”

“I’m afraid it’s all of them,” Miss Hammond says gently. “All months have at least twenty-eight days. One step back, team.”

Oops.

But luckily it doesn’t matter if we make a mistake now and then, because nobody can catch up. We’re too far ahead for even the mummies to grab us.

Finally, we get within touching distance of the sock.

Studies have shown that during competitive games, cortisol, prolactin, testosterone and adrenocorticotropic hormone levels increase dramatically. I’m now so rabid with excitement I’m basically floating on a fluffy cloud of my own chemical cocktail.

It’s just my team, Christopher and Raya left.

“What kind of room has no doors or windows?”

My mind starts racing, jittering, turning itself inside out and back again. A prison? No, because how would you get in or out? Maybe a cellar, if a trapdoor in the floor didn’t count as either …

Is it a play on words? A groom, a broom, a …

“A cupboard?” Raya suggests, but I suddenly know. Wham. As if my brain was in the dark and a light’s just been switched on: once you see the answer, you can’t unsee it.

I punch the air.

“I’ve got it!” I yell, and beam triumphantly at Liv and India. “It’s a mush-room, miss!”

Then, with three quick hops, I reach the sock and start automatically doing my happy dance: hands punching the air, knees bent, bottom wiggling.

“We win!” I squeak jubilantly. “We win we win we win! Wooooooooo!!!”

y cheeks are flushed. My knees are shaking.

All the standard responses to success, adrenaline and unexpected physical activity.

I knew it. Best. Day. Ever.

This is exactly like Rebecca’s birthday party eleven years ago when I won all the games. We played Pass the Parcel and I explained the rules to anyone who held on to the package for too long, and Musical Chairs where I encouraged anyone who was walking too slowly to hurry up, and Musical Statues when I helpfully pointed out people who were moving and … and …

And nobody wanted to play with me ever again.

Cucumbers consist of ninety-five per cent water. Without warning, it suddenly feels as if I may have become one. Every cell in my body is rapidly turning into liquid.

No. No no no no.

I abruptly stop wiggling my bottom and – with infinite slowness – turn around.

And there it is.

Every single one of my peers is standing in silence: arms folded, faces sullen. Glaring at me with narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. Unimpressed. Outraged. Bored stiff by a game they haven’t participated in.

Precisely the same as when we were five, except they’re considerably bigger now and even angrier because this time they’re covered in broken up bits of toilet roll and they’re not quite sure why.

Oh my God: I’ve done it again.

I was so desperate for my team to win, I didn’t think about anything else. I was trying my hardest, but in doing so I’ve made the entire game about …

Well. Me, I guess.

With a sick lurch, I’m suddenly not so sure I need Alexa to make me unpopular after all.

Oh, who am I even kidding?

Maybe I never actually did.

Swallowing, I turn slowly to Liv and India. Their arms are folded as well. I hold up my hand to awkwardly high-five them. “We won, guys. Yay?”

They both stare at it, suspended in the air. The loneliest hand that has ever existed in the 65 million years since our primate ancestors first evolved them.

“Not really,” India says finally. “You won, Harriet. All by yourself.”

And – as she turns in silence and starts walking back to the sixth-form building, followed by every member of my class – I can’t help but marvel at the irony.

Because, despite my best efforts, all by myself is exactly how I’ve ended up.

he poet John Donne once wrote that no man is an island. I’d like to seriously question the accuracy of that statement.

In the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, 1,700 miles from Antarctica, lies Bouvet Island. It has an area of forty-nine kilometres squared, is covered in glaciers and ice, and nobody lives there or ever has. According to Wikipedia, it is the remotest island in the world.

Thanks to today’s misadventures, it is still a more popular destination than me.

The rest of the morning can be summarised thus:

1 I apologise to India and Liv and give them my share of the tuck-shop voucher.

2 They tell me it’s fine, honestly, and then avoid me.

3 I overhear a girl in maths say I’m “still an arrogant, weird know-it-all”.

4 I briefly consider telling her that weird originally meant “has the power to control fate” and if that was true I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

5 I realise it’ll prove all three points and think better of it.

News of my unsporting smugness and apparent In Your Face dance spreads around sixth form with the speed of a forest fire. By the time I get out of double physics with Mr Harper, it’s everywhere.

I try to outrace it – attempting to start friendly conversations with strangers as fast as I can – but it’s impossible. The flame hops from student to student via whispers and raised eyebrows until all I’m doing is circling the common room like a desperate squirrel with its tail combusting.

I’m smiling, trying to find things in common, asking questions and remembering details as hard as I can.

But it’s too late.

My seven seconds are up. The first impression has been made, and with every attempt to undo it I just look even more pathetic. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say any more.

I am the school weirdo.

Again.

By the time I’m ejected from my sixth failed conversation attempt (“Did you know that pirates used to wear gold hoop earrings because they thought it improved their eyesight?”) I’ve officially given up.

I haven’t seen Toby all morning. I should probably focus the remainder of my efforts on the one person in the year that still wants to talk to me.

But he’s not in the common room, he isn’t in the dining hall and when I take my lunch to his normal spot in the bush behind the gym hall, he’s not there either.

Seriously. For a stalker, Toby is becoming ridiculously difficult to track down.

By the time I eventually find him, tucked into the corner of the art studio, I’ve basically resigned myself to playing noughts and crosses on the floor of the playground. I’ve already got two chalks ready, just in case I can persuade a year seven to play with me.

Although, given how quickly my leper status is whizzing around the school, even that’s looking optimistic.

“Hey, Toby!” I say, pushing through the art room door. He looks up with slightly mad eyes, like a miniature Albert Einstein except without the moustache or Nobel prize.

“Harriet Manners!” he says, pulling his earphones out and quickly flipping over a piece of paper in front of him. “What an unprecedented surprise!”

I am so, so happy to see him.

“Are you having lunch in here today?” I say, bouncing forward and slamming my satchel enthusiastically on the table. “Did you know that in the average lunchtime you eat 150,000 kilometres of DNA? Although I’m afraid this cheese sandwich may have a few less, judging by the state of the lettuce.” I plop it on the desk in front of him.

“Want to share?”

Toby gently pushes the sandwich off his piece of paper and brushes a few crumbs away.

“That’s very kind of you, Harriet. But Mum made me sushi.” He prods a little Thomas the Tank Engine lunchbox on the chair next to him. “Except we didn’t have any fish so it’s beef and I’m not keen on wasabi so it’s mustard.” He opens it and peers in. “With bread instead of rice.”

“So,” I say slowly, “it’s a beef sandwich, then?”

“Absolutely,” Toby agrees, holding one up. “Except Mum cut the crusts off and rolled it up into little balls so I’d feel like I was getting an interesting cultural experience.”

I grin and glance briefly around the room.

Thanks to a total lack of artistic interest and even less ability, I’ve spent as little time as possible in this part of the school. There are paints and brushes everywhere, bright canvases leaning against walls and a general atmosphere of creativity.

I don’t like it.

Entirely subjective grades make me uncomfortable.

Toby looks, if possible, even more out of place. The front of his brown T-shirt says COME TO THE NERD SIDE – WE HAVE PI and he’s wearing trousers with an electronic computer keyboard across the lap, though he isn’t actually plugged into a computer. At the moment anyway.

“So what are you doing?” I say, sitting down on the edge of his desk and reaching curiously for the piece of paper.

Toby moves it away. “It’s my project for the Science Fair.”

“Oooh.” The Fair isn’t for another three months, but maybe I need to get started on mine too. “What’s yours on? Can I see?”

“I’m afraid not,” Toby says, shifting the paper into his satchel. “Showing you would jeopardise its top-secret status by definition of it no longer being a secret of any kind.”

“That’s very true.” I frown. “So if it’s science why are you in the art room?”

There’s a tiny pause while Toby stuffs a sushi-sandwich in his mouth, and then says:

“It’s quiet and private and away from … people.”

“Cool.” I look at the sunshine streaming through the windows. “I might do my project on the effect of music on animal behaviour using Hugo and Victor as voluntary subjects, or maybe study the Oort cloud because the edge of it is 4.6 trillion miles from the sun so I can investigate the composition of the—”

“I have a question for you,” a voice interrupts from behind me. “Maybe you can add this to your investigation while you’re at it.”

I spin round in surprise.

Somebody is sitting in the corner near the door, almost totally hidden behind an enormous sculpture of an angel made out of plaster, clay and wire. I had no idea there was anyone else in here: that’s how quiet they are and how big the sculpture is.

And how little my genuine interest in the art room has been, obviously.

“Umm,” I say, blinking a few times. I do love a good question, after all. “Sure. Hit me with it.”

“Do you ever,” the voice says, “and I mean ever, think about anyone other than yourself?”

And I don’t even know who they are yet.

But I asked them to hit me with it, and it feels like they just did.

pparently, there are over 6,000 languages in the world and by the turn of this century half of these are expected to die out. Judging by my speechlessness at this precise moment, my brain thinks English is one of them.

“S-sorry?” I finally manage.

Then I take a few steps forward until I can see a boy behind the sculpture.

He’s pale and tall, with mousey hair, thick dark eyebrows and a round face, and – for some reason I can’t fathom – he looks slightly magical. It’s only as I get a few metres away that I realise he has two slightly different coloured irises: one pale blue, the other light brown.

Otherwise known as heterochromia iridis and entirely a result of melanin levels in the eyes rather than enchantment or a Harry Potter spell.

Sadly. I checked.

“Seriously,” the boy growls, grabbing some clay and sticking it into the angel’s leg, “I’ve never known anyone so obnoxiously wrapped up in themselves. It’s quite amazing.”

His magical quality takes another enormous step down.

“Sorry? We haven’t even met, have we? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you before in my entire life.”

The boy looks at me steadily for a few seconds.

“I’m in your form. I was in the team next to you this morning. For a full hour.”

I get a little closer, and – now I’m not distracted by the thought that he might be a wizard – I can see that, yup: he’s the new boy in the yellow T-shirt who was late this morning, except now he’s disguised by blue overalls.

In fact, I think when we went back to the form room at the end of team-building to do the register he was sitting at the desk directly in front of me as well.

OK. The defence isn’t looking good right now. Annabel would tell me to start plea-bargaining immediately.

Instead, I automatically go on the counterattack.

“Well,” I say, desperately sticking my nose in the air and crossing my arms, “you didn’t say hello to me either.”

“Yes, I did,” he retorts bluntly. “Twice. You were too busy telling India about the essay you wrote for your English exam. Four months ago.”

I flush. It was all about masculinity and gender in Othello and I thought it might be a good way of making peace with her. I don’t think it worked.

“But—”

“And now this poor guy just wants peace and quiet to work on his project, and you follow him in here, ignore his pretty obvious hints and gab away about yourself again.”

Follow him? Excuse me?

“Actually Toby’s my stalker,” I snap indignantly. “Not the other way round.” I pause slightly while I consider how that sounds. “OK, that’s not exactly what I …”

The guy with the heterochromia snorts.

“Yeah, my mistake,” he says, grabbing a piece of wire and bending it into a C shape. “You’re lovely. I can see why you fit into glamorous New York with all the bananas.”

My mouth flaps in silence a few times – he wasn’t even there when I said that; I knew people were talking about me and my bananas – and then I turn desperately to Toby. Why isn’t he protecting my honour?

Because he hasn’t heard a single word, that’s why.

His head is bent over the piece of paper again, his earphones are back in, and he’s lost in Toby-land: scribbling away frantically, humming the theme tune from Star Wars under his breath.

I rush over and pull out an earphone.

“Hello again, Harriet!” he says, quickly folding his arms across the desk. “Maybe I could encourage you to wear a bell round your neck so people know you’re coming? Our cat’s got one. It’s very handy.”

“Toby.” My cheeks are getting hotter and hotter. “Tell this … this boy …”

“Jasper. For the third time today, my name is Jasper.”

I’m not sure how, but this is getting steadily worse. “Please tell Jasper I’m actually quite nice if you get to know me!”

Toby turns to Jasper with reproach in his eyes.

“Harriet Manners,” he says with total sincerity, “is the sweetest girl in the entire universe. She is a sterling example of what great niceness the human race is capable of. Should we ever need an ambassador for outer space, I will be voting for her to represent us.”

A little grateful knot of embarrassment forms in the base of my throat, and I turn to Jasper triumphantly.

“S—” I start, but before I can get to the “ee” Toby continues:

“Sometimes she is so kind she even lets me sit on her doorstep when it’s raining and she’s too busy to let me in.”

Oh my God. That just made it a billion times worse.

But if I let him in every time I’d never be on my own again.

“Right,” Jasper says flatly, picking up another piece of wire. “Sorry. She sounds utterly charming and not at all like a stuck-up princess.”

I can feel myself starting to get angry.

“Toby,” I say, turning back to him. “You don’t really mind me being here, do you? I’m not in the way, am I?”

Then I look triumphantly at Jasper with my ha face at the ready.

“Actually,” Toby says, “you are a bit in the way, Harriet. It would be useful if you could go away today. I really need to focus on my project. And maybe tomorrow too, actually.”

“But—”

“And Thursday.”

“I—”

“In fact, while we’re discussing it, could you maybe leave me alone for the rest of the week? Next week would also be extremely handy as well.”

It feels like something is starting to tighten inside my chest. Toby doesn’t want to hang out with me either?

Then I turn back to Jasper and the corner of his mouth is turned upwards slightly in a little smirk.

That does it.

A lightning bolt is 54,000 degrees Fahrenheit, and it feels like one has just shot through me: white-hot anger is scorching and fizzling from the top of my head down to my fingertips and back again.

Swallowing, I stick my chin in the air and start heading towards the door in dignified silence.

Somehow I don’t quite make it.

“You don’t know me,” I say, spinning round. “You don’t know who I am, or how I think, or why I do the things I do. You know nothing about me at all.”

“You’re totally right,” Jasper says as the bell for the end of lunchtime rings. He stands up and pulls off his blue overalls so that the yellow T-shirt is fully visible again. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“That’s just fine by me.”

And without another backwards glance, Jasper walks straight past me and out of the door. Leaving both the angel and me speechless, white and rigid behind him.

y oneself. Excluded. On your tod.

It’s a good thing I brought my thesaurus with me, because I have plenty of quality me time to expand my vocabulary over the rest of the day.

For the next four hours, I am completely unescorted.

I am solo as I eat my sandwich in the corner of the common room and drop it down my top, companionless as I mess up a rat dissection in biology because nobody wants to pair with me and lonesome when an experiment in chemistry goes wrong because I can’t hold both the test tubes at the same time.

I even try to make myself feel better by replacing these words with positive synonyms: I independently stare out of the window, I chew my nails unaided and unassisted.

But it doesn’t matter how many different words I use, they all boil down to the same thing.

It’s my first day back at school.

And I am completely alone.

“Anyway …” I say as I wait for the final school bell to ring. I’m now sitting on the little wall next to the playing field, kicking my duck pumps on and off at the heels.

The caretaker picks sheets of tissue off the ground and throws them in a black plastic bag.

“He doesn’t even know me,” I say quietly. “He’s just so rude.”

“Can I borrow some toilet rolls, she says,” the caretaker mutters, picking up another few bits. “Just a few, she says. And next thing I know every roll in the school is all over the grass and nobody’s got anything to wipe their bottoms with for the rest of the week.”

“Exactly!” I say triumphantly. “Or almost exactly, anyway. That’s nearly the same thing.”

I kick my feet against the wall despondently.

At least I’ve found somebody who will talk to me. I hadn’t expected my first kindred spirit in sixth form to be a fifty-seven-year-old man in dungarees and a tool belt, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Plus he spends a lot of his time under tables and in cupboards, so we actually have a surprising amount in common.

Steve bends down again. “I’m supposed to be practising my spinning tonight, not cleaning up after hours. That hippy can bring in her own supplies next time.”

I shake my head in empathy. Then I hop off the wall so I can pick up a few bits of tissue and pop them in the bag. I like to spin round too: maybe he has a special office twirly chair like Dad?

We work industriously together in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then I clear my throat and say: “I’ve got a miniature game of Scrabble in my satchel – would you like to play it with me tomorrow?”

There’s a thoughtful pause while Steve considers this.

“Hang on … Chicken wire? Did you say the statue is made out of chicken wire? I knew I was missing a roll. That little blighter.”

“Isn’t he just the most horrible, unpleasant—”

“Quack quack,” a familiar voice says and I immediately stop moving with my hand still clutching a bit of tissue: bent double, with my bottom firmly poking in the air.

I can’t help feeling as if I’m not as well protected as I could be.

Slowly, I straighten up and turn to look at Alexa.

She’s standing a few metres away with her hands on her hips. Ananya and Liv are at either side, and India is standing just behind them.

Huh. That was fast.

I guess she’s picked her team already.

I look at the wad of crumpled tissue in my hand, then at the black bin bag. Then at the middle-aged man I’m chatting to. On my own. Voluntarily, when I could just go home.

There’s a piece of loo roll stuck to my knee, and another attached to the toe of my shoe. Tuna is still coating my front, and I smell of a day’s worth of embarrassed dry sweat.

In the meantime, Alexa is noticing exactly the same things.

“You’re hanging out with the staff now? Like, people who are actually paid to be here all day?”

“Actually, Steve’s …” only part-time, I’m about to say, and then change my mind.

“So where are your little sidekicks now, Harriet? Where’s Team Geek?” Alexa elaborately looks around her. “I can’t see them. Are they hiding?” She picks up a bit of loo roll and pretends to look under it. “Helloooo? Geeks? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“Nat’s gone to fashion college,” I say as firmly as I can, even though Alexa already knows this. “And Toby’s really, really busy with something super important.”

“Oh yes,” she says, narrowing her eyes and putting the paper back down again. “That’s right. You’re totally on your own now, aren’t you?”

Alexa has always known how to find the rusty nail and smack it straight on the head.

My eyes start prickling.

“No,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “I’m not alone. I have …” Steve, I’m about to say, and then change my mind for the second time.

“This is pathetic, even for you.” Alexa sounds genuinely cross. “Where’s the fun, Harriet Manners? Where’s the challenge? You’ve ruined everything.” She clicks her fingers and turns away. “She’s not worth it, guys. We’ve got better things to do.”

As if I’m one of the fabric mice we give Victor and he’s chewed all the catnip out of it, rendering it useless and of no interest any more.

The bell rings and Alexa starts marching towards the front gates with her Underlings behind her. India looks at me with disdain for a few seconds, then turns and follows them.

My eyes are smarting, my vision is starting to wobble and my throat feels like there’s a sofa cushion stuck in it.

Then my phone beeps.

How was your first day?? Tell me tell me! Nat xxx

How am I supposed to answer that with any self-respect?

A-maz-ing!! SO MUCH FUN!! Couldn’t have gone better!!! Can’t wait for two more whole years of this!!!! Hxx

With a lie, that’s how.

I put my phone away, hiding my face behind my hair so Steve can’t see my chin starting to crumple.

“It’s all right, love,” he says, giving me an awkward pat on the back as I head towards the school gates. “Those nasty little minxes will get what’s coming to them.”

“Sure they will,” I say over my shoulder, even though I know they obviously won’t.

Because Alexa’s right.

There’s a big difference between not-popular and unpopular, and I hadn’t even noticed that until I was on the other side. I may have spent years struggling to make friends at school, but this is the first time since I was five that I’ve had none.

And of the two options, I can’t decide which is worse:

a) being brought down a peg or two every school day of your life for eleven years

or

b) finally being so far at the bottom that there’s nowhere left to go.

hey say that every cloud has a silver lining.

Which is obviously untrue.

Most clouds don’t: just the rain clouds with the sun directly behind them. Given the size of the sky, that makes it statistically uncommon.

However, I’d like to think that I’m the kind of person who at least looks for the sunshine. A positive, optimistic girl, who hopes for the best even when the signs aren’t looking good.

And – let’s be honest – they’re really not right now.

At all.

The first schools were established in 425 AD. I’d be quite surprised if anyone has had a less successful first day in the history of formal education.

On the upside, at least I’ll be able to focus on my schoolwork properly now. Without any distractions or discussions or interesting debates. All day, every day, for the next two years.

Most of the evenings too.

And possibly quite a few weekends, if Nat gets really busy with college.

Oh my God.

Of all the planets in our solar system, we would weigh the most on Jupiter. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve somehow accidentally ended up there instead.

Bits of the day are beginning to rattle around inside my head like coloured balls inside a lottery machine, and every time they collide with each other, another little piece of me gets heavier.

I like bananas! My lungs. I’ve got this one! My tongue. It’s a mushroom! My kidneys and liver. Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Maybe you could leave me alone? Eyeballs, spleen, pancreas, veins, muscles.

She’s not worth it: every single one of my bones.

Until, organ by organ, I weigh so much I’m surprised I don’t have to drag myself down the road by my fingernails.

Finally, I manage to reach the bench on the corner of the road where Nat and I have met every morning for the last ten years, even when our parents had to come with us.

I stand and look at how empty it is.

Then I turn around again and start walking towards the only place in the world that could possibly make me feel lighter again.

The local launderette.

o, in case you’re wondering.

I haven’t been back here since Annabel and Dad broke up and then had their big romantic laundry reunion nearly a year ago. Initially, I thought it was because it had become their place, not mine any more. Then I thought it was because I’d just worked out how to clean my clothes for free at home, like a normal human being.

But now I’m wondering if it’s simply because I haven’t needed it the way I need it now.

When I don’t know where else to go.

I still love this place.

I love the bright lights, the soapy smells, the soft purring of the machines. I love the heat and the shininess of the glass in the tumble driers. But most of all I love the way that nothing could ever feel alone in a place where so many things are jumbled together.

I rub my eyes and pull a chair over to my favourite machine. The glass is still warm, and there are baskets filled with piles of abandoned clothes everywhere. Somebody’s even left a shoe behind: it’s peeking out from behind a particularly large heap of jumpers and underwear.

I pull a blue sock out of my bag and a memory suddenly flashes: snow, warm cheeks, a cold hand squeezing mine.

So I swallow and put it in the drier as quickly as I can.

Then I start fumbling through my satchel for the fifty pence I need to put it on a quick spin. Followed by another fifty pence.

Then another pound in shrapnel.

And a two pound-coin.

After the day I’ve had I may be here some time. I am about to own the driest sock in existence.

I’m just chipping a bit of melted chocolate off a pound so that the machine recognises it as something other than a snack when something small and shiny flies through the air and lands in my lap.

I blink at the newly arrived coin, then at the empty room.

Maybe there’s some kind of strange gravitational pull levitating the money out of the machines and throwing it at my head. I suppose I could do my science project on that instead.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out another ten pence and there it is again: money, soaring through the air.

Except this time it’s a pound, which is even better.

I look around the empty room – still nothing – and am just quickly calculating how long I’ll have to stay here before I am rich enough to buy a castle when somebody laughs.

“You actually think it’s magic flying money, don’t you?”

Then I see the shoe in the pile moving. A pointy, silver shoe that stormed down my driveway yesterday morning, attached to my best friend.

“Nat?”

A dark, curly head pokes out from behind an enormous pile of clean jumpers and trousers. She’s obviously been lying in them, like some kind of enormous cat.

“Obviously. God, you took ages. I was starting to think I might actually have to do some washing.” She stands up, puts Vogue down and picks off a pair of huge beige knickers attached by static to her jumper.

“Gross,” she adds, flinging them into the corner so they hit the wall with a fffpp. Then she turns to where I’m still sitting, frozen in surprise. “How’s it going, Manners?”

eriously.

I have got to start checking rooms before I walk into them. Apparently chameleons and dragonflies have 360-degree vision, and I am clearly neither. If I were a small animal, I’d definitely have been eaten by now.

“Nat, what are you doing here?”

She hops on top of one of the machines. “Finding you, obviously. I’ve got a selfie with Vivienne Westwood – she was nowhere near as difficult to pin down.”

I jump with considerably less nimbleness on to the machine next to her. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on? I’m so worried, I’ve just spent an hour sitting in a laundry basket, covered in old-lady clothes. I may never fully recover.”

I take a deep breath and decide to confront the metaphorical elephant in the room head-on. “I’m fine, Nat. Honestly. Nick quit modelling and went back to Australia, and we both decided together that a long-distance relationship was too painful. I know we made the right decision, I just don’t want to talk about it, that’s all.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

“Really really really?”

“All of the reallies.”

“So you’re OK?”

“Yes,” I say as confidently as I can.

Nat studies my face carefully, then her shoulders relax very slightly. “Thank God, because I need to tell you something and if I don’t I’m going to explode all over my second-best dress and then we really will need a launderette.”

Suddenly I notice again how perfectly curly her hair is.

In fact – now I’m not hiding in a bush fifteen metres away, being attacked by spiders – I can see a general shininess about Nat, as if her insides have just been dipped in something twinkly. Her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are pink; there are little dimples in the corners of her mouth and her skin looks like it could glow in the dark.

I look down: the varnish has been chewed off every single one of her nails.

Then I remember her on my doorstep yesterday.

I really need to talk to her.

Oh my God, why did I automatically assume it was about me? Ugh. Maybe Jasper has a point after all.

“Is it François? Are you back with him?”

“Who?” Nat frowns. “Oh, the French dude. Ugh: no. He won’t stop sending me postcards with rabbits cuddling in front of the Eiffel Tower. This one is called Theo. He’s studying photography at college, and we kissed on Friday night for the first time. He’s all right, I guess. For a boy.”

My best friend is playing it cool, but her entire face is luminous as if something has been set on fire behind it.

I stare at Nat in confusion. She has left literally fifty-six messages on my phone over the last few days, and not a single one of them mentioned this.

“But … why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because you’re my best friend and you’ve just had your heart broken and this is terrible timing and I didn’t want to make you sadder.”

I suddenly love my Best Friend so much it’s hard to swallow.

“Nat,” I say finally, “do you know what happens to metal when it touches another piece of metal in outer space?”

“It makes a really loud screeching sound and the universe goes aaaaaargggh stop it?”

I grin at her. “There’s no sound in space, so no. What happens is that those two bits of metal weld together permanently. Nothing that makes you happy could possibly make me sad, Nat. We’re welded.”

She considers this briefly and then pulls a face. “Remind me never to go into space with Toby, in that case.”

We both laugh, then sit in comfortable silence for a few seconds with one shoulder touching.

“So how did you know I’d be here, anyway?”

Nat stretches and yawns. “I tagged you with an electronic chipping device while you were sleeping. Like a cat.”

My hand automatically goes up to my neck.

“Plonker. As soon as I got that last text I knew where you’d be, Harriet. You never use exclamation marks in a text unless you’re lying. So I figured your first day back had blown, and you’d be heading straight here.”

I blink at her in amazement.

See what I mean? Nat had known I was coming to the launderette before I even knew it myself.

Now, that’s a best friend.

“Well,” I start, ready to tell her everything: about Toby and Alexa and Jasper, and how nobody likes me. About how lonely I am without her already, and how I want her to come back to school so it can be just us again, the way it always has been.

Then I stop.

If we’re welded, it works both ways, right? My sadness will make her sad too, and I don’t want that. It’s her turn to be happy now. I’ve had my big, amazing romance. My best friend deserves to have the world light up for her too.

“Au contraire, Natalie,” I say as airily as I can, with a quick hand flourish. “In fact, I’ll have you know I won the class quiz in my very first hour.”

This doesn’t have the impact I’m hoping for.

“Oh my God,” Nat sighs, putting her hand over her eyes. “How bad? Post-it on the back of T-shirt bad or head-down-the-toilet bad?”

Just once I’d like Nat not to see straight through me.

“The former,” I admit. There was a Post-it saying I AM A KNOW-IT-ALL on my satchel at breaktime. “But don’t worry: it’s just a brief hiccup. I’m sure they’ll forget about it eventually.”

“Of course they will.” Nat puts her arm round me and leans her head against mine. “Lots of people make a slightly bumpy first impression and nobody ever remembers.”

We’re both lying, by the way: scientists have found that first impressions are very difficult to undo and can often be permanent.

“Exactly!” I drop off the machine with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “And a school year is only 190 days, right? 1,330 hours will be over before I know it.”

There’s a short silence.

“That’s a really long time, Harriet.”

“Actually, it’s only three days on Mercury. Plus I’ve got you and Toby – as soon as his project is over, anyway – so what else does a sensible girl really need?”

“But Harriet, I’m not—”

“So do you want to come to mine tonight? I’ve designed a game of fashion Monopoly for us to play and it has a doll’s house sewing machine you can use as your little placer.”

Let’s just say that last free period was really boring.

There’s another short, uncomfortable silence.

Then Nat frowns and hops off the machine, landing on a half-open detergent box with a little puff of white powder like a dragon.

She stares at the floor for a few seconds.

“I … can’t tonight. I mean, it sounds great. But if you … If we … Some other time?”

“Oh.” I feel slightly popped. “I guess you’re busy with Theo tonight, right?”

“Huh? Oh. Mm-hmm.”

I nod as another memory flashes: a seagull, a swing, a fur hat.

A kiss.

Then I swallow and push it away as fast as I can.

“Excellent!” I try and grin. “Can’t wait to meet him! Have fun!”

Nat gets to the door then bites her lip, runs back and abruptly throws her arms around me so hard she almost knocks me over.

“Don’t give up, Harriet. They’ll love you as much as I do, I promise. Just give them a bit of time, OK?”

She kisses my cheek, hard.

Then my best friend bursts back out of the laundry doors into the dark, leaving a white fog of soap behind her.

wait until Nat has definitely gone.

Then I sit back down in the chair, lean my cheek against the warm tumble dryer and watch the sock going round and round and round in never-ending circles.

Just like my stupid little life.

My phone beeps.

My little chunky-chip! Is this the face that launched a thousand lips?! Sparkle monkey everywhere! Fairy wins again! Gravy

I stare at it for a few seconds, then turn my phone upside down in case it reads better the other way up.

It does not.

It’s midday on a Tuesday in New York right now. My bonkers ex-agent has clearly had way too many cups of coffee.

Although at least Wilbur’s still in contact: we may not be working together any more, but he still talks to me more than my current modelling agent.

The last three times I rang Infinity Models I never even got past the receptionist.

Still bemused, I type:

Wilbur, have you been eating sequins again? xxx

I wait a few minutes – he’s obviously peaked and passed out – pop my phone back in my bag and make a mental note to ring him tomorrow when he’s slept through the caffeine spike.

Then I close my eyes and try not to notice how, despite coming to my happy place, there’s an organ in the middle of my chest that still belongs on Jupiter.

ccording to scientists, it takes sixty-six days to form a new habit.

I’m obviously going to need every single one of them.

As I walk slowly home, every bush is stared at, every flowerpot glanced behind, every tree trunk checked. At one point I find myself making a little detour around a rubbish bin, just in case there’s somebody lurking there. Honestly, I haven’t behaved this weirdly since I went on a rampaging Flower Fairy hunt, aged six.

Or had so little success.

Because it doesn’t matter how hard I look, or how slowly I walk, or how many times I whisper I believe in you: it’s no good.

There’s nobody following.

Nobody listening, nobody watching.

For the first time in five years, Toby isn’t there.

“Dad?” I say as I push open the front door. “Tabitha? Did you have a nice d—”

I freeze.

Newspapers are strewn around the hallway. The sofa has been dismantled; blankets and clothes are scattered down the stairs. One living-room curtain is closed, every drawer is out, every cupboard is open. The rubbish bin is lying on its side: contents splurged all over the floor.

There are approximately 35,000 robberies reported every month in the UK, and it looks like we’ve just become one of them.

“Dad!” I shout in a panic, dropping my satchel. “Tabitha! Are you OK?”

What if they’ve taken my laptop?

Nobody will ever see the presentation I was making about pandas doing handstands.

“Dad!” I yell as I race into the bathroom. The medicine cupboard has been pulled apart. “Dad!” I yell in the kitchen where the fridge door is still open. “Dad!” I shout in the totally ransacked cupboard under the stairs. “Da—”

Dad walks in through the back door with Tabitha, snuggled up in his arms. “Daughter Number One! The conquering heroine returns!”

I fling myself at them so hard I may have crushed my little sister irreversibly. “Oh my goodness, you poor things. Did they hurt you? Did they threaten you? You could have been kidnapped!”

Actually, they may have been kidnapped and then returned. If I was a robber, I’d have brought my dad back pretty quickly too.

“Did the who which what now?”

“The burglars!”

“We’ve been burgled?” Dad says in alarm. “When did that happen? I was only in the garden for thirty seconds. Blimey, they move fast, don’t they?”

I look at him, and then at the chaos around us.

Now I come to think of it, nothing seems to be missing. It just appears to be … heavily rearranged. There isn’t a single cup left in the cupboard: they’re all sitting next to the sink, half full of cold tea. The plates aren’t gone: they’re just randomly distributed around the living room, covered in ketchup.

“You made all this mess?”

“What mess?” Dad glances around. “Looks fine to me. I tell you what, I don’t know what Annabel was going on about. This stay-at-home-parent malarkey is a doddle. I even wrote a poem after lunch. Do you want to hear it?”

“You wrote a poem?”

“I did indeed. I rhymed artisan with marzipan. And Tarzan.” Dad looks at my sister smugly. “We’re just trying to work out how to get partisan in there too, aren’t we, Tabs. I am partisan to a little marzipan while watching Tarzan.” He thinks about it. “If only it was Tarzipan. Such a shame.”

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