9. Before

There are rumours about Miss Smith. People say her skirts are too short. She gets too cosy with the dads on parents' evening. And why exactly did she leave her last school? The stories are wild.

She embezzled funds for a new sports centre.

She got obsessed with the headteacher and killed his dog.

She's a high-class hooker in her spare time.

She had an affair with a student.

I don't know how it got so crazy or why anyone believes a word of it. She's nice – kind – and it's weird that all these polite children from fancy families would turn on her like this. It's not her fault she's beautiful.

What's funny is, in a few years, when everyone here now has gone to uni or Nepal or whatever, the stories will fade and she'll never have a clue any of this was ever said.

But today, every whisper, every laugh cut short, is about her.

Or me.

Since that evening in the orchard – Princess crying, pushing me – it's been like I'm diseased.

I walk down the long corridor towards the auditorium, clutching my books to my chest, filled with that familiar feeling of tingling dread. I don't like acting. I hate getting up in front of people, making myself heard. People are always like, ‘What? Can you speak a bit louder? Pro-ject.'

But I love the stories, and we talk about them in a different way when we're figuring out how to become a character. And if I close my eyes when I sing, I can pretend no one else is there.

But now that everyone hates me, I'm not sure I can make myself do it.

Miss Smith thinks she can help me enjoy the acting more, loosen up a bit. I reckon whatever she has in mind can only make it worse.

Some boys are getting roasted for doing keepie-uppies by a glass trophy cabinet. I'm still watching them as I reach the auditorium doors, so it's only right then that I notice who's holding them open.

One tall, handsome boy and three gorgeous, waif-like girls.

Just this summer we'd talked about how great it would be that we'd all be in a class together, because drama is taught across lower and upper sixth.

So much can change in a heartbeat.

‘Hey, Barb,' they say, all sweet smiles as I try to shrink to nothing and pass between them.

Barb as in Barbra Streisand. As in you wouldn't expect it, but the girl can sing. As in look out for that barbed tongue. I never mean to, but sometimes I just say the one thing that will hit someone right in the gut.

My friends said it was a talent, but it seems to have faded with our friendship.

The tall blonde one is Princess. As in Princess Diana: beautiful, benevolent. As in watch me smile, watch me sparkle. As in I'm so nice, I'm so so so nice. Watch me choose not to crush you.

She watches me without a blink.

The boy, taller and blonder than Princess, with hazel eyes and a lopsided smile, the one who looks like a film star, that's Don, as in the greatest batsman of all time, Don Bradman. He's Princess's brother in the year above.

Don gives me a wide grin and leans towards me, like maybe he's going in for a kiss. It's stupid but my heart pounds as I look into those sparkling eyes. I bite my lip and look away.

The one with reddish-brown hair and a puckered pout and eyes like a Persian cat, that's Spanish. As in who on God's Earth will ever know why this very English girl is called Spanish? She yawns and studies her nails, chipped lilac today.

And standing with liquid black hair, arms crossed, head cocked, whispering into Princess's ear, is Whip. As in quick as a. Sharp as a. She gives me a grin to match Don's.

And then, when I'm almost past them, I hear what I was expecting: ‘Nice to see you, Baa Baa Barbra.'

As in baa baa black sheep. As in quit following us. As in why don't you curl up and die already?

I so don't mean to, but I open my mouth to say something back… but before it comes out I'm flying, books up in the air, a squeak escaping.

Someone tripped me. It was Whip. Her foot out in a flash. And I land hard on my palms, my cheeks flushing red.

I want to snap something about originality, or growing up, but I can't find anything witty.

And then the worst happens: Miss Smith runs in. ‘Oh! What happened here?' She crouches and puts an arm round me. Like, actually draws me to her, giving me a hug. ‘Are you okay?' She gives me such a soft smile that I have to clench my teeth to stop from crying. I want to hit her.

Whip drops down and slips an arm under mine, and together she and Miss Smith help me up. Don gathers my books. ‘You poor thing!' coos Princess, still behind me.

‘What a blunderbuss,' says Whip in her gentle voice, and laughter rings through the hall.

Why are you laughing?I want to yell. What even is a blunderbuss?

Miss Smith will think they're laughing with me, but they're not. I know they're not. And I wish my burning cheeks could take the whole school down with me.