He starts running. He goes up to the moor, where the sky is wide. He runs fast. Up the hill, the acid biting in his muscles, his chest aching. He runs until his back is drenched with sweat. He runs up paths, down paths, his legs leaping wider. He makes noises. His mouth hangs open, his brows gathered, in fury or in pain, and the breath drags in and out with grunts and roars. His fists are clenched as he runs.

He stops at the rock, the highest point. The stone stands high, carved by wind. When he stops, his whole body shakes. His breath draws in like sobs. His face is wet with sweat, and tears.

When he meets Callum, or Aaron, he grins, baring his teeth, wide and reckless. He moves. He has to keep moving. When he stops, he sleeps, and when he sleeps, he dreams.

They are the oldest in school now. In class, the compact between student and teacher is different. They pull together. Many students are eighteen now, and they seem like adults. They talk like adults. World-weary, experienced. Unshockable.

In Media Studies, they talk more and more freely.

Rose is often absent, but she is here today. People turn around when she gets in. They smile at her. She doesn’t smile back, but her cheeks glow – with pleasure or shame, it’s hard to tell. Maybe both.

But Dillon doesn’t turn. He still avoids her gaze. She wonders why, out of everyone, he doesn’t look.

They are talking about gender. How men and women are constructed in the media. They look at an old copy of Vogue. The cover shows an actress, cat eyed, turbaned, full of eastern promise.

‘She plays a dancer in the film,’ says Mr Bradman. ‘A Turkish dancer. What do you think that signifies?’

‘Exotic,’ says Dillon.

‘Sexualised.’

‘Objectified.’

Mr Bradman talks. He talks about 1965, about Betty Friedan again, about the roles women played.

‘Look at this one.’ He shows an image from inside. ‘He’s doing something, off to one side, fiddling with something.’ He points. ‘Active.’ He points to the girl. ‘She’s passive.’

They look at an advert. A mother and child, advertising Pears soap. The mother’s head inclines down, looking at the child. The child looks at us, secure, happy.

‘What does this say?’

At the front of the school, on the grassy bank, Dillon sits with Alisha. Alisha is eating a cheeseburger. Dillon is eating a Big Mac.

‘You know that’s not healthier,’ says Dillon.

‘It’s smaller.’

‘You’re just going to be hungry afterwards. You’ll eat something else.’

‘Twat.’

Alisha pops the last soggy scrap of bun in her mouth and crumples up the greasy paper. She looks for a bin, even though she knows there isn’t one, then puts the paper on the grass behind her.

As she turns she sees Rose walking down the path. She turns back to Dillon.

‘Princess cocksucker’s coming,’ she whispers.

‘Fuck off,’ says Dillon, punching Alisha lightly on the arm.