The next message is from Trish. We’ve agreed to me becoming an official tenant, but she hasn’t given me a contract to sign yet. There’s no time to read the message though – I must lead by example. I drop my phone to the bottom of my satchel.

‘Find a space, guys,’ I call out, trying too hard to sound friendly. ‘Sit yourselves down.’

The kids filter in, glued to their phones, some alone and some stuck to a pal, sharing a screen. I straighten my back, elongate my neck, although my soul sinks deeper and deeper into the chair. My day is about to begin with words like ‘confiscate’. Already I’m bored of myself, and I haven’t even greeted them with a proper good morning yet.

I stand. Instant status.

A boy saunters past, at least a foot taller than me, with patchy facial hair.

‘A’right, Miss,’ he says.

‘Year Nine?’ I sing lightly with a warm smile, my final attempt at being on their side.

‘Miss?’ I hear. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’ve got fingers like sausages?’

Baffled, I instantly make the mistake of examining my own hand and for a split second, I wonder – when it comes down to it – whether everybody has fingers like some sort of sausage; hot dog, chorizo, cocktail …

The whole class is laughing, and of course they’re talking about actually getting fingered now. I should’ve known better. My drama training kicks in and I fill my lungs with air, clench my abs.

‘YEAR NINE!’ I bellow.

Let the battle commence.

*

‘Si!’ I squeal, ecstatic to see his pointed little face behind the piano in the drama hall.

He doesn’t hear me though. He’s tinkling away, warming up before the cast reunite for rehearsals. I pull a chair over to sit beside him and unwrap the tuna sandwich I grabbed from the Sainsbury’s Local on the way to school this morning. I’ll wait until he’s completed the song before I give him a massive bearhug.

With a dramatic bang of chords, Si lifts his fingers and spirals around to face me. He’s embracing the new term with a new goatee, trimmed and symmetrical. A distinct lack of enthusiasm oozes from him. I check the big round clock on the wall. I’m not late. I touch my chin. No crumbs.

‘What?’ I ask, wary. ‘Not a fan of tuna?’

He sighs, his shoulders slump.

‘Look, Chloe. I’m over the moon to see you.’

‘Hmm. Sure sounds like it, hun.’

‘I’m conscious of time – the cast are arriving any minute and I need to ask—’ Si stands abruptly but loses his balance and slips into the piano keys. His clumsiness causes a moment of alarm married with the plinky-plonk sound effect.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Are you all in, Miss Roscoe?’

‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious or taking the piss.’