On Monday, I go to see my department head and ask for compassionate leave for the funeral. When she asks me who passed away, I tell her a friend. She says sorry, and I’m granted time off. I suppose you’re wondering why I never told her it was my boyfriend, but come on – she would’ve questioned how, why and when, and I don’t have concrete answers. Unless I’ve missed it, the local news has reported nothing and I can’t bring myself to call Jack’s family. They might call me Clare. Besides, I lied about being sick last week when it happened. I’m new to this school, remember. I don’t want to be thought of as a liability.

Except I am.

Year Ten are preparing for their mocks and all I can do is put them into groups, telling them to devise ‘whatever they like’. I spend the double period going back and forth to the staff toilets trying to pull myself together. Luckily, the kids don’t seem to notice.

At lunchtime, I’m cornered entering the drama hall.

‘Miss, Miss, can I audition for the musical?’ asks the lad, confident. Perhaps Year Eight. He flashes a brace-dressed smile and despite a baby-soft jawline, he reeks of aftershave.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Jonah Matthews, Miss.’

‘You know today’s the recalls, Jonah. The main auditions were last week.’

‘Please, Miss. Please?’

‘Fine. Grab your lunch and come back in ten minutes.’

‘AH, FANKS, MISS!’

‘Pronounce your “TH”, Jonah. You can’t be an actor if you don’t work hard on your articulation.’

‘Sure fing, Miss,’ he winks at me. He actually winks at me. ‘Fank you. I mean, TH-ank you. Can I bring my girlfriend, Miss?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘We’ve got too many girls already.’

‘That’s sexist. Give her a chance.’

‘It’s not sexist, Jonah – your girlfriend missed out.’

‘Well, I fink it’s sexist, Miss. Unless you fancy me, Miss. Are you jealous?’

‘Jonah Matthews get your lunch now before I put you on detention.’

God, that’s exhausted me. I ache.

Gathering the recalled students into a circle, I assign Layla Birch to lead a warm-up game of Zip, Zap, Boing. This means I can sit in the corner on a plastic chair drawing doodles, pretending to be doing something important like marking essays or counting names on a register. I let the game go on much longer than necessary, telling myself that it’s cool because I’m still waiting for Si – Mr Sullivan, the music teacher and brainchild behind this musical – to show up.

I say ‘brainchild’; I jest.