She pushes open the door and runs into the rain. It’s not warm, but it’s not freezing either, and she enjoys the feel of it slithering down her face. She feels giddy suddenly, doing something so crazy, while everyone else is shaking themselves dry and bitching about studying in wet socks. She laughs manically as she crosses the playground and yanks open the door to the sixth form centre. The rain disappears, and away from the crazy, she falls silent again.

She shouldn’t be here really. Year elevens aren’t welcome. But she just needs to find Becca, get the letter, then she’ll be gone and no one else will even notice her being there.

Except that twenty-odd eyes are staring at her now.

‘What are you doing here?’ a boy asks, not disguising his horror at a non-sixth former stepping onto his hallowed ground. But her tongue is too thick to speak now, and her brain isn’t firing. She stares at him, dumbstruck. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ he prods.

Yes! She’s looking for Becca, and she needs to find her before it’s too late. She scours the room, the sofas and coffee tables, old desks and crappy TV on a stand. Then she sees them. Becca curled up in an armchair, with Clara sat right next to her. They’re joined at the hip, and the knee and shoulder. Like lovers, she thinks.

And Becca is holding up a piece of paper. It’s her letter, Katherine realises, held in both hands and slightly towards Clara so that they can read it together. They’re smiling and laughing. They think Katherine is just one big joke.

How could Becca do this to her?

She needs the letter.

They’re not far away, not in strides, not when you’re running. Katherine reaches out, but her hands are fizzing. She misses the letter. Her fingernails connect with Becca’s cheek.

Becca screams, lifts her hands to her face.

Clara pushes to standing. ‘What the fuck?!’ Her shout is like an angry ripple and suddenly there’s commotion everywhere. Katherine looks left and right, sees angry faces, all staring at her.

‘I just wanted the letter,’ she whispers, to no one at all. Why do things always go wrong? Why can’t she make herself be understood? Then she stumbles backwards, twists on her toes and lurches towards the door.

‘Katherine, wait!’ Someone is calling her name, maybe Becca, but she can’t slow down; she needs to get out. She pushes on the door and tumbles outside. It’s still raining, which means the playground is empty, and she can hide in a torrent of water. She pauses for a moment, face upturned to the sky, then notices the school gates, wide open. Of course she can’t stay here now, not for the rest of the day, or ever again.