I glare at him.

I don’t like drawing attention to myself, and it takes a lot for me to lose my cool.

But I can feel my neck getting hot, and a weird churning feeling in my stomach, like I’m properly going to blow.

“I—” I start. But before I can get going, Alistair jumps in.

“He,” he says softly.

It’s followed by the chorus of hes the team usually chime in with when someone slips up.

It’s pretty cool actually.

“We’re not playing without him,” says Liam.

“Yeah, let’s be real,” says Alistair. “We can’t. Some of these queens play like they have three left feet.”

Gregor rolls his eyes.

“I don’t want to be a hassle,” I say. “You guys should play.”

“Shut up, Ethan,” says Alistair.

I shut up.

“We don’t have to play without him, though,” says Gregor. “If the league’s rules mean Ethan can’t play, then the match doesn’t have to be part of the league, does it?”

“What’s the point?” says one of the lads on the other team. “If it’s not going to count?”

I can tell Helen’s about to say something inspiring about diversity and principles and everyone getting a fair go at the game.

But then Alistair pipes up, flicking his scarf back again. “Worried you’re going to get beaten by Poofter FC?”

And the guy grins. “Nah, mate,” he says.

He flicks back an imaginary scarf too.

“Game on.”

*

Listen, there’s a Hollywood ending to this story, where we win the match and I get carried out by the lads, as the other team are forced to congratulate me for being excellent.

In the real world, we’re still totally shit.

Alistair scored our only goal and I was pretty crap, to be honest. Turns out that being the subject of a minor scandal before a match will really affect the way you play.

But it doesn’t matter.

As I exit the changing room, back in my tracksuit, I catch up with Gregor, who puts an arm round my shoulder. He’s always weirdly huggy after a match.

I don’t hate it.

Alistair and Liam are standing outside the coach, chatting to some of the lads from the other team.

One of them’s saying something, and Alistair squeals and throws himself against his chest.

To my surprise, the lad puts an arm round Alistair.

I see them exchanging Facebooks.

“Well, fat lot of good you turned out to be,” says Alistair as I step up into the bus.

But he’s grinning.

And so am I.

I’m part of the team.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that high school dances suck, and even if you start having a nice time, some jackhole is going to ruin it for you.

Darcy Pemberley is that jackhole.

I am standing very still, inside the third stall from the end in the bathroom off the cafeteria. I have my tutu-style dress hiked up around my waist, but I still have my tights on, and I’m determined that none of this scratchy netting is going to make a sound and give me away.