I empty my insides into the bowl and sit there for a minute, letting my heaving stomach rest. But it’s utterly disgusting in here. Which leads from how are boys so gross? right to this is not my space in two seconds flat.

I exit just as someone else swings through the door.

“Uhhh, ’ere, this is the boys’.” This kid’s maybe in Year 8. He’s tiny, barely standing level with my chest, but he might as well be a mountain troll or armourplated lizard beast.

I run.

Past my friends, past the common room, and right out through the double doors into the world. Further: skirting round the building out of sight. I just want that: for nobody to see. I just—

The back of the school is car park, mostly, and the kitchens, doors open, spilling out the smell of cabbages and excess heat.

I sink back against the wall and breathe, but the shame and anger won’t shift from my chest.

I could go to Mr Boules, but he’d tell me that it was an innocent mistake, that I can’t hold people’s judgements against them. He’d say that nomination was a compliment.

It wasn’t. And I wish that I could crush his inner self that way, to make him see.

I wish—

I see his car. A gleaming turquoise Mini hatchback.

And I see the open kitchen door. Hear the whirring of industrial dish cleaning. It would be easy, oh so easy to slip in, and – “GRAAAARGH!” I yell.

The first egg smashes and slides down the windscreen.

No one rushes out to stop me.

Splack. Again.

Splack.

I probably don’t need to swing so hard, but it feels good. Vicious.

And I just can’t take it any more.

Spl—

“Scout! What the freck?”

I freeze, arm up, as Tro marches over.

“What are you doing?!”

Oh.

Oh.

“Boules’s car.” I wave at it, pathetically. “I just. I’m so sick of—” this.

Troodon softens, just an inch. “I know, but you can’t just blow like that. This isn’t D ’n’ D.”

“I’m—”

“Move.” They walk me away from the car with purpose. We don’t speak, just walk.

I’m shaking.

When we round the corner, Troodon cracks a grin. “Besides … you don’t wield an egg like that. All flair and poor form, boy.”

“Oh, balls. I’m the Hollywood swordsman of egg throwing.”

“You ARE. Totally unsubtle. Try that shit in-game and I’ll have you roll at disadvantage all night.”

“Ugh.”

Tro angles me in front of a bench, pushes on my shoulders. I sit. They stare hard into my face. “Yu-huh. So, we good? No more walking right into enemy fire?”

I glance back towards the car park, and exhale. Boules would have me out of here in seconds. Probably chalk it up to attention-seeking from a ‘clearly troubled teen’, as though my gender made me volatile. “Shit. Yeah. Thanks.”

We sit there for a while, run through all our favourite webcasts until they’re sure that I’ve calmed down.