It’s OK. I read my books, smile at the new kids, hope, hope, it’ll change.

It hasn’t, so far. Doesn’t matter how bright I make my smile; the weirdness shines brighter, I guess.

Mrs Elliott is talking about the homework, and I’m behind already, so I should focus. I try to listen, but prod, prod – it’s all I can hear now, all I even am. It is my heartbeat, prod, prod, faltering and mean, prod. She’s saying something about force, prod. And then there’s a whisper, and a breath of laughter, and something breaks deep inside me, like a wishbone that’s been pulled too tight and shattered into pieces.

‘STOP!’ I howl, whirling from my stool to face him just as he reaches out his arm again. I push it away and something flashes, bright as lightning. His stool ricochets across the science lab, and he flies with it.

There’s a terrible crashing racket as he and the stool land up at the far wall, and then a deafening silence. My ears are ringing; my head feels like it’s been pressed in a vice.

‘Clementine Gravett!’ shouts Mrs Elliott. ‘Mrs Duke’s office, immediately!’

She charges over to Jago, who is in a little heap beside the now-broken stool. He stares at me, like he knows something. Like he’s got something on me now. Like he knew all along I was a freak, and here’s the evidence: he knows that wasn’t ordinary; it wasn’t just strength. The whole class is silent, and they watch without a word as I pick up my bag and head out of the room.

It was magic.

My mother’s magic.

I’ve been pretending ever since my first day at secondary, ever since Jago first saw the weird in me, that it isn’t real. The roar of my blood, the flashes of static – all just the fantasies of a daydreamer. When I was smaller, that was all it was. But ever since my eleventh birthday, it’s been getting stronger, less dream-like.

And the last two minutes have changed everything.

‘Tell me what happened.’

I can see from Mrs Duke’s face that she really wants to know. I’m a quiet girl. I don’t hit, or shout, or storm out of classrooms. I don’t make a fuss. Sometimes my work is scruffy, sometimes my homework is late, and I don’t have the best grades, but I’m not a troublemaker.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Clementine, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. This seems out of character . . .’ She leans forward at the waist, looking at me intently. Her expression is so kind. I’ve never seen her like this before. Her office is pale with winter sun, and dust motes float around us. I hope I’m not swallowing them; I try to breathe through my nose.

‘Clementine?’

I can’t look her in the eye. I concentrate on the biscuit-coloured carpet and my black boots. They’re scuffed, and the yellow laces are unravelling.

‘Mrs Elliott was quite shocked,’ she continues, resting back into the comfy chair again. We’re in the informal bit of the office, away from her desk. The chairs are navy blue and scratchy. Her short silver hair shines in the sunlight coming through the window. ‘She says you pushed him clear across the classroom. We were lucky he wasn’t injured. You were lucky, Clementine.’