When a huge star dies, there is a massive explosion, a supernova, and later, all that’s left is a dark, dense black hole where no light can get in or out. From brilliant lightness to total darkness: that’s what it felt like when Harriet left.

When I got over the shock of her going and looked around me, there didn’t seem to be a place for me anywhere: everyone else was paired up or in groups. I did try to talk to people, wriggle into their conversations, but Harriet had always done the talking for both of us and I was out of practice. Plus, like I said, I was shocked when she went and feeling a bit like a dark, dense black hole.

Who wants to be friends with a dark, dense black hole? No one!

All that darkness has gone now, but the friend-making moment seems to have passed by. Which is why, right now, I’m leaning against the wall by the girls’ toilets eating an egg sandwich all on my own.

Like I said. Sometimes I miss Harriet.

FOUR

I get to physics early and find Ms Edgecombe sticking up a poster on the door.

‘What do you think?’ she says. It’s a photo of mission control at NASA and Houston Space Centre Trip – LIFT-OFF 16th July! is printed across the top. Ms Edgecombe taps the photo with a blue fingernail. ‘You could go there, Meg. In four months, you could actually be standing in mission control for the moon landing!’ She laughs. ‘Un-bloody believable!’

‘Miss, you’re swearing again.’

‘Sorry, Meg, but some situations call for swearing … I mean, mission control!’

I follow Ms Edgecombe into the classroom. The trip to Houston costs over two thousand pounds and Mum can’t afford that. Grandad offered to sell something to pay for me to go, but then he realised he didn’t own anything worth that much money, not even his telescope.

‘It looks amazing,’ I say, ‘but I’m not going, Miss, remember?’

She grins at me. ‘You might … You just have to win the competition.’

The competition. Two words that have the power to make sweat break out on the back of my neck and my stomach flip over. It’s called Reach for the Stars and one teenager from our county has the chance of winning a place on the trip; all they have to do is stand up on a stage and explain what space means to them.

Easy! This should be my competition – I’m obsessed with space and know everything there is to know about black holes, exoplanets and our solar system – but, and it’s a big ‘but’, I have a thing about speaking in public. Some people are scared of spiders, or lifts, or clowns. I’m scared of speech. My particular phobia is inconvenient. Let’s just say that in your typical day, I’m confronted with speech a lot more often than a coulrophobic is confronted by clowns.

I used to be fine. Back in junior school my hand would be up before the teacher had finished asking the question, but then I started secondary school and I noticed how my hand going up made the other children roll their eyes and snigger. Then, one day in science, Mr Harper said, ‘What do we call it when plants use the sun to make energy?’ By now, I’d learnt to keep my hand down. ‘Anyone?’ he said. ‘It begins with a “p” … “ph” … “photo” …’ Eventually I couldn’t bear it any more so I put my hand up and said, ‘Photosynthesis.’ The word hung in the air for a moment then Mr Harper said, ‘Photosynthesis!’ mimicking my voice perfectly. Everyone collapsed laughing. ‘Only joking, Meg,’ he said, giving me a cheeky wink, but that was it. From that moment on, my mouth was sealed shut.