“Let me see it.” She tossed aside a pair of rubber gloves, and reached for the certificate. “Eight H1s, what does that mean?” Beth asked, reminding us she was English.

“As,” I said. “Only six really count. But you know, some people are gifted with good looks and brains. Sometimes it’s more of a burden than anything else.”

Beth hugged me tight, pulling me in without thinking. She smelled of Dettol and citrus perfume. We’d never hugged before. She started to pull back, uncertainty on her face, in case she’d done the wrong thing. I hugged her tight. It was a special occasion, after all.

She’d better not get used to it, though.

“Will you have got your firm offer yet then?” she asked.

I shook my head. I’d checked the application tracking on the way home. “It’ll probably take a couple of hours to show up.”

“But you met the requirements of your conditional offer, right?”

“Yeah . . . ,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. I had to say something soon. I thought maybe when I got my results I’d change my mind. Maybe I’d want to go. Everyone was so sure it was an offer you don’t refuse.

“Your mum would be so proud,” Dad said, smothering me with another hug.

Maybe my mature conversation with Izzy had gone to my head. It’s the only reason I could think that I chose that moment of parental elation to voice my doubts.

“What if I didn’t go to university?”

Dad pushed me away and gaped at me. Beth shifted uncomfortably.

“What are you talking about? You got eight H1s,” Dad said, like good grades meant you absolutely must go to uni and of course pick the degree with the highest entry requirements you can possibly meet. I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket, but I thought this would be a bad time to answer it.

“Rob, hold on.” Beth held up her hand in a stop sign. “Maybe she wants to take a gap year. That’s OK. Or do a different kind of course. Not everyone has to go to university.” She put her hand on Dad’s arm.

“Over my dead body,” he muttered.

I ignored them both and made a scene of pouring myself some orange juice. This conversation needed taking down a notch or two, so doing normal things seemed like the best solution. Act casual. I took a sip while Dad waited. Apparently, he wanted a response to Beth’s statement even though he obviously disagreed.

Drinking had never felt so unnatural in my life.

“It’s not that. I just don’t think it’s for me, that’s all.”

Dad blinked exaggerated blinks.

“I mean, let’s be honest,” I went on, “it’s likely going to be a bit of a waste.”