If I could, I’d do all humanities and absolutely no science or maths for the next two years, but Balmoral want us to choose subjects that will get our university entrance scores scaled up, even if we’re not interested in them. I’m already worried our careers counsellor won’t let me study Art next year unless I commit to applying for a Visual Arts course at uni, which isn’t an actual option.

With about fifteen minutes of period two left, Mrs Berryman gives me a heart attack by appearing right next to me, out of thin air. Secret librarian skills.

‘Chloe? Ms Nouri has asked to see you.’

‘Now? Why?’

‘Not sure, love, but she wants you to go up to her office.’

Mrs Berryman should swap places with the school counsellor or nurse, she’s that nice.

I gather my things and pretend that it’s not unusual that Ms Nouri wants to see me.

My heart thumps a little faster. Could it be something to do with the prize? Surely the judges haven’t made their decision already.

As I make my way to the third floor I run through my favourite fantasy, a blatantly unrealistic daydream where Ms Nouri tells me that her art-dealer friend likes my work and wants to give me a giant pot of money to go overseas to make art and find myself.

Ms Nouri’s office is barely bigger than a broom closet, and she shares it with two other art teachers. Once you’ve crammed in three desks, bookshelves, a portable heater, three oversized handbags and a collection of lumpy statues, there’s barely room to move. Funny things are going on with my insides.

‘Chloe, take a seat.’

Ms Nouri is alone in the office and I perch on a spare chair. There are art books, sketchbooks, stacks of paper, jars of pens, posters on every available surface. A framed photo of Ms Nouri and her wife and their little boy is tucked on the shelf nearby and I try not to look too nosy.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Good.’ It’s hard not to sound nervous.

Ms Nouri taps her big teacher’s diary with glitter-storm fingernails.

‘I have something difficult to tell you, Chloe.’

She hasn’t looked at me properly until now. She looks worried.

‘A decision has been made to remove your artwork from the exhibition. After receiving a complaint, Mrs Christie has decided this is the best course of action, to prevent others from getting upset.’

Ice runs through me. It’s very similar to the feeling I had when Sam went missing at the mall. It takes a few seconds for me to get any words out.

‘What kind of complaint?’

‘I didn’t field the complaint personally, so I don’t know every detail. Mrs Christie indicated that the person was distraught.’