I wave at Posy, this year’s favourite baby doll, and Posy waves back. Even at twelve you can tell that Posy is going to grow up to rule her year level and be a mega-babe, the sort that isn’t the prettiest, but is the most interesting, the most magnetic. Posy is sweet now, but she’s only months away from realising her superiority and then she’s gonna turn from a sugary little lollipop into a sour lemon nightmare and her parents and teachers will be disappointed because she used to be such a nice girl.

I turn the corner out of Tinytown right as the end-of-lunch bell rings. This next part of the dungeons smells of unwashed PE uniforms and forgotten sandwiches. The Year Eights are smack-bang in the middle of their awkward phase, labouring under their oversized backpacks like beetles.

‘You are no longer cute!’ I yell in celebration because I’ve decided that my Friday afternoon gift to myself is that I’ll stop working at lunchtime. I’ll spend periods five and six snipping off my split ends and planning my weekend with my phone hidden inside my inside blazer pocket because they make secret agents out of us with their nonsense rules and they make liars out of us with their lies.

I stop.

I survey the emptying dungeon with an odd metallic taste in my mouth. Something is askew, like in those puzzles I loved when I was a kid: find five things wrong with this picture.

‘Where’s Amanda?’ I ask the closest beetle.

‘Her parents took her out of school.’

‘Why?’ I ask, even though I already know the reason. Amanda’s older sister Ruby wasn’t in Biology this morning. Cowards run away, and Amanda and Ruby’s parents clearly have no grasp on the statistical probability of teen abductions.

Why is everyone thinking about themselves, when they should be thinking about Yin?

‘I don’t know.’ The Year Eight girl quails, looking away. ‘I’m gonna be late for Maths. Mr Scrutton will give me detention.’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Scrotum is way too nice for that.’ The Year Eight looks confused so I have to explain. ‘Mr Scrutton. Scrutton, Scrotum—remember it.’

I let her go. She’ll run to her friends and report on what I’ve told her and they’ll say Scrotum for the rest of eternity.

‘What are we going to do with our spare?’

Sarah hasn’t spoken in five minutes and I wouldn’t be able to tell you the last time that happened, hallelujah it’s a miracle. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

I flip my headphones off.