I only lift my head when I hear the traditional morning bitchnami crashing down the hallway. You’d think they’d take the day off, but no.

Natalia et al march four across like teen witches in a movie, and everyone gets out of their way, as usual. People refer to them collectively as The Blondes, for obvious reasons. They didn’t get the memo that it would be politically correct to include some ethnics in their group. Not that I’m applying for the job.

I draw my legs in, but not quickly enough.

‘Out of my way, new girl,’ says Natalia. But her expression is empty; her heart’s not in it.

I don’t mind what she calls me: it’s the truth. Six months at Balmoral still makes me the new girl. I don’t go skiing with them in winter; we didn’t ride ponies together as kids. A lot of the new girls in my year are boarders and they bonded quicker than survivors on a desert island. The ones that aren’t boarders still have the right parents, live in the right postcodes.

Sarah, always a step behind Natalia in every way, gives me the finger as they pass.

‘Goth,’ Sarah mouths. Her hair, straightened this morning, swings beautifully behind her. There’s a lot of maintenance required to be a Blonde. The other two betas, Ally and Marley, look sheepish. Their foursome is simultaneously beautiful and ridiculous, like an ad that you know is airbrushed to hell but you still can’t look away.

My bubble breaks open and corridor noise spills back in. Someone’s left a banana in their locker over the weekend and the smell spreads far and wide. I spin my combination lock.

‘Fingernails, Chloe!’ a teacher barks. ‘Gone by recess.’

My nails are chipped metallic blue; a hangover from the weekend. If I wanted to answer back—and I don’t—I wouldn’t be able to, because Mr Scrutton is already nothing but a distant speck.

Instead of normal morning assembly with the whole school in the Great Hall, they quarantine Year Ten in the Performing Arts Centre. Our teachers hover at the end of rows, their faces tight. Mrs Wang and Ms Nouri have clearly been crying. I think they’re aiming for a ‘safe space’ vibe, but instead it feels like punishment. The whole year level is infected.

The principal, Mrs Christie, is belted tight in forest green and booming as usual.

‘…some of you will want to speak to the school counsellor or the chaplain, and we encourage you to do so.’

I tuck my blue nails inside my jumper sleeves as our year level coordinator, Mrs Benjamin, sweeps the gathering with her laser eyes. Someone in the row behind me is swallowing sobs.

‘Miss Starcke will be available all day. You can sign up at reception. Mr O’Connor will be running a pastoral care session at lunch.’

Miss Starcke stands before us and nods, but seems seconds away from bolting. Mr O’Connor, on the other hand, looks good and ready to ram a little Jesus down our throats.