‘Like the author?’ she asked.

A few months ago I wouldn’t have a had a clue what she was talking about but now I was quite proud to share my name with one of the authors I enjoyed reading.

‘Yeah. The same.’

She handed me an envelope. A brown envelope. I thought about the brown envelopes that came for Maggie from social services and I suddenly wished Maggie had come with me. I didn’t want to open this alone. I wandered outside staring at my name on the envelope.

‘Harris.’ I looked up. It was Kemp.

‘Kemp.’

He did the smallest possible movement of his head, so small you couldn’t really call it a nod, and then he walked past me and joined the queue. It was the most civil conversation we’d ever shared.

‘So?’ Farah appeared at my shoulder. ‘Haven’t you opened it? Come on!’ She was a bit hyper.

I couldn’t not open it now. I ripped the envelope and I thought I was going to be sick. My gut churned like a turbo-charged cement mixer. I pulled out the white sheet of paper and looked at it. I stared at it but I couldn’t take it in. It was like I’d lost the ability to read. I went over my name on the page about four times before I dare look at the grades. The numbers all swapped about.

‘You got an eight in history. I’m claiming that!’ said Farah. ‘Gotta go – my parents are waiting in the car. See you at the library.’

I spun around but I was too late; she’d already run off. I watched her go out of the gate. I blinked a few times to check what I was seeing. Dad was standing just outside the railings watching me. He slowly raised his hand and I did the same like a slow motion mirror mime.

Dad came over and we stared at the sheet together. ‘It was letters in my day. What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.

‘Grade four is a pass. But I need three at grade five and three at grade six – which is like an old B grade – or above to get into sixth form.’

He leaned forward. We both sort of realised at the same time. ‘Apart from French they’re all five or higher. Blimey. Well done, son.’ He slapped me on the shoulder but this time his hand stayed there. ‘I’m proud of you, Tom.’

‘Thanks.’ We stayed staring at the results. I couldn’t quite believe it. I’d got my best marks in the subjects I wanted to do at A level. That meant I’d definitely got a place in sixth form. I’d even scraped a five in biology. I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding in. I’d only actually gone and done it.

‘You okay?’ he asked.