It was a trick of mine, a way to save my soul at home. To block out the noises that came from my mother’s room when Carl was in there with her. I’d never done it at school before. School was my saving grace. Learning was my escape.

‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, stalling for time.

Miss Hayle giggled. A girlish sound, in keeping with her whole demeanour. I hated her happiness.

She clapped her hands together childishly. ‘We want to put your name forward for the Kerry Grant. It’s a scholarship, and the prize is entrance and full payment to study two subjects of your choice at Edinburgh University.’

My throat closed up. I held my bag in my lap and moved my fingers underneath it, my nails prodding at the scars on my inner thigh through my tights.

It hurt. The sting told me this was not a dream.

How did they know?

‘How did you know?’ I blurted.

Miss Hayle’s smile faltered for a second. ‘How did we know what?’ she asked.

‘That this is what I’ve dreamed of?’

Miss Hayle tittered; Mr Clayton’s lined face creased in a smile. I lowered my head. My words were stupid. I had shown them what I was feeling, and that wasn’t how life worked, and now they were laughing at me.

I raised my chin and set my shoulders back. ‘I deserve this,’ I said.

Miss Hayle looked at me, uncertainty on her face. ‘Yes, we know. That’s why we’d like to put your name forward, if that’s okay?’

It wasn’t a mistake or a trick. It was real.

‘How do I do it?’ I demanded.

They produced papers, leaflets and pamphlets and spread them out over the desk. They talked over each other then, and I looked from her to him and back again, and down at the literature on the desk.

Edinburgh.

It was as far away as I could ever get.

My face ached, and I wondered if I was crying. I swiped at my cheeks to brush away the tears, but they were dry, and belatedly I realised that the strange sensation I was feeling was a smile. I never smiled.

‘Take this away, talk to your parents. We’re happy to meet with them, discuss any concerns or questions—’

‘That’s okay, you don’t need to do that,’ I said quickly, the smile slipping away, my face back to its usual stern and serious expression.

‘Well, we’ll need to talk to them anyway. Part of the scholarship requirements are access to bank statements, combined income, et cetera, et cetera,’ replied Miss Hayle as she shuffled the papers together.

Miss Hayle and Mr Clayton at my house. That couldn’t – wouldn’t – happen. If they saw where I was from, they would realise they had made a mistake; they would take this away from me.