Julia is at the back of the half-empty top deck, with her ankles bent around her holdall at uncomfortable angles and her science homework on her lap. She spent the weekend banging her head against what to do about Chris and Selena. Her main instinct is to grab hold of Selena, probably literally, and ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing; but some other instinct, further back and twisting restlessly, tells her that the moment she says this out loud – to Selena, or to Holly or Becca – nothing will ever be the same again. She can smell the poison smoke as everything they’ve got roars into flame. So she ended up getting nowhere with that and nowhere with homework, and this week is starting off to be a total peach all round. Rain streaks down the bus windows, the driver has turned the heat up to a million and everything is covered in a clammy film of condensation.

Julia is scribbling fast, something about photosynthesis, with one eye on her textbook and one on her barely-reworded page, when she feels someone standing in the aisle looking down at her. It’s Gemma Harding.

Gemma lives like four houses from the bus stop, but Daddy always drops her to school on Monday morning, in his black Porsche that takes half an hour to turn in the narrow school drive. Everything factors into the pecking order: Porsche beats most cars, any car beats bus. If Gemma’s on OMG public transport, there’s a reason.

Julia rolls her eyes. ‘Selena hasn’t been anywhere near Chris. ’Kthanksbye.’ She sticks her head back in her textbook.

Gemma dumps her weekend bag on the next seat and slides in next to Julia. She’s wet, raindrops sparkling on her coat. ‘This bus stinks,’ she says, wrinkling her nose.

It does: sweat-marinated raincoats, steaming. ‘So get off and call Daddy to come save you. Please.’

Gemma ignores that. She says, ‘Did you know Joanne used to be going out with Chris?’

Julia gives her the eyebrow. ‘Yeah. As if.’

‘She was. For like two months. Back before Christmas.’

‘If she’d managed to get Chris Harper, she’d have had it tattooed across her face.’

‘He didn’t want them to tell anyone. Which should’ve tipped Joanne off – like, hello? But Chris kept giving her loads about how he was scared because he’d never felt this way about anyone before, and his feelings were so strong—’

Julia snorts.

‘I know, right? I don’t know what kind of TV he watches, but, like, barf? I said it to Joanne: the only reason a guy doesn’t want to tell people is either because you’re a swamp-monster and he’s ashamed of you, which Joanne completely isn’t, or else because he’s keeping his options open.’

Julia closes her book, but she keeps it on her lap. ‘So?’ she says.