‘Yes, let’s do it!’ She gave a small smile, tinged with relief. The two ran up the wide steps and into the old school hall, the room busy with all the drama she had anticipated. A couple of girls held each other’s forearms in a fierce grip as they jumped and squealed, their side ponytails rising and sinking in unison. Monica and Verity – she might have guessed. Both were drama queens, the kind of girls who regularly cried hysterically and publicly as they stormed out of rooms and who were even now making way too much noise as they pogoed on the spot. Their antics only added to the already palpable tension. One or two of the nerdy kids, usually the ones in glasses, as if the world needed some outward sign to indicate their nerdiness, stood with their necks craned and spiral-bound notebooks resting on the wall as they scribbled down their grades. Standing behind him, Bessie glanced at the pad of Harrington Ainsworth – goodness only knew why he felt the need to write them down: Maths A, Advanced Maths A, Physics A, Chemistry A . . . and on it went until he had ripped through all thirteen of his subjects – thirteen! – and all with a shiny A grade. Harrington, with the best results in the year, had Oxford in his sights and, with this set of grades, within his grasp as well.

‘You’re here, Michelle!’ Louise Berry called out, pointing, as she spotted Michelle’s name just below hers. Michelle Biggs.

‘Cheers!’ Michelle smiled. Her hand slipped from Bessie’s and she walked slowly up to the board, running her finger down the list.

How were she and Lawrence going to handle the situation? Bessie felt a little shiver of unease at the prospect.

‘One hundred and seventy-two!’ Michelle beamed back over her shoulder.

Not bad at all. Bessie gave her a double thumbs-up, pleased for her friend, who had come almost slap bang in the middle of the year in terms of results. She continued along the boards towards the W’s, X’s, Y’s and Z’s, with her heart beating louder with each step . . . This was it! Her eyes skimmed the list and she was drawn to the number three hundred and sixty-one. Oh dear! She cringed for whoever had done this badly.

There she was on the last page, as she had expected, thanks to her grandad’s Yorkshire roots. ‘Worrall,’ she said aloud, knowing she was the only one in the year. Narrowing her gaze, her heart gave a little skip and her mouth felt dry.

‘Well, that can’t be right!’ she whispered aloud.