“Oh, ok.” She looks down at her feet, shuffles a bit. “You want to hang out later?”

Eloise comes up behind her. “I think she has party plans to be finalising, don’t you, Hels?” She looks at me pointedly, makes a face behind Tracey’s back.

Tracey flushes at the sound of El’s voice. “Yes, of course.” She walks away, her head down.

“God, she’s a bit desperate for friends, isn’t she? She’s so weird. Come on, Hels.” El loops her arm through mine and marches me down the corridor, directly past Tracey’s locker. She looks up as we walk past and I see the hurt on her face. I feel wretched, remembering how much fun we had the other night, how free I felt with her. She looks away before I can mouth an apology.

I pull out of Eloise’s grip and tell her I need to go to the bathroom again before class starts.

I close myself into a stall, drop the lid of the toilet seat and sit on it, my head in my hands. What is the matter with me today? I feel like I am stumbling around, not quite there, not really focusing on anything, at once on high alert and then in a dense fog, voices muffled, movements blurred.

I scrabble around in my bag and find my mother’s anti-depressants, shake three into my hand and knock them back with a swig of water.

I emerge from the toilet stall and stand in front of the row of basins, looking at the reflection I see in the mirror. I look like myself, but not a version I recognise. It is unsettling to think I am changing so quickly, time passing and leaving its mark, my face changing with every second that passes. Tomorrow I will be ever so slightly altered from what I see today and that disturbs me. I lean forward and stare so hard that my eyes glass over and the details smudge together, like I have swiped my finger through a pencil drawing of my face.

Someone charges into the bathroom, laughing. A Year 7, giggling with her friend. They stop when they see me, look at each other, look back at me.

I push away from the mirror, scowl at them and leave with a deep breath fuelling my feet.

I settle into the science lab, everyone around me unpacking books and donning the unflattering lab coat made to fit giants, not skinny teenage girls. Tracey is picking at the skin on her finger, the movements sharp and destructive. Her hair is loose today, like a cloud of tight curls around her face. I like it like that.