I notice that Steph and Emily have manufactured it so that they are partnered with each other. So much for finding new partners. Eloise flounces over to Brian’s desk and loudly declares, “You’re all mine now, Brian.”

I hover behind Tracey’s chair. “Um, Tracey, right?”

She turns and looks me up and down, dislike obvious.

“Where do you want to sit?” I say.

She shrugs, so I point to two desks that are free at the back of the room and make my way towards them before she can object. My shoulders are so stiff, it feels like they are brushing my earlobes.

I sit and wait for Mrs Aldridge to come over with the project papers.

Tracey sits silently in the desk next to me.

“Wonderful, I think you two will work really well together,” Mrs Aldridge says with too much enthusiasm.

I look at the instructions, reading the words but conscious of the ugly awkwardness.

“Ok, so it looks like we have to analyse these elements and there’s a few experiments to do and stuff.” If I stick to talking just about the project, it might make the time pass quicker.

We discuss what we need to do in short, sharp sentences. She is clever, knows her way around an elemental chart. She’s throwing her words at me, like she’s trying to outsmart me, but I match her each time. Her Midlands accent is strong, which sets her apart from the rest of us immediately, but that’s not the only thing. One glance around the lily-white faces in this classroom tells you what else does.

After half an hour we have a solid plan of what we are going to do and some good ideas are bouncing between us, the sentences becoming less staccato, the atmosphere a little less brittle. She even cracks a smile at one point when I forget myself and make a rubbish elemental joke.

At the end of the lesson, she packs up and goes to leave without another word. As she walks away, I say, “That’s a good book,” and nod at what she is holding in her hand.

She frowns, then looks at the copy of Return of the Native sticking out of her bag.

“Yeah, it is. You like Victorian literature then?”

“Yeah, I’m rereading—”

“Ugh, Hels, step away from her or you’ll never get the smell of monkey shit from your hair,” El says loudly from over Tracey’s shoulder.

Tracey turns and walks away without another word.

“So is she as lame as she looks?”

“Totally,” I say, watching her go.

*