The disco was in the church hall at the far side of the village, on the bend in the road that led to the secondary school and beyond.

As the girls turned the corner, music thumped across the quiet night, lights flashing against the wall in a fury of colour. Teenagers clutching plastic cups milled around outside, the boys play-fighting and peacocking while a handful of giggling girls watched them. One of the boys produced a plastic bottle of cider from behind a bush and refilled his cup.

‘Ready?’ said Brinley.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Shannon.

The girls squeezed fingers, and then crossed the road and pushed hard against the double doors that led into the hall.

The music was so loud that Shannon considered turning round and going home, but Brinley was nudging her and jerking her head towards the empty dance floor in an unsubtle fashion.

There he was.

Kit hadn’t noticed her yet. He was leaning against the DJ stand and had his back to her, disco lights playing across his T-shirt. He was talking to a girl – Shannon could see the cock of her hip and the pointed toe of a shoe, but not her face – and then he drained whatever was in his plastic cup and crushed it in his hand.

The girls loitered awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor. They were in the same class at school and shared one or two like-minded friends, but none of them had come tonight, preferring the company of their books to the agonies of a Year 8 school disco.

‘Shall we dance or something?’ said Brinley.

‘No way!’ Shannon’s cheeks flushed. ‘That would be so embarrassing.’

‘OK, why don’t you go and talk to Kit?’

‘God, no. Not yet.’

Brinley laughed good-naturedly at her friend. ‘What about a drink, then?’

‘I suppose so.’ Shannon ran a self-conscious hand through her newly shorn hair. A couple of pupils had whispered to each other when they’d seen her, but none had so far commented to her face.

They edged past clots of students, some gawky and shy, some preening and eyeing the opposite sex, and made their way to the kitchen hatch, where one of the PTA was serving non-alcoholic fruit punch.

‘Bottoms up,’ said the woman, all smiles and overdone bonhomie.

As they turned away, a girl from their class – Nicole Renton – bumped into Shannon’s shoulder, splashing her drink all over her jeans.

‘Sorry,’ said Nicole, sounding bored. She looked Shannon up and down in a deliberate way. ‘Oh,’ she said, as if she’d only just noticed it. ‘I like your hair.’

‘Really?’ said Shannon, a hopeful note in her voice.

‘No,’ said Nicole. Her laughter was edged with scorn. ‘Oh, look,’ she said, already walking off, ‘there’s Danielle and Orla.’