The seconds stretched out, slowing down. She was aware of the pressure of Kit’s hand on her back, and then a slight drawing away, as if he was embarrassed to be the centre of attention in this way.

Across the hall, the voices took up again, swelling in volume like the rush of a river in a storm.

Shannon’s legs felt so heavy that lifting them seemed an impossible task. Pain sliced into her abdomen, high and sharp, just beneath her breastbone. Her face was coloured with shame.

She did not know what to do next, and that indecisiveness cost her.

Her father’s voice echoed across the room again.

‘Shannon Carter, please come to the DJ stand, where your father is waiting to take you home.’

Driven to end such public humiliation, to get as far away as possible, Shannon began to quietly explain to Kit her plan to slip from the church hall and make her own way across the village.

She was still standing on the dance floor when the first plastic cup hit her between the shoulder blades. She gasped as warm cider dripped down her back.

The whole room seemed to gasp too, a collective intake of breath. Kit backed away from her, inspecting his own clothes for splashes. Shannon pulled her soaking top away from her body, her cheeks burning. The hall was silent but the atmosphere was freighted with anticipation. Everyone was watching.

And then somebody laughed.

It was a girl’s voice, just loud enough to be heard, and striated with cruelty. That was all it took.

Another girl joined in. And a third. A handful of boys were laughing too, nudging each other, embarrassed but hungry for a show, relieved it wasn’t them. Within seconds, the place rang to a soundtrack of mockery.

The disco lights, flashing red and blue and green, lit up the expressions on the faces of the crowd. A boy in another class, teeth too big for his mouth, pointed at her and grinned. Shannon glimpsed a girl she played hockey with, eyes widened in faux shock, gossiping with her friend. Danielle whispered something to a tall boy standing next to her, and he slipped from view like smoke.

A second plastic cup struck her chest, spilling fruit punch across the front of her top.

Shannon barely had time to register the assault before another cup, thrown from the opposite side of the room, caught the edge of her jaw. Within seconds, she was under attack from all directions, plastic missiles spilling their contents over her, marking her with shame.

Kit, it turned out, was not the boy she thought he was. He had fled, and was now in the corner with his friends, his back to her, as if he couldn’t bear to be associated with such indignity.