The day rolls in and on in a chaotic haze of new class timetables and expectation setting. As the most senior students in the school, we are expected to buckle down, secure our futures, be leaders – blah, blah, blah, ad infinitum. The inspirational lectures might be a bit different now that we are in Year 12, but everything else is the same. Same teachers, same classrooms, same kids we've been rockin' this educational gambit with since Year 7.

Until Introduction to Business Communication.

One of the reasons that parents choose St Mark's for their privileged little darlings, is that the school offers a range of university level subjects in Year 12. To be eligible, you have to meet certain academic requirements, demonstrate the required level of maturity etc. Or, in my case, do neither of those things but be lucky enough to be the principal's daughter.

So, thanks entirely to my mother, the last double period of the day sees me dragging my feet towards my illustrious introduction to Commerce.

It's not that I didn't want to do a uni subject this year, because I did, but the Introduction to Graphic Design course that was my first and only preference was vetoed by my parents. You can imagine how thrilled they are going to be when I tell them that I want to do a Bachelor of Design next year. As far as they are concerned, Law/ Commerce is the only sensible option.

By the time I make it to the East Wing, Room 807 is three-quarters full and alive with the manical buzz of first day catchups. I slink into the classroom and pick a seat near the middle but to the side – the perfect place to not get noticed. There are only so many 'Oh my God, did you hear?' conversations I can tolerate before my internal eye rolling starts to give me a headache.

A guy who looks way too young to be a university lecturer is busily sticking stuff up around the room. Miranda Collins and Chloe Schilz are shamelessly checking out his butt. In the front row, Douglas Chen, Amy Burgess and Jing-Ying Li are already busily typing notes. Everyone knows that one of the three of them will be Dux this year. I don't envy them that pressure.

I'm trying to work out whether I can get away with a short catnap on my desk, when the energy and noise around me go up another level. I glance up to see what all the commotion is about and then wonder why I bothered. The great Travers Riordan has entered on a wave of high fives, fist pumps and back slapping. Praise be to whoever.

Trav Riordan is perfect. And I don't mean that in an 'Oh my God, that boy is so perfect, I wish he was mine' kind of way. I mean it in the decent looks; good grades; House Captain; loved by all and sundry; probably helps little old ladies carry their shopping; kill-me-now-before-I-puke kind of way.

The guy rarely puts a foot wrong. He's nice too which makes it hard to hate him, even when you'd really, really like to.

My mother adores him. Principal Burton is a vocal advocate of Mr Riordan's.

Perfect is so bland don't you think? I mean, sure, Trav is good looking. He's got that whole blond hair, chiselled jaw, freckles across his nose caper down pat. But his pretty lacks true character. No crooked nose or jagged scar to break up his monopoly on boring. Like the rest of him, his features are all just a bit predictable.

Like bananas. Bananas are the Travers Riordan of the fruit world. Golden, stable, full of good energy. A banana will almost never let you down. Even when they go past ripe you can still turn them into banana bread. And who doesn't appreciate banana bread? But no one really craves bananas.

Strawberries on the other hand. Strawberries are fickle little fuckers. A good one is the best. Firm, juicy and full of flavour. But have you ever noticed how many strawberries aren't good? An awful lot them are hard and sour, or mushy and flavourless, or already on their way to mouldy. Yet, we are always willing to give strawberries another chance, because we know how delicious they are when they are on their game.

I aspire to be a strawberry.

Hopefully, not the mouldy kind.

I'm so focused on imagining Trav Riordan as a giant banana that I fail to pay attention to Mr University's introductory spiel. The next thing I know, people are stepping up to the front of the room to pull pieces of paper out of a plastic container.

I make like the crowd and pick one, only to stand there in confusion when all I find scrawled on it is the number seven.

"Are you moving to your spot or not?" Amy Burgess glares at me in impatient disdain.

"Huh?"

"God, Francesca, do you ever pay attention to anything? Number on paper, number on wall. Find number on wall that matches number on paper and go and stand in front of it. Or at least get out of the way so that the rest of us can pick a number."

"Right, okay, sorry."

Sure enough, directly across the room, an orange piece of A4 paper sporting a black '7' is taped to the wall. Mr Banana himself is already standing in front of it.

Please don't let this be a pairs thing.

"Right class, now that you've found your partners, let's get started, shall we?"

Crap, it's a pairs thing.

It turns out that Intro to Business Communications is not about writing good CVs or vaguely threatening debt collection letters.

While Trav and I stand casually (him) yet awkwardly (me) against the wall, Mr University explains our assignment.

"With your partner, I want you to pick a business idea. It can be anything – a product, a service – anything. In a week, you are going to launch it with a marketing campaign. What that campaign looks like is completely up to you. You'll then track how much interest your campaign generates for your 'business' and assess, according to the marketing and business strategy principles we will study together over the coming months, whether your campaign has been successful, and, in turn, what you would do differently if you had your time again. Any questions?"

The room erupts like a volcano spewing teenage noise.

"But Sir, how can we plan a marketing campaign if we know nothing about marketing?"

"Will we be marked on the success of the campaign or the quality of our analysis of its success?"

"Can you pick a real product?"

"Do we have a budget?"

"Are we allowed to make money?"

"Do my parents know about this?"

And so, it goes on – the slightly panicked enquiries of over-achievers who fear not knowing what they are doing.

Every single person in the class pipes up with at least one question. Everyone except Travers. And, of course, me. The two of us silently observe as our classmates lose their tiny minds.

Finally, Trav turns to me with a small smile and utters the four little words that will change everything – irrevocably and forever.

"I have an idea."