The school bell was no longer ringing and all the blue uniforms had vanished, as though they'd been vacuumed up while I glanced the other way. As though everything had fast-forwarded five minutes without me.

"Yo, Lou!" a voice shouted from across the street. Dazed, I turned. A girl from my year, mounds of blonde hair and heavy eye makeup, waved in my direction. I'd sat next to her in assembly yesterday. Or last week if you're counting the six missing days.

She finished waving and disappeared behind the bush of someone's front garden. A few seconds later, something hurtled through the air. I ducked to avoid the empty can, but it struck my shoulder.

"What's wrong with you?" I shouted. I brushed off my coat and before Blondie could attack me again, hurried through the courtyard towards the glass building on the left. As I climbed the suspended wooden stairs to my form room, my mobile vibrated. I stopped and leaned up against the wall. My phone showed one new text message from my brother:

Sorry 4 yesterday. Hurricane Lucy. Please Explain.

Confusion swept through me. If Josh had something to do with this, I was going to kill him. I fumbled to dial his number. My eyes shifted across the corridor and the stairwell searching for cameras, in case I was being filmed and this was some kind of You've Been Framed gig. Josh's phone rang and rang until his voicemail clicked in.

"Louise?" Mrs. Bell, my form teacher clacked up the stairs towards me, wide brown eyes blinking behind enormous glasses. I cut off my brother's voice message and hid my phone. "Why aren't you in registration? Come on, hurry up."

I followed Mrs. Bell towards the roar of noise at the end of the corridor. The classroom shushed as we entered. I squeezed into my desk beside Chrissy. We were alphabetically seated so Chrissy and I had been sitting next to each other in registration since our first year at East Hill. When our eyes met, hate shot out of her and pierced right through me. There was hurt too. But mostly hate.

My stomach shriveled, and my pulse flapped like a tiny fish out of water. What could I have done to make her look at me like that? Was Mum right? Had I been acting like a lunatic?

When I was six, I fell face-first out of a tree—actually I jumped—but I hadn't expected to hit the ground. My left cheek swelled up, I bruised the whole side of my body and broke my wrist. But it was the moment of impact that really shook me. Not simply the pain, though it hurt like hell, but the realization my fairy wings hadn't worked. Chrissy's expression left me feeling the same way now. I always thought if something terrible happened, she'd catch me.

"Chrissy..." She took no notice. "Chrissy..."

Two rows behind us, Leah whispered to Toya as Mrs. Bell called names on the register. Toya stifled a laugh, and then my phone vibrated. I held it under the desk to see the message they'd posted to our WhatsApp group:

You deserve it. You're a fake.

Flushing, I peeled off my coat, trying to keep my movements small so as not to attract attention. My phone vibrated again. I put it away and squinted sideways, hoping to make eye contact with Rana. I had to ask her about Friday night.

Rana was sitting in the third row on the right. Sarah and Kate sat in front of her. Occasionally, Sarah and Kate came out with the five of us, and though not part of our group, we were friends. When they saw me turning around, they covered their mouths with their hands and leaned into each other, grinning.

This couldn't be happening. It had to be one of those paranoid dreams. One of those nightmares where you realize you're standing half-dressed in the middle of a busy street, or all your teeth are falling out, or everyone is trying to kill you. A vivid, detailed dream, where all my friends despised me and my Mum wanted to take me to see Dr. Fleisher. A total freaking nightmare.

Breathing hard, I got to my feet. Mrs. Bell looked up from the register.

"Louise?" she said, pushing her gigantic glasses up her nose. "Sit down." I clutched my bag, wobbled to the classroom door, and walked out. "Louise Doors!"

I jogged through the corridor and took the stairs to the basement. The only time I'd ever been in the basement toilets two cubicles were sealed up and it smelled like the cleaners had abandoned the place. Hardly anyone went there.

I locked myself in a cubicle, pulled down the lid of the seat, and checked for pee. Then I hung my school bag and coat on the lopsided hook and perched on the seat with my legs scrunched up so no one would know I was there.

Grime and graffiti competed for precedence on the walls. A powerful odor of rotting drains made my head spin and my stomach clench. I wrapped my arms around my legs and held my mobile in both hands. I stared at the photo of me in a jumpsuit. Leah hadn't sent the second message, after all. It was from some recent entry in my contact list called DYLAN.

I've got 'the letter'. Rendezvous for exchange: noon.

According to my phone, I sent DYLAN a text yesterday, asking him to meet me in McDonald's, and another one four days ago telling him to come and pick me up. But I didn't know anyone called Dylan.

The squeaky flip door to the toilets banged open. Boots tapped across the linoleum tiles. I sat very still. Someone knocked three times on my cubicle door.

"Lou, are you in there?"

Who was that?

I put down my legs and peered underneath. Cowboy boots and shiny blue tights stood cut off from their owner's body.

"Sorry about the Coke can," the girl said. "I didn't mean to hit you. I just thought we could bunk off together. But you ran away." She paused. "You're not upset with me, are you? Lou?"

When I didn't answer, the boots clicked away. There came the sound of a tap running, followed by a zip opening or closing. "Leah looked like she was on the rampage this morning. I guess the last thing you needed was someone knocking you out with flying objects. Hey, I'll give you a makeover if you say you're not mad at me."

I unlocked the door. Blondie was leaning against a sink by the mirror fiddling with a giant transparent makeup bag. She put it down as soon as she saw me.

"You look terrible. Are you okay?"

I shrugged. "I'm in the middle of a complicated nightmare."

She laughed. "I'm in everybody's nightmares. Especially my mum's. I should have known something bad had happened when I saw you zoning out at the gates. What's going on?"

"I'm not sure."

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but you mustn't let Leah get to you." Blondie waved me towards her. "Come here."

I walked towards the mirror, keeping a close eye on her reflection. I tried to think of one thing I knew about this girl who I'd been at school with for four years. We had two classes together, but I couldn't come up with a name. Each year had ninety girls divided into three forms. Our forms didn't mix until last year when the school split us up according to GCSE options. There were at least thirty girls in our year whose names I didn't know. Another six hundred pupils at East Hill whose names I would never know.

The only ones you heard about were either really popular, really talented (poetry prizes and end-of-year drama plays) or really different—bullies, models, or one girl in our year who was sort of an autistic genius. In my case, I wasn't really anything. Blondie and I were part of the vast Anonymity. I had a vague sense she used to be friends with Sandra who now not so secretly dated a girl in the year below.

Blondie squeezed foundation on to the soft pad of skin beneath her thumb and mixed it with a slightly lighter color. Then she began applying it to my face.

I must have looked surprised because she stopped. "You can do it yourself if you want to."

I shook my head, closed my eyes, and breathed out slowly. It was comforting, what with everything that was happening, to have someone try to fix me. Even if under the circumstances makeup was an utter waste of time. This was a dream. I didn't need to look good. I needed to wake up. Maybe it was still last night. Maybe I'd passed out, and I was asleep in the middle of the high street.

"Do you want me to do your mascara?" I nodded, sneaking a glance at Blondie as she took mascara from her makeup bag. Then I raised my eyes to the false ceiling. Two warped, polystyrene squares buckled out, ready to fall. "Much better," she said. She dabbed on some lipstick without asking and then gave me a silver hairband. "For your hair."

"My hair's too short."

Blondie put her hands on my shoulders and turned me around. She pulled out a brush. "So how are things going with Dylan?" she asked, fixing the limp mess into a ponytail.

"Dylan?" I echoed. How did she know about the Dylan on my phone? I raised a hand to pull out the ponytail, but she slapped my wrist.

"Trust me," she said. "You look good."

"Chrissy isn't talking to me."

"The more you let them see they're getting to you, the worse it'll be." I wondered why when everyone else was being so horrible Blondie was being nice. "Hey," she continued. "We should do something tomorrow night. I'll cheer you up. We could make popcorn and watch a film. Or we could go to my local pub—they always serve me—or the cinema or something."

"I think I'm free."

The first-period bell rang. It was loud enough in the echo of the basement toilets to warrant covering my ears with my hands. I didn't. I stood there hoping the ringing was my alarm clock, and it would wake me up.

It stopped.

I hadn't woken.

I stared at Blondie, the horror building in me. Why wasn't I waking? Why, when I closed my eyes, did I keep see some guy leaning over my face, asking, Can you hear me?

Blondie hooked her denim bag onto her shoulder. "What's the matter?"

"Techniques for waking up from a bad dream. Any ideas?"

"Cold water; a hard slap; falling from somewhere high where you'd die if you hit the ground."

"Not sure about suicide. Let's try the slap."

"You want me to hit you?"

"Go for it. Hard."

"No!" She giggled, but I could see her squirming at the request. "Come on, we've got history."

"Cold water then."

"But I just did your face."

I rushed to the sink, turned on the tap, and cupped icy water in my hands. I threw it at my cheeks, hoping to shock myself. Air shot from my chest, but once the shock was over, I was still standing there. "Throw it on the back of my neck!"

She came over and hesitated, before batting the freezing stream of water at my neck. It went all over my jumper. I let out a squeal. "It's so cold!"

"Better?"

I shook my head.

"Come on," she said, turning off the tap. "It's just school. You'll survive." She ventured into the cubicle and collected my bag. Then putting her arm around me, she led me out of the basement toilets.

* * *

Double history was in one of the modern classrooms above the new theater. Usually, I sat with Leah, Chrissy, and Toya, two in front and two behind. Rana didn't take GCSE history.

I entered to find them at the front in the middle where the desks were grouped in threes. The blatant ostracism didn't make any sense. It was what they'd have done when we were thirteen. They would never do that now. As I scooted past, Chrissy ducked her head and pretended to check her phone.

Leah nudged Toya. Toya giggled. "She's all wet."

"Nice makeover," Leah said. "The clown eyes detract from the rest of your face."

Chrissy glanced up, saw me, and dropped her gaze. Sometimes dreams felt so real, I'd remember a snatch of one and think it was a memory. I kept telling myself this, but a part of me didn't really believe I was dreaming. Deep down I was thinking I had to have done something seriously awful to earn this kind of treatment, and for Chrissy to not stick up for me.

I took a seat in the back row next to Blondie. It was as far from them as I could get. I texted Rana rather than using our WhatsApp group.

U still talking to me?

Mr. Simon, our history teacher, arrived, asking for quiet. He closed the classroom door. "Come on, girls. Get out your books. Chapter Four. You've all read it for homework."

Rana replied straight away.

Course! Are you okay?

I straightened my shoulders. Thank God one of my friends didn't hate me. I got out my math book and put it on my desk. I covered it with my math notebook, which was blue and would hopefully be mistaken for my history book. I hadn't had time to change any books from my school desk before walking out of registration. Blondie slid her textbook towards the split in our tables so we could share. The name on her notebook said Candice Flow. Candice Flow. How had she remained anonymous at school with a name like that?

"Okay," Mr. Simon said. "Hitler's aims. We've looked at his determination to abolish the Treaty of Versailles, which was a constant reminder to the German population of their humiliation in World War I, and also left them in a state of severe poverty. Now let's consider his goal to expand German territory."

As Mr. Simon turned and wrote on the board, I texted Rana back:

What is going on? Why is Chrissy ignoring me?

"The Aryan Race was the most important goal of the Nazis. Hitler preached the blonde-haired, blue-eyed supermen and women were genetically superior and destined to rule over everyone else."

I looked at Mr. Simon as he talked but couldn't concentrate on his words. Notes flew back and forth between Leah, Chrissy, and Toya. Leah turned in her seat from time to time just so I knew they were writing about me. I got another text from Rana:

Defend yourself. Explain to Chrissy why you went to Luke's on Tuesday.

Luke's on Tuesday? That couldn't be right. I know I didn't remember what I'd done on Tuesday, but I'd never go around to Luke's house. Particularly after what happened on Friday night.

I shut my eyes. The boy with brown hair and the crooked nose stuck his fingers in my mouth. I let out a choking gurgle. Candice nudged me. Ignoring her, I dug my thumbs into my temples and shaded my face with my hands.

Nearby scratching caught my attention. Two girls were pulling down the classroom blinds. The overhead light went out, and Mr. Simon switched on the projector.

"First," he said, "the party needed propaganda to prove all other races were inferior. Propaganda is a message aimed at influencing people's behavior and opinions. Let's have a look."

Slides of old 1930s and '40s paintings lit the darkness. Hitler sowing the 'seeds of peace' with an angel blowing a trumpet, wings spread up in triumph behind him. A Jewish man begging for money with one hand, a whip in the other.

I hadn't learned any of this yet. The old poster slides and the Treaty of Versailles and Luke's house on Tuesday—this was really happening.

Mr. Simon's voice grew distant, words running together in a burble of sound. The slides moved on to Nazi experiments. I hunched forward over my desk, hoping the blood would run back to my head.

Leah's hand shot up. "Are you sure you should show us these, sir? One or two members of the class are psychologically fragile. Already in serious need of therapy." She turned and pointedly stared at me, accompanied by stifled sniggers from Toya.

Mr. Simon clicked the projector. A blank white screen glowed across our faces. He walked over to the overhead light and hit the switch. I fumbled to sit up as his eyes came to rest on me.

"Are you all right, Louise?"

"I think I've got the flu."

"You'd better go to the nurse then." He took a red slip from his bag, signed it, and held it out. I blundered to hide my phone in my bag. Then I took my books and retrieved the note.

Once I'd left the classroom and stood reeling in the corridor, I heard him growl, "Get out, Leah." The class fell silent. Though in his thirties, Mr. Simon was generally considered a dude. His lessons were casual. He liked to provoke debate and rarely made us copy his notes on the board. He never excluded people from class.

"I said, get out."

In my mind, I imagined Leah gathering her stuff and moving to the door. Almost tripping over myself, I tottered away. But Leah caught up with me.

"You're such a freak, Doors," she said, thrusting her elbow into my back as she passed. "At last everyone else can see the truth. The closet nut-case is out of the closet."

END OF SAMPLE