I’m home now. I’m not in class. But I need to talk. I’m nervous, Ms Hiller.

It’s the belly-churning, hand-trembling sort of nervousness that even a good book and a peppermint tea can’t fix.

I could call Cleo or Chelsea-Grace, but I don’t want them to know I’m anxious about the date. And Sophie is at Polly’s house.

Mum’s home for once, because Dad’s at a meeting, but she’s buried under piles of law journals and I’m under express instructions not to bother her unless it’s to bring her cheese-and-pickle sandwiches.

So I’m telling you.

I feel as if I have wasps in my belly.

It’s definitely not butterflies. It’s not a fluttery, jittery, light-as-a-feather nervousness. It’s a biting, aching nervousness.

Even though I don’t love or even fancy Brent, I know tonight is going to be a big deal.

If – and I very much doubt this – Brent and I get along well and he asks me out, I’ll— Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, Ms Hiller. Because I don’t like Brent in that way, but I don’t want to upset him if he does like me. And if I turned him down, Cleo and Chelsea-Grace would be so angry . . .

The other scenario – the more likely one – is that Brent doesn’t like me and is only doing this because he’s nice, meaning the whole thing will be awkward and horrible.

I don’t know which possibility scares me more.

All I know is that I’m full of wasps. And all I want is to stay home and hide under the doona until tomorrow.