What a weekend I had, Ms Hiller.

It’s so big I’ll have to break it up into several entries. I’ll start with Friday. Because it comes first. And because it was the bad part of the weekend and I want to get the bad part over and done with.

It happened after school. I missed the bus.

Then I missed the second bus, and – as if I’d suddenly fallen into some strange space–time vortex – I somehow, in my flapping panic, managed to miss the third and final bus, too.

How did I achieve this? Even I am not completely sure, Ms Hiller.

In my defence, I don’t often catch the bus. Mostly Dad picks me up. In the olden days of 3CD I’d sometimes walk to Cleo’s house. But Dad is in the middle of an important assignment, and 3CD are, as you know, kaput. So public transport it is. Or would be, if I wasn’t so utterly inept at it.

And so it was that I found myself alone in the ghost town that was the Burnie High car park, cold, hungry and cursing life, the universe and John Greenwood.

He’s the dude who invented buses, Ms Hiller. I googled it.

Anyway, guess who happened to pull up beside me, right at that dark moment, in his bright-red pimped-up Subaru?

If you said it was Fred Paul, you haven’t really been paying attention.

In fact, even if Fred was old enough to have his Ps, I can’t imagine him driving a car. I can imagine him piloting an airship, or pedalling a penny-farthing, or riding in a horse and carriage. But even if he did drive, do you really think he’d be seen dead in a red sportscar?

Of course it was Sam Peterswalds.

He rolled down his electric window and said, ‘Need a lift, Clem?’

And, in a fit of bus-timetable-induced post-traumatic stress – despite all the messages he’d sent, asking if I want to hang out, go to the movies, drink vodkas in his garage, go to the beach, go to heaven in the back seat of his Cadillac (okay I made the last one up) – idiotically, I said yes. Sometimes, when we’re cold and hungry and stressed, the current in the stream seems particularly strong. Sometimes, it carries us away . . .

‘Buckle up, gorgeous,’ Sam said, before reaching over and doing it for me.

‘Thanks. I could have done that myself.’

‘No worries. I’m a gentleman,’ he said.

I almost vomited.

‘So, what’s a sexy girl like you doing all alone in a ghetto like this?’ Sam pressed ‘play’ on his car stereo. Thumping R’n’B blared out, so loudly I thought my eardrums might rupture.

(Down and dirty wid ma bitch in da club, yo, pimpin’ it up ’til the break o’ dawn, yo, went the song. Shakespeare it was not. It was definitely no Jimmy Buffett.)

‘Bit loud, isn’t it?’ I yelled.

( . . . da club, yo . . . ) ‘This shit’s gotta be listened to loud!’ Sam hollered back.

( . . . bitch.)

What a gentleman.

We turned out of the school driveway and onto the Bass Highway. ‘Do you even know where I live?’

‘West Wynyard, baby.’

(How did he know that?)

‘Where do you live?’

I was getting tired of having to yell everything.

‘Ridgley,’ Sam yelled back, oblivious.

‘But that’s in THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION!’ I just about screamed at him.

He seemed to get the message that time. He turned the volume down a bit. ‘That’s okay. We’re not going straight home anyway.’

My palms began to sweat. ‘What?’

He gave me his special smile. The Cheshire Cat one. ‘I thought we might go for a drive. I’ve wanted to hang out with you for ages, Clem. Ever since that night when your mate Chelsea-Grace went mental. And I know you’ve been feeling awkward about it, because of her, but you don’t need to worry. She’s way too immature for me, and besides, she got with that skater fag Kerrard Stead at Dan Francombe’s party, so it’s not like she’s Little Miss Sweet and Innocent. You don’t need to feel bad.’

Sam stopped talking then, and started singing along with the horrible music. He tapped on the steering wheel and nodded his head.

‘Uh, Sam?’

‘Yes, beautiful?’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re taking me home.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Sam?’

No answer.

‘SAM. ARE WE CLEAR?’

He resumed his singing. He was starting to freak me out now. But we were heading towards my place. I told myself to calm down.

A few minutes later, however, he took a turn that was not in the direction of my house. My stomach lurched sickeningly.

I forced myself to speak. ‘Where are we going?’ My voice squeaked. ‘Please, Sam, I don’t . . . I really don’t want to go anywhere with you. I just want to go home. You can drop me in town if you want. I’ll catch a town bus to Wynyard from there.’

‘I told you, it’s okay,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t mind driving you home. And we’re not going far. Just . . . here, in fact.’ He turned the car again, into the street that leads to Cam River Reserve.

‘I don’t want to go to the park, Sam,’ I protested. ‘I need to go—’ I was panicking, Ms Hiller. I was scared. Sam Peterswalds is strong. He plays lots of sport. He has big muscles. And I may not be a fragile waif, but I don’t have muscles. And I can’t run fast, despite Cleo and Chelsea-Grace’s best efforts.

I hated myself for wishing it, but I wanted Fred Paul to arrive at that moment, on a white horse, to save me.

Preferably with a big sword.

I wished I could protect myself. But I wasn’t sure I could.

Sam pulled into the gravel car park and killed the ignition.

My heart was thudding.

I didn’t want to be by the Cam River, pretty as it was. I didn’t want to be anywhere, alone, with Sam Peterswalds. I didn’t want him reaching over and unbuckling my seatbelt – but he did.

‘Sam, I’m not kidding. I want to go home. Please let me go home. My parents are expecting me—’

‘So I’ll come in and tell them I whisked you away and it’s all my fault, and they’ll be won over by how romantic I am. And . . . what’s the word? Lecherous.’

I think he probably meant ‘chivalrous’, but his Freudian slip was much more apt. I would have laughed, if I wasn’t so scared.

‘Come on, Clem. You know you’re hanging out for it. Come on, baby. You know you want me.’ Sam leaned towards me, his face nuzzling into my neck. And then I felt a hot, flicking wetness.

He was licking me.

I was frozen. It didn’t feel real.

He put his lips on my lips, and he pushed his tongue inside.

It was my first kiss, Ms Hiller.

I shoved him away.

‘What the— I know you want it,’ he hissed at me, looking in turn startled and then furious. ‘You fat girls. You’re always desperate for it.’

And Ms Hiller, at that moment, something snapped.

Something inside me went: Enough.

A voice in my head yelled: Are you really going to let him say that, Clementine Darcy? Are you really going to let him do that?

And, from some deep, dark place within me, it came: A long, loud, bloodcurdling scream. Followed by a bite. On his neck. I know! How very Twilight of me!

It turned out that I didn’t need Fred Paul after all. I could protect myself!

‘Ow!’ Sam cried. ‘What the hell? You bitch!’

There was a tap at the window, on my side of the car, and we both jumped. A man was standing outside. ‘Are you okay, love?’ he called through the glass.

I recognised him. Mr Vaskos, the pharmacist from the chemist in Wynyard. He’s Tansy Vaskos’s dad. She does dancing with Cleo.

I pushed the door open, nearly concussing Mr Vaskos in the process, and stumbled out of the car. ‘Take me home, please,’ I begged him.

‘Do you need me to call the police?’ he asked, peering in at Sam. I shook my head violently. He put his arm around me. ‘Hey,’ he said, pointing at Sam. ‘What do you think y—’ Sam had reached over to pull the passenger door shut. He shook his head at me in disgust. Then he hit the accelerator, and sped away.

‘Hey!’ Mr Vaskos yelled, impotently, in his wake.

‘Please just take me home,’ I said quietly.

And so Mr Vaskos drove me to Wynyard, in his white Camry with his beagle in the back, and I cried the whole time, and he didn’t ask me any more questions, which I appreciated. When we pulled into our driveway, though, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m going to have to come in and talk to your parents. You understand that, right?’

I nodded.

Mr Vaskos came inside, and I went to my room, so I didn’t hear what he said to Mum and Dad. After a while, they appeared at my bedroom door.

They sat with me. They didn’t ask me anything. They didn’t prod. They let me cry.

‘Can I come in?’

Sophie sat quietly on the bed beside me. ‘What happened, Clemmie?’

Dad looked at me and I nodded. When he’d finished telling Mr Vaskos’s story, Sophie growled, ‘That little bastard.’

Not Mr Vaskos’s story. My story. Though it didn’t feel like mine at all. It felt as if it had happened to someone else.

‘Are you going to the police?’ Soph asked. ‘Are you going to—’

She was interrupted by the sound of a door, down the hallway, clicking open.

We all fell silent, barely breathing, as we listened to the sound of footsteps, padding towards us up the hallway.

‘Who hurt you?’ asked Fergus.

Dear Clementine,

I was very sorry to hear of your ordeal on Friday night.

I am glad you felt secure enough in this environment to reveal this information to me.

However, I must inform you that I am obliged, in my role as your teacher, to disclose the details of what happened to you on Friday night to the relevant authorities, if you have not done so yourself. Based on what you told me, I think the young man in question did something to you that was very wrong. I think it must be reported. At the very least, he took you somewhere without your consent. And he should not have kissed you without your consent, either. You do know that, Clementine?

Please see me after class or, if you would prefer, simply write me a note.

I am proud of you for having the courage to tell me, and your parents, about this incident.

Ms Hiller