On the Monday, Cleo led me to the group’s new lunch spot, in the quad.

She’d grabbed me by the arm after the bell rang, and I just . . . went.

Like a dead fish.

That day. And the next, and the next . . .

The group has expanded to include Todd and Kerrard, and Rosalinde’s new boyfriend, Luke, an arty type who’s mates with Kerrard. And Brent, who at first I thought was only tagging along with Todd. Except he always seems to sit next to me. And Cleo’s right. He is nice. But he’s not Fred.

Chelsea-Grace has forgiven me. Not that I think I need to be forgiven. Not that anything that happened with Sam was in any way my fault.

What Gemma said to me, in her garden before the ball, was: ‘He’s a creepy sleaze, always preying on the Grade 9 girls. He’s an icky, misogynistic pervert. Anybody can see that. Your friends should have seen that, right back when he first hit on you at that restaurant. They should have known it wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.’

What Chelsea-Grace said was: ‘It’s all over, hon. I forgive you totally. I’m so glad we’re friends again.’

Ms Hiller, I’m glad we’re friends again, but I don’t want to be forgiven. There’s nothing to forgive.

And also, I miss hanging out with Fred, under the cider gum.

I told him that the fight was over. He said, ‘I’ll give you some space, then. To fix things with your friends?’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t prefer to be—’ ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’d prefer that, too. But you need to do this, don’t you?’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘We’ll meet again one day beneath the cider gum,’ he said. And then he kissed me again.

And I don’t know what we are now, Ms Hiller. I don’t know if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. I don’t know if he is writing about me in his exercise book, while I write about him.

I hope so.

I hope that’s the sort of thing he’s writing, at least, Ms Hiller. I hope he’s not writing the sort of words I accidentally saw him write the other day.

I know I can ask him anything, but right now it seems as if everything else in my life is too scary and confusing, and I feel as if I can’t take on any more.

It’s not brave of me, Ms Hiller. It’s nothing like the Clementine I want to be, but I’m going to wait a little while longer before I ask about those words. I want a few more small moments that are only happy.