There’s a wall by the art rooms, Ms Hiller.

You know the one. Fred mentioned it before. It’s the one the art students use as a graffiti wall. They paint pictures and write motivational quotes on it, and the art teachers clean it back to a blank canvas once a month. I like that idea, Ms Hiller. The idea that every so often your life is wiped clean and you get a chance to create beautiful pictures on it all over again, write a new story of your existence. And I know Fred likes the idea, too. Which is why I took him there. Or, should I say, why we took him there.

It took the four of us, Ms Hiller, to get Fred away from the cider-gum tree and down to the art rooms.

We did it steampunk-style.

Cleo held up the note that I’d written in my best Victorian script.

Gemma blindfolded him.

And Chelsea-Grace whispered sweetly in his ear, ‘I’m not trying to be mean, because it’s just the truth: you’re coming with us. Nice to finally meet you, by the way, Clementine’s boyfriend. You’re actually kind of hot, if weird. Don’t take that the wrong—’

I had to interrupt. ‘Chelsea-Grace? That wasn’t in the script.’

‘Sorry, Clem,’ said Chels.

Before Fred had a chance to protest, I popped a very small, Victorian-era cake into his gaping mouth. And then we led him down to the art rooms.

Luke (Rosalinde’s arty boyfriend) was waiting. ‘I cleaned the wall, like you asked me to,’ he whispered. ‘Good luck, Clem.’

‘We’ll leave you to it now,’ said Gemma, taking Chelsea-Grace by the hand when she looked reluctant to leave.

‘I just have to say, though . . .’ Cleo handed me back the paint tin. ‘If you don’t forgive this girl, Fred, you’re an idiot. She’s Helen of Troy. She’s Boadicea. She’s unsurpassable. She’s phenomenal.’

‘Right,’ said Fred, wiping some crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Cleo winked at me, and the girls ran away together, giggling madly.

Once Fred and I were alone I took his blindfold off gently. He looked at me with a mixture of bemusement and fury.

‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’ he snapped. ‘I didn’t say anything in front of the other girls – because it would have been most ungentlemanly to do so – but I am very affronted by this whole situation. First you kiss the jock—’

‘I never kissed the jock,’ I interrupted. ‘I promise,’ I added. I hoped he could see in my eyes that I was telling the truth. Something in his face softened. And I let myself hope.

‘Brent will back me up,’ I said quickly. ‘Nothing happened. I promise. I really, really promise.’

‘Okay,’ said Fred slowly. ‘I believe you.’

‘Really?’ I asked, daring to let the hope become real.

Fred nodded. ‘I am wondering, however, what the story is with the paint tin.’

‘Sit,’ I said. I set the tin down for a moment and opened my bag. I pulled out my old Décor lunch box, which was filled with Victorian cakes and pastries. Fergus had helped me find the recipes. ‘Eat. And let me do the rest.’

And so, while Fred obligingly took a seat on the art hallway carpet, I opened the paint tin. And I wrote.

You
came from nowhere,
from the mists of time,
and made my life magical.
You
are winter sun,
are rushing wind,
are the smell of cinnamon
and cider gum.
You are newness.
You are life.
You are that thing
that woke me,
that imagined me,
a new Clementine.
You held my hand
as I wrote the first word
of a new story,
Writing Clementine.
You are this wall.
You are these words.
You are an adventure.
You are the first step.

I stopped painting then, Ms Hiller. I turned to Fred. He hadn’t eaten a single cake. I might have been offended, but that smile . . . those dimples . . .

That kiss.

And then he took the paintbrush from my hand and he wrote on the wall, Thank you, and, You’re magical.

And I confess, I kissed him again.

And that’s when we spilled the paint. All over the both of us.