It turns out the local school can take me straight away. So just after eight o’clock Nell drives me up to the main road, where I’ll catch the bus for Ferndean High School. I’m a bag of nerves, and Nell’s mood isn’t helping. A man was supposed to come today to start work on the wood, but he’s cancelled, so Nell’s driving like a maniac, and by the time I get out of the car, I’m feeling sick.

Two girls are at the bus stop already. Neither of them is Flo, though I’m guessing she must go to Ferndean High because it’s the only secondary school for miles. The girls are listening to music, sharing the headphones and singing badly like me and Lexie do. It makes me miss my best friend even more.

The headphone girls notice me watching. They nudge each other. I try to smile. Like the men in the shop, they don’t smile back. My stomach sinks. Please don’t let it be like this all day.

After another few minutes, the school bus arrives. Inside it’s already so rammed the windows have steamed up. The headphone girls sit with their mates who’ve saved them seats. I hang on to the tiny hope that Flo’s already on board, and when she sees me she’ll ask me to sit with her. But there’s no girl in a red coat here. There are no free seats either. People are staring now. I feel my cheeks getting warm.

‘Didn’t know I had an extra one today. You’re new, are you?’ says the driver.

I nod. Everyone else is in blazers and ties. And here’s me in jeans and trainers because it’s all I’ve brought from home. The driver reaches behind him. He pulls down a fold-out seat.

‘Sit here for today,’ he says. ‘And put your belt on.’

The seat is at right angles to everyone else’s, which means I’m in full view of the whole bus.

Great, I think gritting my teeth, just great.

*

Things don’t improve massively when I get to school. In reception a bald-headed man in a tight, shiny suit introduces himself as Mr Jennings, my Head of Year. He gives me a printout of my timetable.

‘Period one is History,’ he says. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you over.’

First, though, he takes me to Lost Property. The cupboard is so big we both stand inside it, which is horrible because it stinks of old PE kit. Plastic boxes labelled ‘coats’, ‘school skirts’, ‘black shoes’ are on every shelf. Mr Jennings reaches into one and pulls out a blazer.

‘Try this.’

I hold it between my fingers.

‘It won’t bite,’ Mr Jennings says.

He also gives me a tie, a shirt and a skirt, which I’m to wear tomorrow. It all smells of someone else. When I get back to Nell’s I’ll have to wash the lot, but for now I stuff it into my bag.

The History block is on the other side of the school. We go down corridors, up stairs, across these funny walkways that link different buildings. The whole place looks like it’s grown over the years, so there’s extra brick bits, glass bits, even a few of those ugly grey huts. It’s nothing like my old school, which is sleek and new and looks like a supermarket.

‘You’re staying at Darkling Cottage, eh?’ Mr Jennings says. ‘Interesting place your grandmother’s got there.’

He’s doing the friendly teacher thing and I suppose it beats making small talk about heart transplants, but only just. I bet he knows what’s happening to the wood. And I bet he’s got an opinion about it too. But he moves on, telling me my lesson ‘buddies’ for the next few weeks will be Max and Ella.

‘They’re great students,’ he says. ‘You’ll probably find you’ve lots in common.’

All I hear is the word ‘weeks’.

*

The class is working quietly when we arrive. As the door opens, everyone looks up. Thirty pairs of eyes fix on me. I feel my palms go damp, and just hope no one here wants to shake hands like Flo did.

Mr Jennings leaves, and the class teacher directs me to a free seat. I’m glad to sit down. There’s a boy on one side of me; on the other side is a girl wearing badges on her blazer.

‘I’m Ella,’ she whispers.

I try to smile.

‘That’s Max.’ She points her pen at the boy next to me, who gives a lazy wave.

I’m passed an exercise book and told to put my name on it. The teacher says her name is Mrs Copeland, and before I’ve even got my pencil case out, the lesson picks up again. With everyone watching the teacher now, I sneak a quick look around for Flo, but there’s no sign of her. She must be in another class.

On the wall there’s a display about the First World War, with old photos and newspaper stories. One picture is of lines and lines of war graves stretching away over the hill into the distance; I can’t believe there’s so many. It’s not like I knew those men or anything, but they were someone’s dad, someone’s brother. It makes me get a lump in my throat.

Meanwhile, Mrs Copeland is still talking.

‘… so our next class project will follow directly. We’ll be exploring the impact of the First World War on normal people’s lives, what happened after the war ended. For your projects, I’d like you each to choose a person who was alive in 1918. No one famous, please – just everyday, normal people. Your focus will be to find out how the end of the war affected their life.’

There’s groaning in the back row, which Mrs Copeland bats away with her hand.

‘Honestly,’ she says. ‘I set you lot an interesting topic, and you’d think I’d asked you to remove your own toenails!’

To be honest, the project sounds better than the Romans, which is what we were doing back home. Ella thinks so too; she’s already got an idea for hers and it’s to do with animals.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ says Max, rolling his eyes.

‘Animals were affected by the war,’ she says. ‘People always forget that.’

‘But the project is meant to be about a person,’ says Max.

‘So?’ Ella shrugs. ‘It can be a person who works with animals, can’t it?’

One of the badges on Ella’s blazer says ‘Rats Have Rights’. The others are of dolphins and elephants. Max sees I’ve noticed.

‘She’s an animal activist, aren’t you, Ella?’ he says and grins at me. I grin back.

‘The word is conservationist, stupid,’ she says, but looks pleased.

‘Better not tell her where you’re staying, Alice, or what your gran’s about to do to those trees of hers,’ Max says.

I stop grinning. These people are such gossips. Is there anyone who actually doesn’t know about Darkling Wood? I stare at my exercise book, wishing we could talk about something else, but Ella’s now trying to read my face.

‘What’s that about trees?’ She’s frowning. Thinking. Then she slaps the table. ‘Not Darkling Wood? Are you staying there? Really?’

She says it so sharply the students in front of us turn and stare. I squirm in my seat.

‘Yes, but only for a bit,’ I say.

‘So your grandmother’s the one who wants to cut down the wood?’

‘She says she has to. The trees are growing too close to the house and it’s unsafe.’

Ella pulls a face and goes quiet. I don’t think she believes me. When the lesson ends, she doesn’t wait for me, either. She’s been told to be my class buddy, but she clearly doesn’t want to be my friend.