‘Hello, Kezia. How are you?’ Susan says, sounding like an adult again.

Kez looks right through her as if she isn’t there and then says to me, ‘I see you’re developing a better class of friends, Bell.’ She pronounces ‘class’ with a long ‘a’ – clahss – like Susan does. It’s a deliberate dig. I answer this with a shrug.

Susan blinks with surprise at this unprovoked attack. Kez has spotted Susan’s discomfort like a lioness spots a nervous gazelle.

‘Y’know, Kez, I’m in a hurry so …’ I say, and start to move off. Kez steps casually in front of us, blocking our path, but making it look natural.

‘Oh, I say! Are you indeed! Are you going to a luncheon pah-teh!’

I don’t know why I do the next thing: a thing that changes everything. Well, actually I do: self-preservation.

I laugh.

I know, I know. You’re going to hate me, aren’t you? But you don’t know Kez Becker. It’s best staying on her right side and sometimes, in order to do that, you have to make harsh choices. And so I laugh at Kez’s ridiculous posh-voice mockery of Susan. Then, to make it worse, I add something of my own.

‘Followed by a piccolo lesson?’ And as the words pass my lips I feel wretched and guilty and immediately want to take them back, but it’s too late: I have sided with Kez. Quickly, I add a forced ‘ha ha!’ as insurance because I know that in a few seconds I’ll have to say, ‘It was a joke, Susan!’

Susan stops, right there in the street, and, ignoring Kez completely, turns full-on to me, blinking in hurt and surprise. She is actually stammering, she’s so upset. Her mouth quivers. ‘You … you know your problem, Malky Bell?’

I find myself going on the offensive, even though I realise I have hurt her. ‘No, Susan Tenzin. What is my problem?’ My tone is sullen and defiant.

‘You’re a snob.’

Well, that takes me by surprise.

‘I’m a snob? What – says the posh girl who plays the piccolo, who has a massive garden?’

‘Exactly. You have just proved it. You look down on me because of my background, because of who I am, and because of how I speak! None of that has anything to do with who I am, but you have decided you are better than me. Isn’t that exactly what being a snob is?’

I was angry at Susan, but I hadn’t wanted to upset her. ‘I don’t think I’m better than you.’

‘Yes, you jolly well do! You make jokes about my accent, you think that I live in a nice house and that I assume you are inferior, when all I have done is try to be friendly. You’re even ashamed to be seen getting out of my car. You have no idea, Malky, how many people at school are like you. Ooh, look at her, little Miss Perfect! Talk about judging people! So what do I do? I do what my daddy says: I keep my head down, I work hard and I join things. Orchestra, library club, COMMS – anything. I thought you were different, Malky. I really did. I thought we were friends. But you are not: you are just as snobbish as all the rest and I hate you!’

Her volume has not increased while saying this, and in fact the last bit is almost whispered. But I can see her eyes are wet. I wish I could take back what I said. I really didn’t mean to hurt her.

Just five minutes earlier I loved the way she hung on to every word I said.

‘I … I was only joking,’ I murmur.

‘There is something you are keeping quiet, Malky Bell. I thought you were going to tell me back then, I thought you trusted me, but you know what? I am not even interested any more. And as for your dreams? You are not the only one that can do it, you know. You are not all that special.’

I don’t have a chance to apologise, because she turns and runs across the road and down the back lane in the direction of her street.

Kez and I watch her go. Then Kez tuts.

‘Posh lasses, man Bell. Nowt but trouble. What was all that about dreams, anyway?’

‘Oh, nothing. She’s nuts.’

I’m about to walk away when Kez says, ‘Hold on. Have you thought any more about my Halloween Challenge? Only I’ve come up with some refinements, and …’ I interrupt her.

‘No, Kez. I haven’t. I think it’s a horrible idea!’

Where was that courage two minutes ago when I should have stood up for Susan Tenzin?

Kez takes a step closer and takes her hands out of her pockets. ‘You’re just chicken, aren’t you, Bell?’ She starts to flap her arms, chicken-style, when there’s the deep grumble of a motorbike engine behind us and we both leap out of the way. The motorbike pulls to a sudden halt between us and the rider lifts up the visor helmet.

Kez’s dad nods at me, then says, ‘There you are, Kezia! Your mum’s calling you. I’m going up the coast.’ He waits. Kezia doesn’t move. ‘Now, Kez. Off you go. Chop chop.’

It’s the distraction I need. As Kez’s dad twists his wrist and the bike moves off, growling, along Front Street, I walk away quickly in the same direction that Susan went. Kez is left standing in front of the shop window, looking furious, with a stone angel peeping over her shoulder.

Then her expression changes to a smirk and she makes the chicken-arms again.

I trudge home. Nice one, Malky, I think, bitterly. I seem to be losing control of everything in my life and it is not even lunchtime.

Roll on bedtime, I say.