Sunday 14 August

I wish this change cubicle was a tardis. If it was I would go forward to tomorrow so this day could be over.

Jinx thumps on the door, ‘Clem! Come on!’

There’s nothing I can do. I have to go be a Marlin, loop the loop, in public. My bathers are bifurcating me. I cover myself up with trackies and my bomber, and reluctantly open the door. Jinx does a little dance. I feel numb all over.

When we get to the pool the crowd is already filing in and filling the seats. There must be a thousand people and all the glass and concrete is hurting my head; it’s a prism. I want to die.

Beaz’s face never shows surprise. She nods at me when I come out of the stall, red-faced in my pinchy suit. I see a few looks from the rest of the girls. No one says anything though.

‘Clem, you’re in the third stream. After Jinx.’

I nod but I’m feeling sick. Outside, announcements are happening. There’s applause, and then silence, then we file out. It’s horrible standing out there in front of all those eyes. I remember to breathe, try to grasp some sense of calm. But there are photographers, and smirks, row upon row of death-masked old girls. Special guest singer Deity Haydn-Bell dances in, swinging her hair extensions. She starts to warble; the acoustics are sonic-spectacular and my sick feeling intensifies. At the end of her song, Deity cuts the ribbon and it flutters into the pool. Principal Gaffney gushes, the press take photos. The first Marlin dives and then the next and the next and soon it will be my turn.

On the block there’s a roaring in my head. I pinch my arm but my skin feels like rubber. The water’s so very blue. The trail of bubbles from Jinx is fast disappearing. A voice hisses, ‘Clem, GO!’ But I can’t seem to move. I’ve broken the loop and it’s obvious. I look up. Faces blur. Everything blurs. I feel a shove on my back. I suck air and smack water. I swim, but not in the direction anyone’s expecting. I do a dog-leg to the ladder and climb up and out. And then I run. I am cold but I am on fire. I bolt the length of the pool, past the crowd, who are all staring at me and not the elegant athletic display that I’ve just wrecked. I run outside to the quadrangle, smack into the non-choreographed heart of the Year 7’s silent disco. Fifty kids, wearing headphones and spandex, shaking like maniacs, inadvertently blocking me. I stop and sink onto the asphalt. Mini disco divas circle me, dancing and staring with serious faces.

Firm hands pull me to my feet. Kate and Ady half-guide, half-shove me out of the disco mob towards the old building. The reception is empty. We pad down the hall with its ancient plaques and photographs, into the Oak Parlour, the Wellness room, but there isn’t a beanbag in sight. It’s set up with refreshments – cakes, pastries, fruit and cheese. Ady closes the door and it’s like the outside world has evaporated. For a few seconds all we do is look at each other. The muffled quiet of the room makes it feel like a compression chamber.

Then Kate plucks a lemon tart off the table and polishes it off in one mouthful. Ady finds a plate and starts cruising the table, making selections. She presents it to me.

‘You’ve had a shock. You need sugar.’

The tart is sublime, and so is the brownie. The almond croissant is perfectly flaky. I don’t feel numb anymore. I don’t even feel cold. The sugar rush is making me giggle. I pull off my swim cap and slingshot it across the carpet. We start laughing – we laugh for ages. It’s not that funny, and yet . . . it’s something. Something unexpected.

When we’re stuffed full, Ady sits at one end of the window seat and I sit at the other. Kate takes the piano stool, tinkles the keys.

Ady looks around. ‘It feels wrong without the beanbags.’

‘Do you think Malik was at the pool?’ I can’t bear to think of him seeing me like that.

‘What happened, Clem?’ Ady asks.

‘I don’t know. I just . . . I couldn’t stand it. Everyone watching.’ I stare down at my bathers. ‘This stupid suit.’

Ady looks around. She picks up the piano cover and drapes it across my shoulders like a cape. I hold it out to read the school motto: Orta recens quam pura nites.

‘Newly risen, how brightly you shine.’ Kate translates.

‘So, so bright,’ I say sigh. ‘I fucked up.’

‘Do you care?’

I think about it. ‘No.’ I feel strangely light at this admission. ‘I really don’t. I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of all of it. I’d happily go back to my last school. Any school.’

Kate says, ‘There are good things about St Hilda’s.’

‘Like what?’

‘More opportunity. At my last school most of the students had dropped out by Year 10, so they can help on the farm or do some apprenticeship. No one goes anywhere.’

‘Wake up and smell the privilege!’ It’s one of Jinx’s sayings.

‘My mum went here,’ Ady says. ‘Her mum too. They both married Basildon boys.’

I look at Ady, think about her photo-perfect Basildon boyfriend.

‘Are you going to keep the tradition?’

Ady doesn’t answer. She pops some brownie in her mouth.

And then I hear myself say, ‘What’s it like?’

The question hangs in the air.

Ady’s face shifts. ‘What makes you think I know?’

I shrug.

‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ Ady says softly.

I feel chastised, but also disappointed. I’m desperate for tips, advice, strategy. I used to get all my information from Iris but I’m not going there with this. The other night I googled ‘first time sex’ and saw some things I can’t un-see.

‘Fucking PSST,’ Ady says.

‘I hate that site.’ Kate thumps the ominous lower keys, playing monster music.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You think we can count this as our second social outing, for Malik?’

Ady groans loudly and I laugh like a seal. Kate’s monster music morphs into ragtime. I guess we go a bit delirious. In all our scoffing and scrambling, we don’t notice the door opening until it’s too late. Principal Gaffney and Deity Haydn-Bell enter laughing, but their laughter turns to shocked silence. Gaffa serves us her steeliest stare.

‘Girls!’ Her voice sounds demonic. ‘WHAT is going on?’

Kate, Ady and I freeze. We have violated the green room and decimated the dainties. I’m wearing a piano cover and dripping water on the carpet. I glance at Ady. Her lips are pressed tight together and her shoulders tremble with impending laughter. It’s because Kate’s still eating the brie. We are deeply fucked.