Saturday 3 September

Formal notes:

•   The table bearing your name-tag may not be the table where you end up sitting.

•   That curious smell is two parts hormones, two parts hairspray and a dash of anticipation.

•   Vegetarians always get a bum deal.

•   Hollywood tape is hazardous.

•   Beware of over-manscaped Basildons bearing gifts.

•   And this one’s important: who you arrive with does not dictate who you leave with.

My table is the best table. It’s the funnest, the most raucous, the best-dressed and the worst-behaved. The Feminist Collective went nuts in the drama department and as a result I am dressed as the lovable Russian Jewish village milkman, Teveye, from Fiddler on the Roof. That is to say, I am wearing baggy pants, a jerkin and a full beard. Lin Barlow is dressed as Kenickie from Grease and she can’t stop leering and grabbing her crotch.

The presentation is supposed to happen after the band, between mains and dessert. Ady and Kate have been hovering around the computer. Theo Ledwidge is there looking officious. He posed for his photo with Iris with the cheesiest smile in the world, and then as soon as the flash disappeared so did his teeth.

Iris looks really pretty, but she also looks really sick, and I know she’s thinking about what’s going to happen. I’m trying to work out what I’m going to say to her. What and where and how.

After I read Iris’s letter I put it back in her journal, so she has no idea that anyone knows anything. I gave Kate and Ady the CliffsNotes version. And we were all quiet for a bit, thinking about it. Thinking that even after what she’s done we can’t completely hate her. I feel sorry for her. I feel a bit responsible, but when I said that to the others they were adamant.

‘This is not a twin thing,’ Ady said. ‘This is on Iris.’

But maybe if I’d been nicer to her. If I’d made more of an effort to include her . . . She’s on Theo’s table, but he’s not there. At the opposite end there are a couple of Basildon boys ignoring her. Iris looks small, and angry, and watchful. Theo has clearly deserted her. Even when the mains are served, he stays AWOL.

I feel like I’ve got eyes everywhere; I’m watching Iris, Theo, Ady, Kate. Cool cryptic texts circulate between me and my thumb compatible comrades. In between OMGs and Soons, and Yassssses! there’s Check Theo’s boys looking so self-congratulatory (Ady), superbia et ante ruinam exaltatur (Kate).

I’m going to say something to Iris, I text.

Make sure she’s watching, Kate replies. Don’t let her leave.

And then I get the text that makes me rise to my feet. ‘IT’S GO-TIME.’

‘Iris. Wait –’ I catch her arm as she’s trying to do a runner, as the first slide comes on, and in the hush that goes with it I feel like my heart might have stopped, just for a sec. Iris tries to pull away but I grip her arm and together we watch PSST’s Top Ten, the flower-bomb version.

I see the PSST page swamped with daisies and tulips and bluebells and roses.

And people are going, What?

And people are going, Awwwwww!

My table are high-fiving and giving up bro-tastic chest-bump action. Theo Ledwidge is trying to get to the computer, but Ady and Max block him with their folded arms. The teachers are streets behind us – trying to figure out what all the commotion is about. And as each post scrolls we know what they’re supposed to say – but with the flowers replacing the offensive words, the display becomes like a surreal, incoherent rebus. It builds and builds, the laughter, the cheering – and it feels like such a win after all the stabs and hits and taps and sluts, and it’s kind of galling, to see just how many flowers appear.

Iris is mesmerised. Then she turns to me. ‘That’s genius.’

‘That’s Kate,’ I say. ‘You were right. She’s the smartest girl in school, and if you think she’s going to want to spend another night sharing a room with you, you’re crazy. We know, Iris. You’re the snitch.’

Her chin starts to wobble. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. She looks up and her eyes are glistening. ‘Are you going to tell the other boarders? Does everyone have to know?’

‘I don’t see how there’s any way out of it.’

‘They’re going to hate me.’

‘Probably.’

Then she looks scared. ‘Are you going to tell Gaffney? The scholarship –’

‘That’s the thing with fall-out – you don’t know how far it will reach.’

She’s getting paler by the second.

I give a philosophical sigh and pat her shoulder. ‘This is probably the worst of it.’

You can pick them off – the Basildons that are involved. You can see them huddling and conferring and looking dark and thwarted. Theo comes up to Iris and grabs her arm and hisses something in her ear. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ she whimpers.

‘Not Iris,’ I say. ‘Kate Turner.’ And Kate’s right near us now, with Oliver. He taps Theo on the shoulder, and when Theo turns, Oliver – mild, straight, music nerd Oliver – punches Theo in the nose. Theo spills across the dance floor and while he’s down, sprawled, glaring up, blood gushing onto his white shirt, Jinx does a neat sidestep over and takes a picture.

Then the screen goes black, the show is over. Iris is looking at Kate but Kate’s shaking her head. Iris runs for the bathroom. Malik is walking over to Theo. Someone puts on ‘I Gotta Feeling’ and everyone rushes the dance floor.

And it’s not just a good night, it’s a GREAT night. It’s almost perfect – there’s only one thing missing. I am literally thinking this as Ben walks through the door. He’s not a bit put off by my beard.