The first spitball landed on Justin’s head at 9.47 am.

Can you remember your first day of school? Did you feel nervous? Anxious? Terrified? If so, congratulations! That means you're a fully functioning human being. That feeling – of being totally, utterly, gut-wrenchingly unprepared – is perfectly normal. We feel it when we’re born, we feel it when we start school, and it’s safe to say that adults feel it, too. The truth is, nobody in the history of the world has ever actually been ready for anything. Kids, queens, and presidents; they all just turn up and hope for the best.

Justin Monaghetti turned up to Mount Willow Secondary School hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

KEEP OFF THE LAWN, said a sign on the gate.

KEEP OFF THE GATE, said a sign on the lawn.

Justin felt a knot in his stomach. He waved his parents goodbye, adjusted his German underpants, and joined the throng of students swarming towards assembly.

As he walked, Justin scanned the faces around him. He didn’t recognise anyone. His only friend from primary school was going to Pine Valley High. Justin had tried desperately to enrol there, but the lady on the phone had told him his house was ‘outside the catchment zone’. Justin had fought back tears and said her heart was outside the catchment zone, at which point she’d hung up on him.

Justin arrived at the school hall. He took a breath, pushed the door open, and nearly burst an eardrum.

Seven hundred high-school students are loud enough at the best of times, let alone when they’re all talking over each other in a cavernous hall. The noise was deafening; Justin felt like he’d stumbled straight onto an airport runway. He stepped down the aisle with his fingers in his ears, as seven hundred jumbo jets roared all around him.

The Year Sevens were sitting up the front. Justin perched himself on a seat, trying to blend in with the crowd. So far, so good. If blending in was an Olympic sport, Justin Monaghetti would have won gold. He took comfort from this. Even at primary school, when kids called him names, they tended to go with ‘Justin Mona-spaghetti’, or other equally idiotic options. They never made fun of his face though – it had, as far as he could tell, no distinguishing features. Dark brown hair, light brown eyes. If pushed, you could say his nose was a tiny bit big, but apart from that Justin’s face was practically insult-proof. Which suited him fine.

The jumbo jets gradually stopped roaring as a thin, long-legged, pointy-faced man marched onto the stage. He looked like he’d been created entirely out of straight lines; there wasn’t a curve to be seen.

‘Welcome, students,’ he boomed into the microphone. ‘And may I say a particular welcome to all our new students in Year Seven. Let’s give them a thunderous Mount Willow round of applause.’

A half-hearted smattering of applause echoed around the hall. It didn’t feel very welcoming to Justin.

‘For those unaware, my name is Dr Featherstone. For those unaware, I am your principal. And for those unaware, you are very lucky to have me at this school.’

Justin heard a groan coming from the older students behind him. He suspected Dr Featherstone had delivered this speech before.

‘I arrived here ten years ago to find this school in ruins. Weak, malnourished students. Tired, crumbling facilities. But did I run?’

He paused for effect, then repeated his question. ‘Did I run?’

Several hundred voices responded, ‘No’.

Featherstone continued. ‘Did I hide?’

‘No,’ groaned the students.

‘That’s right. I got to work. I saw problems, and I fixed them. And in a few short years, what did I do?’

‘You turned this school around,’ replied every student in the hall – except the Year Sevens, who didn’t know the script yet.

‘I TURNED THIS SCHOOL AROUND!’ bellowed Featherstone, jabbing a pointy finger in the air for effect. ‘From chaos to order. From disarray to discipline. Within three years of my arrival we had a brand new gymnasium, a brand new swimming pool, and a brand new tennis court. Of course, it wasn’t easy. It took courage, and tough decisions. But I fought for Mount Willow – and I am rewarded every day when I see the happy, smiling faces of my students.’

Justin glanced back at the haunted, miserable faces of the students behind him.

‘Under your seats,’ continued Featherstone, ‘you will each find a copy of the Mount Willow Secondary School Student Handbook, which sets out the rules and expectations for each and every one of you. I encourage our newest students to learn it back to front. Stick to the rules, stay out of trouble, and your time at this school will run like clockwork.’

The jet engines roared again as seven hundred students hauled their handbooks from under their seats. Justin flicked his open.

RULE 23: Students are to remain at their desks during class unless otherwise instructed.

He flicked to another page.

RULE 57: In summer, socks are to be worn no lower than 10 cm beneath the kneecap.

That rule had another one below it:

RULE 57 (b): Rule 57 does not apply during swimming lessons, or to amputees.

Justin peered around. Most of the other kids had already lost interest, but he did notice one thuggish Year Seven boy tearing pages out of his handbook and stuffing them into his mouth. Justin was fairly sure there’d be a rule against that.

Before we continue, if you have a spare piece of paper handy, tear off a small strip and place it in your mouth. A page from any school book will do, unless you do your reading on an iPad – in which case, ask your parents for the iPad receipt and use that instead. Now, chew the piece of paper over and over until it’s a small ball, and then – when nobody’s looking – spit it as far as you can. How far did it go? Forty centimetres? Fifty? Suffice to say, projecting a spitball three metres across a classroom is a pretty impressive effort.

At 9.39 am, Justin took a seat in Class 7G and looked around the room. A plastic clock hung limply on the wall. The thuggish boy who’d been eating his handbook was sitting exactly three metres behind him.

Justin opened his bag, arranged his highlighters on his desk, then placed his wooden pawn next to them for good luck.

Around him, other students were choosing their seats. A curly-haired boy with glasses smiled at Justin from across the aisle. Justin smiled back.

High school had officially started.

Now he just had to survive his first class, join the Chess Club, make some friends, and prove to his parents that he wasn’t, in fact, a loser.

At 9.45 am, a young woman bounded into the classroom with a smile. She looked half as old as Dr Featherstone, with twice as much energy.

‘Good morning, Class 7G! The G stands for me – Miss Granger – and I’m super excited to be your teacher this year. Although I hope you’ll think of me more as a friend than a teacher.’ She beamed. ‘Hands up if you’d like a jelly snake?’

Hands shot up around the classroom amid general agreement that Miss Granger was The Best Teacher in the World.

‘First things first,’ said Miss Granger, dropping a jelly snake on each desk. ‘I want this classroom to be a happy place for all. That means we support each other, care for each other, and respect each other.’

For the first time that morning, Justin felt himself relaxing.

Three seconds later, he felt the first spitball hit the back of his neck.

Miss Granger continued. ‘High school can be challenging, but my class is your sanctuary.’

Two more spitballs hit Justin in quick succession. He wanted to brush them away, but his arms wouldn’t move. He felt paralysed.

‘Now, before I forget, you all need to sign up for your compulsory extracurricular activities. These will take place on a Wednesday. There’s a form on the back page of your student handbook, so please have a look and fill out your preferences.’

Another spitball landed. This one felt bigger. Justin clenched his teeth as Miss Granger’s voice faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of his heart pounding.

He had no idea how to respond.

He could turn around, but then he’d risk copping a spitball in the eye. He could tell Miss Granger, but no-one liked a dobber. Or he could stay completely frozen, keep his head down, and confront the awful possibility that his parents were right. Perhaps he was a loser, after all.

‘You’re a genius,’ whispered a voice beside him.

Justin looked up to find a girl sitting at a desk. Which was quite odd, as he was fairly certain there hadn’t been a girl there only moments earlier. Or, for that matter, a desk.

‘Pardon?’

‘Ignoring the spitballs. Brilliant move. Your enemy wants a reaction, but if you don’t respond, he has no power.’

Oh dear, thought Justin. She’s mistaken my existential crisis for a gifted battle plan.

The girl gave him a reassuring smile. She had bright eyes, freckled cheeks, and a cluster of thick, dark curls that were treating their single hair tie with very little respect.

‘Of course,’ she continued with a grin, ‘I could always punch him for you.’

‘I’m not really into fighting,’ said Justin, wincing as another spitball hit its target.

‘Fair enough. Good luck, Gandhi.’

Justin looked confused. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Gandhi was a famous leader who practised non-violence.’

Justin laughed nervously. ‘Did it work?’

‘Yep,’ said the girl. ‘Until he got assassinated.’

Another spitball hit Justin.

‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you.’ With this, the girl brushed a curl aside, picked up her entire desk, and shuffled it forward thirty centimetres.

‘What are you doing?’ whispered Justin.

‘I’m leaving,’ she replied.

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want to be here.’

Justin couldn’t fault her logic. His head was covered in a stranger’s saliva; he didn’t want to be there either. But he also didn’t want to be in detention, which was almost certainly where this curious girl was headed.

‘But … isn’t it against the rules to leave class?’ whispered Justin. It was an exceptionally uncool question, and he instantly regretted asking it.

‘Nope!’ said the girl, holding up her handbook. ‘Rule 23 says we have to remain at our desks during class. But it doesn’t say where the desk has to be.’

Justin opened his mouth, then closed it. She had a point. She also cared about the rules, which made him feel better about his last question. Sadly, his first potential friend was already heading for the exit.

‘Where are you planning to go?’ He was stalling for time.

‘Maybe Canada. Or Spain. Or Russia. I’ll discuss it with my desk and get back to you.’

With this, she picked up her desk again, waited until Miss Granger had her back turned, then shuffled it forward. Justin ran through a list of things to say – anything to keep the conversation going. Ideally something smart, funny and endearing.

‘I’m not a loser,’ he blurted out.

His cheeks grew red. That hadn’t been on his list.

The girl turned back and grinned at him as another curl escaped. ‘I know that. There’s only one loser in this classroom, and he’s running out of paper.’

With that, she slid her desk towards the classroom door, nudged it open, and slipped outside. Justin wanted to follow her. He wanted to know her name. But his train of thought was interrupted by the latest sphere of spit, which had now grown to the size of a tennis ball.

On closer inspection, it was a tennis ball.

It bounced straight off Justin’s desk, hit the whiteboard, then ricocheted back towards him. Justin ducked to avoid it, lost his balance, and toppled backwards onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. The class erupted in laughter. Justin twisted around to spot the culprit, and recognised him as the rule-eating thug from assembly.

He was sprawled in the back row, chair leaning against the wall, socks bunched around his ankles (a clear breach of Rule 57), with a can of deodorant sitting on his desk for no apparent reason. He had short hair drowning in shiny gel, and his face consisted almost entirely of a giant smirk. There were other bits too – nose, eyes, cheeks, and so on – but the smirk took centre stage.

‘Would you care to explain what just happened?’ asked Miss Granger, peering down at Justin.

No-one liked a dobber, but Justin was very much out of options. He kept his voice down and hoped the rest of the class wouldn’t hear.

‘That boy threw a ball at me,’ he whispered, pointing to The Smirk.

Miss Granger glanced up and called towards the back of the room. ‘Wade Turner. Did you throw this ball?’

‘Nah, Miss,’ said Wade. ‘I’ve just been sitting here fillin’ out me preferences and stuff.’ He held up the tattered remains of his handbook. Miss Granger sighed. She glanced at the wooden pawn on Justin’s desk, then crouched down beside him.

‘I’m sorry to do this, but the principal expects us to set an example on our first day. And you’re no longer sitting at your desk, which means you’re in breach of Rule 23, so I’m going to have to give you a detention.’

Justin opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Wade Turner’s voice filled the silence.

‘Detention on day one. What a loser!’