Mid-morning on Monday, I have a counselling appointment with Freya.

If you have a ‘pastoral appointment’ – that’s what they call stuff like counselling sessions – you’re allowed to miss part of your lesson to attend.

Luckily for me I get to skive off most of double maths, and even better, all my mates are in a lower set and in other lessons. So it should be easy to slip into Freya’s office unnoticed.

I think about Linford’s disapproving comments and how he was adamant none of us should see the counsellor without him saying so. He reckons Freya is out to get us and can’t be trusted.

Sometimes it feels like he’s the adult and that me, Jack and Harry are just little kids for him to order about. It never used to be like that. Once, we were all on the same level, but at some point, Linford put himself in charge without any of us noticing.

Now it feels impossible to do anything about it.

I can’t just not turn up for my counselling appointment today, so I’ll have to go for this one last session and then tell Freya that I can’t come any more. I’ve got no choice; it’s more than my life’s worth if Linford finds out I’m talking to her behind his back.

I walk across the inner courtyard to Freya’s office in the Admin block. The sun throws shadows on to the smooth new flagstones the school had laid during spring half-term. The paving is arranged in alternate diamond shapes of cream and pale salmon. There are no blots of chewing gum or foaming mounds of gob decorating the new area yet.

It reminds me that Dad was supposed to lay a little patio on our bit of scrubby lawn outside. At first, he said he’d do it in April, then it got deferred to May. And then he had the chance of doing some well-paid work in Poland, so he reckoned he’d definitely be able to get it sorted by June. He said we might even get a small barbecue set up on there, too. Fat chance. It’s already mid-July now and we’re breaking up from school next week. Still no patio.

I curl my fingers around my new notebook in my blazer pocket. Freya asked me to bring it with me for my next session.

I thought I’d be full of dread at the thought of having to talk to her again but, weirdly, I feel a bit lighter inside. As if some of the dark shadows have been driven away.

When I approach Freya’s office door, my heart starts to race. I knock and wait, like the sign says.

The door springs open and I step back as another student emerges from her office. It’s Sergei Zurakowski. He holds the door open for me as he steps out into the corridor. I feel him watching me but I don’t meet his eyes.

Freya’s bright freckled face and shock of short red hair appears in front of me.

‘See you next time, Sergei,’ she calls to his back before closing the door behind us. ‘Good morning, Calum.’

‘Morning,’ I mumble and shuffle into her office, standing uselessly in the middle of the room. What was Sergei Zurakowski doing in here? And what’s he been saying to Freya?

‘Sit anywhere you like.’ She nods towards the upholstered seats.

I shrug off my rucksack and sink down into the chair that’s furthest away from her. I stare at the water jug and two glasses that sit on the low table in front of us.

‘So –’ Freya picks up the jug – ‘how have you been, Calum, had a good weekend?’

I watch as the sparkling water tinkles into both glasses.

I shrug. ‘’S’all right.’

‘Looking forward to the summer holidays?’

I shrug again. I don’t want to think about being stuck in the flat on my own all day for six long weeks.

‘We can fit in one more session on Friday before we break up if you like?’ Freya smiles. ‘And through the summer, if you’re around, I do weekly sessions at the Expressions community centre on the estate.’

I give a quick nod. At the end of my appointment, I’ll tell her I’m not coming any more.

‘Did you manage to write anything in your notebook?’ Freya asks.

I delve into my inside blazer pocket and pull out the notebook, sliding it across the table towards her.

‘I don’t know if I’ve done it right,’ I mutter.

She shakes her head and pushes the notebook back towards me.

‘It’s your notebook, Calum. If you want to, you can open it and read out what you’ve written. But that’s your choice.’

Strange. Linford said her job was to vet every word, to try and catch us out.

‘Like I said before,’ Freya continues, ‘it’s not homework. You’re not being tested in any way, OK?’

I nod.

‘You can relax. There is no right or wrong way to do this.’

I look at her but my mouth feels dry and I can’t think of what to say.

‘So . . .’ She beams and takes a sip of water. ‘What did you manage to get down?’

I take a big gulp of my own water and open the notebook.

‘I wrote a list of things I like doing in my spare time.’ I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks. ‘Just stupid stuff.’

Freya sits back, folds her pale, freckled hands into her lap and waits.

I stare at my own scrawl on the first page. Why did I even bother writing this drivel?

‘Stuff I like doing.’ I read out the heading and wish more than anything I could dig a deep hole right now and jump in it. ‘Number one. Watching films.’

‘Well, would you know it, a man after my own heart!’ Freya sings in her lilting accent. ‘What kind of films?’

‘Dunno, all sorts.’ I shuffle in my seat but I can’t seem to get comfy. ‘I like action films. And sci-fi, I suppose.’

‘OK, have you watched any independent films at all?’

I shake my head. I don’t know what she means.

‘It’s my favourite genre of film,’ she says. ‘Carry on.’

I look at the next thing on my list and I feel my cheeks burn harder.

‘Number two. Writing screenplays.’

I waft the edges of my blazer a bit. The room didn’t seem this hot when I first came in.

‘You write screenplays? Why, that’s just fantastic, Calum.’

I glance over at her to see if she’s smirking at the thought of someone like me writing a script, but she isn’t. Smirking, I mean. She actually looks impressed.

‘They’re not like proper plays or anything,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, they’re not very good.’

‘Have you got one with you?’ Freya leans forward. ‘A screenplay you wrote that you can let me read?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Are you in a writers group or anything?’

I have to smile. She must think I’m some kind of professional writer or something.

‘Why is that funny, Calum?’

‘There’s nothing like that round here, and anyway, I don’t write proper screenplays like in the films. Mostly I just do it in my head. That’s why I’m not entering the Expressions competition.’

She throws me a puzzled look and I remember the flyer in my rucksack. I pull it out of the side pocket and hand it to her.

‘But this would be perfect,’ she breathes when she opens it up. ‘I mean, this is a fantastic opportunity.’

‘Not for me, miss.’ I shake my head. ‘What am I going to write about? Council estates and corner shops? I don’t think so.’

Freya stands up quickly and for a moment I think I’ve annoyed her, but she walks over to her desk and slides open a drawer.

She takes out a DVD case and holds it up so I can see it. On the cover, there’s a scruffy lad sneering at the camera and sticking two fingers up.

‘Have you watched this film?’

I shake my head again. I don’t think Mr Fox would be too pleased if he knew Freya was encouraging students to watch this sort of thing.

‘Why don’t you watch it and tell me what you think when I see you on Friday?’ Freya hands me the DVD. ‘Then you can try to tell me again that working-class life isn’t interesting.’

Reluctantly, I take it from her. It doesn’t look like my sort of film at all.

I remember then I’m supposed to tell her I’m not coming to any more sessions, but instead I find myself nodding as I slide the DVD into my rucksack.