Monday. I sat at my normal table in front of the canteen, eating a bag of chips and reliving my performance in Milltown’s Got Talent.

Daniel Smith patrolled off to my right, in front of the boys’ toilets. Miss Pritchett patrolled somewhere to my left. Daniel often stakes a claim outside the toilets, presumably in the hope I’ll have to go and Miss P won’t be able to follow. I could tell him that I never go to public toilets. Ever. That I would sooner die than use anything other than my own bathroom in my own house. But I figured he didn’t really need that information and, anyway, if he wanted to hang around the boys’ in a creepy fashion, who was I to interfere?

Nonetheless, he obviously got bored because occasionally he’d take a step towards me, but Miss Pritchett would do the same and he’d be forced to back off. Then he’d try again when he thought she wasn’t looking and the whole thing would repeat.

It was like a slow and strange dance. Or a boring gif. They should’ve entered the talent show with it. It would’ve been more popular than my act.

I kept my head down and stuffed another chip into my mouth. A shadow fell across the seat opposite. I didn’t need to look up. Only one person sits with me – two, if you count Daniel Smith, though he normally stands to enquire whether the cat’s got my tongue. And he was still dancing with Miss P.

‘Do you think I’m a blankety loser?’ I asked. ‘Be honest.’

‘It’s possible,’ said an angelic voice. ‘But you can’t always trust first impressions.’

My head shot up, just as my jaw plummeted and my eyes tried to leave their sockets. Sweat dripped off my forehead and made an impressive lake on the bench’s surface. I attempted to speak but my brain had shut down and buggered off to parts unknown.

Destry Camberwick sat opposite me.

She was as gorgeous in real life as … well, I’d only ever seen her in real life, of course. But she’d never sat opposite me before. This was real. It was really real. There was nothing unrealistic about this real.

‘Uh, uh, uh, um, um, uh,’ I said, obviously trying to prove I was a blankety loser. She put her hand out to me across the table. A portion of her hair fell across her left eye and she had to brush it back. A small part of me shrivelled and died.

‘I’m Destry,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said. Then I wanted to bite my tongue. Why had I said that? The obvious answer was, Really? Pleased to meet you. I’m Rob Fitzgerald, but you can call me Rob or Fitz, if you like. Friends call me Fitz. They didn’t, of course, because I don’t have friends, plural. I have a friend, singular, called Andrew, and he calls me Rob.

I took her hand and we shook. Another part of me shrivelled and died.

‘I’m Rob,’ I said.

‘I know,’ said Destry. ‘I saw you in Milltown’s Got Talent.’

‘I was the one proving the title wrong,’ I said. This was better. My brain had returned from holiday, apparently refreshed. What was coming out of my mouth not only made sense, but was witty and self-deprecating. Maybe she’d realise I was not just a blankety loser, but a witty blankety loser. I’d settle for that.

‘I thought you were great,’ she said.

Another small part shrivelled and died inside. The way this conversation was going, I’d crumble into dust when I tried to stand.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I love Macbeth,’ she said. ‘And I thought you did a fabulous job of his insecurity just before he goes off to murder Duncan.’ She liked Shakespeare! This was getting better and better. If I could just stop shrivelling and dying … ‘You know, all anyone remembers is that Macbeth’s a monster, but at the start of the play he’s a decent guy.’

She said a few more things and in time I might remember what they were. But right then, all I noticed was the way the sun caught her face, the gleam of her hair, the small gap between her front teeth and the hammering of my heart.

And then she was gone. A smile and a wave and back to her table on the far side of the canteen area.

I should’ve done better. I know that. Virtually the first words she heard me utter were swear words, I’d made one fairly intelligent remark, and the rest was stumbling, bumbling and bordering on gibberish. She, on the other hand, had been smart and interesting.

No. I’d blown it big time.

But you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the day.