The bell for the start of lessons is ringing as I sprint across the playground and up the steps into the lobby. Great. This is all I need - a late mark.
It is not easy to be on time when your mum is working early shifts and your dad hasn’t been around since 2005. He nipped out to the shops to buy biscuits and was never seen again - I mean, how hard can it be to find a packet of Jammy Dodgers?
It is not easy to be orgainised when you have two little brothers to get dressed and fed and off to school on time. I race along the corridors and skid through the door of Room 53, my tie askew. Miss Jenson looks up from her register.
‘Late again, Kevin?’
I slope towards the back of the class, dump my rucksack onto the desktop... then blink.
There is someone sitting at my desk. Not just any kind of someone, either - it’s a girl, a pretty girl with a couldn’t-care-less expression, chewing gum and twisting a strand of long, blonde hair around one finger.
‘Um... that’s my seat,’ I mutter.
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Not any more,’ she says.