‘I know you!’ I say, pointing at him. ‘You go to my school. You’re in the year above me.’

‘And I know you, Petri Quinn, who is too bright for her own good and has a habit of getting into trouble by following strange boys places she shouldn’t.’

I don’t know what he’s on about at first and then… I remember.

Last year, I saw Dave Carlton and his gang – the Hoodz, which would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing – follow a tall, brown-haired boy behind the games hall. The boy was new to school, and wearing a uniform that was too small for him. I knew Dave well enough to guess what he was up to. His mates chanting ‘get the pussy’ made it pretty clear.

I’ve never been very good at controlling my temper. Not since I was bullied for months after I went up a grade and I learnt that a brilliantly witty comeback won’t stop girls from throwing your bag on the top of the bus shelter, but a swift punch to the stomach will. So I’d followed Dave to find his friends had cornered the new kid and were about to give him the usual City High welcome.

I’d frisbeed a dustbin lid at Dave’s head before he had a chance to start throwing punches and knocked his front tooth out.