Esther

It's not unheard of to wet yourself on your first day at school. But not normally in sixth form.

I'm late. Should have accepted Dad's offer of a lift. It's just that arriving in school with Dad is so sad, especially for someone who's started being friends with Jasmine Wright. OK, maybe not friends exactly, but after results night, when I practically saved her life – well, she's at least going to acknowledge me. Isn't she?

The corridors are empty. Teachers' voices sing-song from behind closed doors. I hitch my new satchel higher on my shoulder and make for the sixth-form block.

Rushing down the scruffy cream corridors, I wish I had taken that lift with Dad. At least I could have drifted into the room along with everybody else and not have to make An Entrance all sweaty and flustered.

I wonder who our tutor is. Every year I pray it won't be Dad and so far my prayers have been answered. Only I remind myself I don't do praying any more. Not since I ditched God.

Despite my rejection, God – or whoever organised the classes, probably a computer program – is on my side, because the person sitting at the teacher's desk, scratching his beard, blinking at the chatting rows, counting timetables, and looking like he's counting the minutes until breaktime, or possibly retirement, is only Boring Baxter.

All he says is, 'Ah. Esther Wilson. You can take that seat there,' and he points me to a desk where a boy I don't recognise is bent over, rummaging in his schoolbag. It's the only empty seat, behind Toby, who is shy and nice and the closest thing I've had to a friend at school until now. I slide into the seat, pull off my cardigan because sweat is suddenly pricking my armpits, and glance round. Jasmine hasn't noticed me yet. She's sitting with Cassie. Of course.

I give Jasmine a quick smile. This is sixth form and it's all going to be different. I'm going to be different. Though the tutor group is pretty much the same as the last five years. A few thick rugby players haven't got enough GCSEs to get back. Leaving space for the two new girls with ironed blond hair and lip-glossed pouts who sit in front of Jasmine and Cassie looking like they've been specially manufactured to be Mansfield Sixth Form Girls. They're so much a type that it takes me a second to realise they actually are identical. As in twins. One of them turns round and whispers something to Jasmine, who laughs. Cassie's lips tighten and she gives the twin her bug-eyed stare. Baxter and Toby are the only people who have even noticed me.

I sigh and reach for the timetable Baxter is handing me, only I miss and it flutters to the ground and I have to bend down to grab it and it feels like people are sniggering even though they aren't. It's strange to see only a few subjects. English lit, French, history and art. My crap science GCSE grades finally convinced me that I'm never going to be a doctor even though it used to be my dream.

The boy beside me sets his pens on the desk. He has four – black, blue, green and red. He lays them in a row. The red one wobbles and he frowns and edges it back into place. I glance at him from under my fringe. Blondish hair. Tall, I think, though it's hard to tell when someone's sitting down. Lean. Hot. Something inside me trembles. Very hot. I try to see what subjects he's doing but all I can make out is that he has highlighted them all in different colours, and his name at the top: Luke Bressan.

Not that it matters to me what he's called. If you drew a line across the class, with the cool people on one side and the rejects on the other, Luke Bressan and I would not be on the same side.

I look away, my skin burning. It's hopeless. You can't just decide to be cool. My legs stick to my skirt with sweat. My scalp itches even though I washed my hair this morning. Now that he's tamed his pens, Luke appears as confident as the new girls. Slightly bored if anything. I'm not used to sitting with a boy. Not this kind of boy anyway. Toby doesn't count.

I fold my arms and concentrate on Baxter. He drones on about uniform regulations and careers guidance and how we will all be treated like Responsible Adults now as long as we don't Abuse the Privilege. Then he takes off his glasses and puts on his caring face.

'And of course,' he says, his voice cosy as a cupcake, 'we hope you'll all have a great year with no problems.' He pulls at his nasal hair. 'But if you should encounter any little difficulties, well, we're here to help.'

Luke slides his hands up the sides of his face and lets them rest there. His fingers are long, but his nails are short and bitten, worse than mine. A thin silver bracelet snakes his wrist. If Baxter notices that he'll tell him to take it off.

'You all know Mr Wilson,' Baxter goes on. 'Head of pastoral care. He's the man to go to if you if have any – er problems.' I stare at the scratches on my desk. Around me rises a burble of mumblings. Yeah right – Big Willy – imagine telling him –

Imagine being his daughter.

Beside me Luke stiffens, as if my discomfort is catching. Then he gives a strange strangled cry and I turn to see him collapse sideways. His face strikes the desk as he falls and then he lies on the floor, limbs juddering and jerking.

Instant panic. Cassie screams. People gasp and flock round.

I slip down from my chair and kneel beside Luke.

'Don't touch him!' Toby cries. His normally pink face is white. I remember him throwing up in third year when we dissected a rat.

'Are you meant to put something in their mouth?' somebody asks.

'Oh my God, he's going to die!' Cassie shrieks. Which is exactly what she said when Jasmine passed out on results night. Helpful.

'Shut up. Give him space,' I order. My voice comes out clear and strong like I expect everyone to obey and they do, even Baxter. Even Jasmine and Cassie, huddled together, their eyes nearly popping out of their mascaraed sockets. I pull the chair well away from Luke and shove my cardigan under his head to cushion it. Blood blurs his cheek, from the desk I suppose. I yank at the tight knot of his tie, open his collar. His head flails, froth blooming from his mouth, his arms and legs spasming in a mad jerking dance.

I lean back on my heels. I've made it as safe as I can. This isn't his first time. I've seen that bracelet properly now, and it's an epilepsy medical alert one.

'Phone an ambulance,' Cassie cries.

'You shouldn't need to,' I say.

Already the shuddering limbs are slowing.

A high clear voice, one of the new twins, says, 'Oh my God, he's wet himself.'

A dark stain spreads across Luke's trousers and over the floor. It lies on the newly polished start-of-term tiles and doesn't soak in.

The jerking stops. I manoeuvre Luke's body, limp now, into the recovery position. Almost at once his eyes flicker open. They are dark greyish-blue and very confused. I swallow. I'm not so confident; now the crisis is over. I'm fabulous at emergencies. It's just the normal bits of life in between I'm crap at.

'It's OK,' I say. 'You just had a seizure.'

I stroke his arm to reassure him. We both look down at my hand on the white cotton of his shirt for a second before I pull it away.

'You're in the classroom,' I go on, partly for something to say and partly because Luke's eyes are still bewildered. 'You've cut your cheek, but it doesn't look too...