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3 Carole never told a soul definitely not Mama who'd tell her off for lying or LaTisha and the others because everyone said it was Sheryl's fault for wearing slutty clothes when it happened to her in the same park in Year 8 was it Carole's fault? she suspected it was, shut herself in her bedroom, buried herself under her bedclothes, turned up late for school or bunked off because what was the point in learning when something like this had happened to her? what was the point in learning about the relationship between the deforestation of the rainforest and climate change? or the Russian, French, Chinese and American revolutions? or why a forty-thousand-year-old baby mammoth discovered in Siberian mountains in 1997 did not decay? or why frequency modulation is not used for commercial radio transmissions in the medium and long wave bands? I mean, what – was – the – point? until one day it was like she woke up from like a bad dream, and she looked down the concrete bunker corridors of her inner-city comp on the anniversary of it observed her mates joshing about, as usual, getting ready to sit at the back and have a laugh in class at LaTisha, who believed studying was for mugs, man, mugs at Chloe, who had a side line at school as a supplier of ecstasy

at Lauren, who was only interested in the next shag and Carole felt like she was seeing them on a screen in a documentary about a bad London comp, their skirts hitched up, ties undone and every school rule about hair, make-up and jewellery broken she saw their futures and hers, as baby-mothers pushing prams, pushing fatherless timebombs forever scrambling down the side of sofas for change to feed the meter, like Mum shopping in Poundland, like Mum scrambling around markets at closing time for scrag-ends, like Mum not me, not me, not me, she told herself, I shall fly above and beyond from tower blocks with lifts stinking of piss from rotten low-paid jobs or the dead-end dole queue from raising my children alone from never being able to afford my own home, like Mum or take my children on holiday or to the zoo, like Mum or to the movies or the funfair or anywhere except church she decided to prove the teachers who'd given up on her wrong, the teachers who usually walked down the penitentiary-style corridors in a daze, their eyes glazed, insulated from the racket made by two thousand teenagers talking at once especially Mrs Shirley King, the head of Green House, to which Carole belonged, who'd marked her out as very promising after her Year 7 and 8 exams showed she was one of the brightest kids we've ever had, Carole who blanked her once she started bunking off was an old bat, Fuck Face, the School Dragon, she wouldn't let anyone get away with anything, who put them in detention for turning up only five minutes late to class, which was just plain evil, and then she'd dare say it was for their own good, to learn discipline, which was outrageous, they all agreed but who else to ask for help now Carole knew she wanted to do better? she took the plunge, approached the dragon and her head wasn't bitten off, as expected, when she asked her for advice about which subjects she'd

need to study for the best careers and which universities to apply to when the time came was surprised to be obliged on all counts, on strict condition she never skipped another day, never turned up late, did her homework on time, sat at the front of class with the children who are here to learn and want to go places, Carole and you must change your social circle (social circle, what the hell was that, even?) who proceeded to hassle her for the rest of her time at school, filling her with dread every time her hawk eyes spotted Carole amid hundreds of kids doing something she didn't approve of like laughing too loud, or walking too fast down the corridors (which isn't the same as running), she picked her out and told her off, especially when she saw her with LaTisha, Chloe or Lauren, lecturing her on how those girls will hold you back, Carole who harassed her for four years, even when she was back on track and didn't need her poking her nose in, and phoning her mother if her grades dropped even slightly who unfairly took all the credit when Carole scored a starry set of alpha grades in all her GCSEs and was called to interview a year later to study maths at Oxford University where the Admissions Tutor in her book-lined study marvelled at Carole's class sizes of a surely unlawful three score and five, which makes your academic achievements all the more impressive, young lady only for Mrs King to give a speech in assembly on the last day of Carole's schooling that her protégé, after much dedicated and hard work on Mrs King's part, was the first child in the school's history to make it to such a prestigious university robbing Carole of her moment of glory.