I slide my maths notebook onto the desk and freeze. In my hurry to make it to lessons on time yesterday, I must've accidentally taken along the art school websites Diwa printed out for me and now they stare up at me.

The whole stack is crumpled at the bottom where they've been crushed under my textbooks. Which I actually carry with me now like some swot.

I smooth them out the best I can. Several thick creases are imprinted on the pages but the text is legible. And before I can tell myself not to look, my eyes have wandered to the entry requirements for Stellatus Preparatory School of Expressive Arts.

Diwa's right. They offer several types of courses: ones you can do part-time, foundational courses intended to ease your admission to university available instead of or after A-levels, and extended two-year programmes done alongside BTECs. And she's right about another thing too: the requirements aren't impossible. A well-compiled portfolio seems to have the largest influence.

I skim through the rest, warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of Diwa sacrificing her stringent study plan to research schools all over the UK for my sake. Not that I'd ever move to another city for school. Stellatus is in Manchester though...

But I flunked half of my GCSEs. One of them being art. So how much of a chance have I actually got?

Besides, I'm one detention from being expelled. After the way I lost my temper this morning, it's a fucking miracle that Pathirana didn't remove me from the premises then and there. Pretty sure I won't get into any school after that, definitely not with a scholarship.

'Had a change of heart, have ya?'

I flinch at the brush of Diwa's breath on my neck. In hindsight, we're sharing a desk so it'd be difficult for her to miss me reading the printouts.

'Brilliant.' Somehow she manages to make her whisper feel like yelling. 'People've already written about you, you know. D'you know how long artists wait for stuff like that?'

'You taking the piss? No, they–'

'Mix Velez,' Apostolou cuts me off, 'please stop distracting your peers.'

'What? But–!'

'Do I need to send you to isolation?'

The flames lick my neck. This is fucked! What I've done? Diwa's the one who started the conversation and he's not gonna say owt to her?

But I have to bow.

Slouching, I drop my stare to the desk. 'No. I'm sorry. I'll listen. I promise.'

'Aww, seems like we've got a new teacher's pet in our midst.'

'Please keep all talk relevant to the lesson, Miss Hussain.' Apostolou is commanding enough to stifle laughter before it starts.

Next time, we're sitting at my regular seat at the back of the class and not Diwa's choice in the front row. Attending lessons is bad enough without Apostolou watching me like a shark. Or some sort of crocodile.

He turns to the whiteboard but he's not done with me yet. 'Mix Velez, since you don't seem to feel the need to pay attention, perhaps you can solve the question for us.' He gestures to the problem he has seemingly just written.

In front of everyone?

Reading the question from my mind, Apostolou holds out a marker.

People jeer as I force myself onto unsteady legs. I take the marker from him, struggling to hold it in my bandaged hand without aggravating the burns, and read the question.

'C'mon Einstein,' Jeremy taunts when I don't move. 'Show us how you wipe the floor at maths olympaid!'

Stares prod the back of my head. They all think I'm about to make a fool of myself. And maybe I should. Maybe I should get it wrong. Maybe getting it wrong is safer.

But then Aposotlou will likely send me to isolation and we're right back at the issue of expulsion.

I stare at the diagram, watching the numbers slot into place in my mind before I step to the whiteboard to write the answer as 392/θ2 (θ + sin θ). Without a word, I cork the marker and step back but Apostolou stops me.

'Could you explain how you've got there?'

He thinks I've cheated. Or he just wants to humiliate me.

'Well... you have to find the area of this sector of a circle,' I say, drawing along the outline of the section PED before doing the same to the remaining part of the "field", 'and the area of this triangle, and then you just add them together. And you solve for r to know that it's twenty-eight over theta which you substitute into the equation and then you just simplify.'

I say all this to the whiteboard as I write the steps onto it. The attention of my peers has dulled and when I look at Apostolou, he also seems satisfied. 'That is correct.'

I've turned around when he asks the class, 'Any questions?'

Now he's definitely torturing me.

Milli raises a tentative hand. 'Where... erm... Where did you get that first equation from?' When no one laughs, she ventures to elaborate. 'I can follow the solving of it but I don't understand where you got all those numbers in the first place.'

'Oh... it's just the formula for the area of a sector,' I explain, writing it above the equation, 'and the formula for the area of a triangle, and then you only have to substitute in the values of our sector and triangle. Does... that make sense?'

Milli nods, scribbling it down.

When two seconds pass without another question, I drop the marker into the slot at the bottom of the whiteboard and rush to my seat.

Meira gives me a thumbs up but Saadia's barb pierces skin. 'What a genius you are, Mix Velez.'

Diwa grins. 'That were–'

'Shut up.' I pull my hood up, shoving the art school prints to her side so I can see my maths notes, and erect my elbow on the desk to divide us. 'Don't you ever just shut up?'

I don't look but I don't need to. As though the hair on my body can sense a shift in air pressure, her hurt solidifies between us. The volatile flames flicker and shrink but smog persists, devouring all oxygen.

Notes

Swot: Someone who studies a lot, often at the expense of their social life; nerd, teacher's pet.