I trudge towards the sixth building on Friday morning like a soldier marching into battle, mere hours away from a war I won't win.

I'm going to fail this exam – I know it. Why did I think taking Sociology, of all subjects, would be a good idea?

"Well, don't you look especially chipper this morning," Megan teases as she falls into step beside me, my one-man army now doubled in size as we face our doom together.

"I'm going to fail," I sigh.

"So am, I," she laughs, nudging me with her shoulder excitedly. "Isn't it great?"

It had never been Megan's idea to stay on at Greencliff Academy after she passed her GCSEs. She had never wanted to take her A-levels – that had been her parents' idea.

If Megan had been allowed to follow the path of her choosing, she would be finishing up her first year at the local college right now, happily enrolled in its Performing Arts course as she works towards her level three diploma. She says it's where she belongs, that she's far too dynamic to be cooped up in a classroom all day, every day.

I completely agree with her. I've been her best friend since year four – the girl couldn't belong further from a classroom if she tried. Though try she does, determined to flunk her exams so hard that her parents have no choice but to let her drop out. They have no idea that she's already sent out her college application for this coming September – what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall the day they find out.

I see Dylan standing by the sixth building's entrance as we approach, his expression nervous. He hasn't got an exam today; they're different kinds of nerves. When he sees me, I can't tell if they lessen or increase. In a strange way, I think it's a bit of both, and I know why.

Things ended badly last night and he's worried about me, wanting to know if I'm okay but unsure whether to ask in case it upsets me – it's a dance we've danced many times before.

We both ignore Megan as she rambles on about the assignment she's three weeks behind on in her English Literature class, entirely unaware that she's talking to nobody but herself.

"I'm okay," I promise him, my voice low as we trail behind Megan on our way to Tutorial.

He looks relieved that he didn't have to ask.

"Sorry about last night," I feel the need to apologise. I don't like making him worry and I hate that I ruined our date.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he sighs, his arm resting around my shoulders carefully, almost as if afraid he'll hurt me. He kisses my forehead as we walk. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. How's your shoulder?"

"It's alright," I say. I don't tell him that it still aches a bit, feeling bruised and heavy whenever I lift my arm too high. It's a feeling that will pass in a few days, as it usually does, and it's nothing I can't handle.

"Are you two even listening to me?" Megan asks suddenly, her eyes holding a look of exasperated accusation.

"No," Dylan says simply, and the bluntness of his reply makes me laugh. So does the look of offense that Megan gives him as she scowls, flipping him off in response.

Just like that, my spirits lift a little, the day no longer seeming quite so daunting as I listen to Megan and Dylan's bickering – the familiarity of their arguing chasing away the nerves I feel in the pit of my stomach – and they remain lifted all the way up until my free period, which I spend on a last minute cramming session before the exam.

"Do you think if someone crashed a car into the exam room, we'd all just be given top marks to compensate for the traumatic experience?" I ask Megan as we sit alone in an empty classroom, textbooks open on the table in front of us. Well, textbooks open in front of me – Megan is busy playing Candy Crush on her phone.

"I doubt it," she laughs at me, eyes still on her phone. "We could try, though. Do I get to drive? Whose car am I wrecking?"

"Who's wrecking what?" Dylan asks, walking into the room with Greg. I texted him after our last class ended so he'd know where to find us.

"Your face," Megan replies, risking her new high score as she puts her phone down on the table, solely for the purpose of punching her left palm with her right hand. "With my fist."

"Any reason why?" Dylan asks, more curious than worried. He's become plenty desensitised to her threats by now.

She shrugs, retrieving her phone. "For shits and gigs, I guess."

Megan gets distracted before Dylan can reply as Greg moves to sit by her, leaning in to check out her high score.

Dylan, as promised, takes a seat and grabs hold of Megan's discarded textbook, ready to help me revise. He's more than a little impressed when he realises I know almost every sociologist researcher in the book, the information seared to my brain like a bad tattoo after a great night out. We get higher marks for name-dropping the researchers – I don't want to leave anything to chance.

"Babe," Dylan says after about half an hour of firing questions my way. "I don't know why you're stressing. You know it all. You're going to absolutely smash this exam."

"The marking criteria is brutal, though," I sigh. It's true and, unhelpfully, it's all I've heard from my Sociology teacher all year. I've failed almost every mock test I've taken – except for the most recent one on which I barely scraped a pass.

"A quarter of the class failed their Sociology exams last year," Megan pipes up, about as helpful as our teacher. She grins. "It's why I chose to take it."

Dylan shoots her a sour look. "You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to," she shrugs, thumbs still tapping away on her phone. "I'm just saying."

"Well, don't. Shut up," he tells her, turning back to me. "Don't listen to her; you're going to be fine. You just need more confidence in yourself." He looks over at Megan with a look of clear distaste – one that, thankfully, she doesn't see. "Take some of Megan's if you want. Maybe it'll make her less obnoxious."

"Dick," Megan mutters, lobbing her notebook at Dylan. He ducks out of the way and it flies past his shoulder, plopping to the ground somewhere behind him in a flutter of pages filled with biro-drawn doodles.

A squabble breaks out between the two of them and I laugh at the face Greg pulls when they aren't looking, before picking up my textbook and returning to my revision alone.

When the time eventually rolls around, Megan and I make our way to the exam hall – two soldiers on the front line, about to be slaughtered.

"Are you two ready?" Abigail, a fairly short, freckled girl asks as she moves to stand with us. She looks about as nervous as I feel, her smile unsure and her eyes betraying her terror.

Nervous, unsure, and terrified: that seems to be the general buzz coming from the group of students around us, waiting to be let inside the exam room. Some joke about their impending failure, using laughter to lessen their nerves, and others just look like they're about to faint. A passing teacher – one I've not met before but vaguely recognise – reads the collective tension in our group and soon realises why, spotting the 'Examination In Progress' sign on the door. He wishes us all luck before carrying on his way.

"I don't know," I reply to Abigail, returning her smile. "Are you?"

"I think I'll be okay..." she says, not sounding convinced. "I just hope Marxism doesn't crop up."

Eventually, the invigilators open the door and tell us to silently take a seat.

Well, here goes nothing.

The exam lasts for two hours and, as soon as we're told that we can begin, I put pen to paper and don't bring it up for air.

Overall, the questions could be worse and I think – I hope – that I'm doing okay. The questions about material deprivation, student subcultures, and gender differences in achievement I think I answer pretty well, but I get a little stuck when it comes to government policies. The question isn't worth many marks anyway so I don't worry too much. I see the twelve-mark question on Marxism and send a silent prayer out to poor Abigail, glancing at the clock to see I only have twenty minutes left to answer it.

When the invigilators announce that time is up, I drop my pen and sit back. The relief I feel is indescribable. It went much better than I had been expecting – at least, I think it did – and, either way, it's finally over.

"How did it go?" Megan asks as we walk outside.

The school day ended about five minutes ago, a hoard of students surrounding us as we make our way towards the main gates. Briefly, I think I see Bailey, but she's gone in a flash, swallowed up by the crowd.

"It could have gone worse," I admit. "I'm just glad it's done."

"Me, too," Megan agrees.

"How did you get on?" I ask. "Do I even want to know?"

"Oh, just fantastic," she says sarcastically. "I drew this really cool elephant and then slept for the last hour. I can't be sure, but I'm pretty confident I'll get top marks."

"Your parents are going to kill you on results day."

"Yeah, well, they'll get over it," she replies. "Eventually."

With a promise to cry at her funeral, I bid Megan farewell and make my way home.

When I get back to the house Owen is, as per usual, complaining that he's hungry. Stella's on the phone in the kitchen – some work call, from the sounds of it – waving the kid away like a bad smell as he noisily bangs through cupboards in search of a snack. I laugh at the look of pure frustration on Stella's face as she mimes smacking him over the head with a spatula.

I decide to leave them to it.

"Jade!" Oscar calls out when he sees me enter the living room. "I need your help."

"What's up?" I ask, moving to sit next to him on the sofa, an open workbook resting on his lap.

"I hate maths."

That's Oscar's code for 'I can't do it'.

"What homework have you got?" I ask, laughing as he scowls down at the work.

"Fractions and percentages. Stella's not letting me on the computer until I've finished it."

"You wait until you move on to Trigonometry and Pythagoras, you're really going to hate maths then," I laugh. I skim over what he's already answered.

Owen eventually enters the room, his empty hands informing me that he lost the battle against Stella's spatula.

"Stella says no food until George gets back from work," he announces sulkily, plopping down onto the armchair. "Complete bullshit, if you ask me," he grumbles low enough that Stella won't hear.

"Hey, Jade," Stella says, poking her head around the door of the living room a few minutes later, no longer on the phone. "Is Bailey with you?"

I frown. "No. Why would she be?"

Stella frowns too, glancing at the watch on her wrist. "She's not home from school yet."

What?

I glance at Oscar, his brows furrowed as he still stares down at his homework. "She didn't walk home with you and Owen?"

Oscar shakes his head and a rock drops in my stomach, creating a splash so big I almost drown in a tsunami.

I saw her leaving school, I'm almost positive. There's no way she wouldn't be back by now. Unless...

Isn't today the day she wanted to work on her English project with Alex?

She hasn't. She wouldn't. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course she would.

"I've texted her but she hasn't replied yet," Stella continues. "I'm not sure whether I should drive down to the school and-"

"You know what?" The words are out of my mouth before I give them permission. "Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I heard her say she was going to Katie's tonight."

You know, Katie – her friend that I just made up?

The lie tastes bitter in my mouth and my heart thumps with anger and worry, both of which are aimed at Bailey. If she's where I think she is then it's best if Stella and George don't find out. They have a hard enough time trusting her as it is – they would never let her out of their sight again, and I wouldn't blame them.

Stella lets out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know how many times we have to tell that girl, she's supposed to let George and I know where she is at all times."

"When does Bailey ever listen?" I grumble, trying to contain the seething burn churning in my gut. I change the subject quickly, needing an excuse to leave the house without raising any suspicions. "Do I have time for a run before dinner?"

"Sure," she waves off the question, shaking her head. "If you see Bailey before I do, let her know I need to talk to her."

I'm out the front door in less than a minute, phone in hand as I ping a text to Bailey's phone.

'You are in deep shit.'

The more I think about it, the more I know I'm right. I know exactly where Bailey is.

The closer I get to the Coleman's house, the more I notice the buildings around me become dilapidated – run-down and shabby. Well, even more run-down and shabby. There are walls plastered with graffiti (not the cool kind, the crappy 'could-have-been-done-by-a-six-year-old' kind), and there are old, boarded-up shops (the boards missing in places from where people have broken inside – either by squatters' or idiots with nothing better to do, I couldn't say which).

I stop walking and pull a face when I notice the needle sitting in front of me on the cracked pavement. Not wanting to touch it, but also not wanting some poor child to come along and find it, I carefully kick it off the path and into a nearby shrub.

I guess I didn't notice it as much with Bradley – too preoccupied with helping him walk straight – but now that I'm alone I'll be the first to admit that this part of town is creepy, even with the sun still shining down on my back. Walking past alleyways is the worst part, and I soon find myself strolling down the middle of the road to give them an extra-large wide berth. Luckily, the road is pretty quiet, so I don't have to worry too much about cars.

Eventually, after two wrong turns that set me back another ten minutes of my journey, I arrive at my destination.

As I stand across the road, scuffing my foot along a large crack in the pavement whilst I stare across at the ordinary house of inevitable doom, the anxiety starts to set in. I had been too preoccupied on my way here, fuming over Bailey's complete disregard of Stella's instructions, and over her complete disregard for her own safety.

Now that I'm here, however – with panic lacing my veins, pumping out from my heart, around my entire body, and up to my brain – I start to question this plan, no longer confident in my decision to barge in and drag my sister out by her ear.

The second I knock on that front door, my entire plan to ignore the brothers' until they forget about me will be ruined. I'll be back on Lucas's radar. That's if I'm not still, already. He might be pissed that I'm here again – at his house – when the brothers always strive for such privacy. How would it look, me turning up on their doorstep like this, completely unannounced?

What if Bailey isn't even here? What if I've got it wrong?

Who knows, maybe she really does have a friend called Katie.

My heart is beating so hard I can feel my erratic pulse everywhere: my temples, my neck, the backs of my knees, and the sides of my ankles. They all thump away, making me feel weak and sick and like I could pass out at any moment.

I really don't want to do this. I really don't want to be here.

I grab my phone from my back pocket, checking again to see if I've had a reply from Bailey. I've checked so many times on my way here, I've lost count.

The answer – if you're wondering – is no.

As much as I want to, as much as my mind is screaming at me to, I can't leave. My legs want to run but my feet remain rooted to the ground, like a tree growing out of the very crack I'm standing on, refusing to budge. My feet won't budge, not ever – not while there's still even the smallest of chances that my sister is, in fact, inside that house.

I have to protect Bailey. I have to make sure she's okay.

It's a trait that's been programmed into me for as long as I can remember.

I have to push my own fears aside, bury them deep, and do everything in my power to protect my little sister. My own safety means nothing if she is in danger – if there's even the slightest chance that she's in danger.

I stride across the road with a new sense of purpose, knocking my knuckles against the front door before I can give myself the time to hesitate. My hands are shaking, my whole body repressing a shudder even though the temperature is nowhere near cold.

Fear does that to you – its icy needles prick at your skin, setting off shakes so violent they could rival an addict's during the acute stage of withdrawals. It grips at your throat, forcing you to breathe in nothing but icy air that freezes in your throat, choking you until it becomes too difficult to breathe in anything, at all.

You're doing this for Bailey.

Although truth be told, I'm also doing this because of Bailey.

You need to be sure that she's not here. And if she is here, you need to get her out.

With that final, compelling thought, the door in front of me swings open.

"Jade?"

It's Bradley. His expression starts confused, changing to sceptical before finally settling on suspicious. He stands with one hand stuffed into the pocket of his grey hoodie, eyeing me as he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"I – er... um." I pause to recollect myself, pressing my shaky hands against my sides to quell the quivers. "I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"Her name's Bailey?" I pose it as a question. "I think she's—"

"Alex's friend?" Bradley interrupts, his suspicion dulling before morphing into surprise.

"I think they're working on a project together in English," I say, because the word 'friend' makes me uneasy.

"Yeah," he nods, motioning his thumb over his shoulder. "I think she's still upstairs."

When I get that girl home, safe and alive, I am going to kill her.

"I need to take her home," I say. I quickly try to think of an excuse that isn't, 'I'm scared you'll stab her – with either a needle or a knife, or both.' "Family emergency," is what I settle for.

"Sure, I'll go get her," he says, motioning me into the house. "You can wait in the kitchen if you want."

I don't want but I do it, anyway, taking a deep, calming breath as I step into the house.

It's pretty plain inside: brown carpets and cream walls, with a set of stairs to the right leading up. There's a door underneath the stairs – a cupboard, perhaps – and another to the left of the short hallway. The final door is directly ahead, at the far end. All the doors are closed, though, so I have to wait for Bradley to point me toward the one on the left.

The kitchen.

I walk in that direction and push open the door, hearing the sound of Bradley's feet on the stairs as he climbs up to find Bailey.

The kitchen has the same cream walls as the hallway, although it's adopted some black lino flooring to replace the carpet. An island stands in the middle of the room with three grey stools lining it. I choose to stay standing, leaning against the counter as I wait for Bailey, wringing my hands nervously.

I feel an overwhelming amount of relief as I hear someone walking towards the kitchen, assuming it to be Bailey. I assume wrong, however, and the relief immediately turns to unease when Lucas Coleman appears in the doorway.

His eyes find me, too, and I think we're both shocked by what we see: him from the appearance of me in his kitchen, and me from the overall appearance of him in general. Unlike the last time I saw him, the guy has a busted lip, a black eye, and a giant bruise on the side of his face, purple and shiny and very fresh. He's wearing black jeans, but no shoes and no shirt, and I can see the speckle of bruising that creeps up his left side, painting his scarred skin in an array of greens, blues, and yellows. He looks like a living, breathing paint-by-number.

There's a balled-up T-shirt in his hands – I think it's supposed to be white but the blood makes it hard to tell.

I know I should say something, give some explanation for why I'm standing in his kitchen, but I can't. I can't say anything when he's standing there looking so absolutely terrifying, like he's just been in a fight to the death and won.

There's a lot of blood on that T-shirt...

"Oh, hey, Luke," Bradley greets, stepping past his brother in the doorway and entering the kitchen. He doesn't look the least bit bothered by his brother's appearance. "Jade's here to pick up Bailey."

"Bailey?" Lucas asks, and the sound of my sister's name coming from his mouth bothers me. It bothers me, a lot.

"Alex's friend," Bradley elaborates, and the use of the term 'friend' also bothers me a lot.

Still, I can't speak.

Lucas doesn't respond. He walks further into the kitchen, past Bradley and me, to throw his bloodied T-shirt into the bin. The lid snaps back down with a loud clank, and the noise zips through my body like a bolt of electricity, setting every nerve on edge.

Hurry up, Bailey...

"Brad?" someone calls from out in the hallway, shortly followed by two more sets of feet on the stairs.

"Kitchen!" Bradley calls back.

Alex and Bailey enter the kitchen, too.

"Hey," I find my voice the second I see her. She looks like her usual healthy unhappy self, with not a scratch on her.

"Hey." Her voice is neutral, lacking the usual bitterness is holds.

I don't think she wants to fight in front of these guys, even though we both know one's brewing. That's fine by me. I don't want that, either. I want to get the hell out of this house and yell at her in the safety of our own.

"Are you two sisters, then?" Bradley asks curiously, probably surprised by the lack of similarity between us. I had said it was a family emergency, after all – it's not a huge conclusion to jump to.

"Um..." Bailey says, unsure of how to respond, caught between technicality and reality. She looks at me for help.

"It's complicated," I shrug. And completely none of your fucking business.

I don't miss the looks of curiosity from both Bradley and Alex, though I pretend I do. Lucas just stands with his back leaning against the wall, looking bored, pissed off, and in pain. I don't think he's really paying much attention to the conversation happening around him.

"Are you ready to go?" I ask Bailey.

Translation: we're leaving. Now.

"Yeah," she replies, looking somewhat relieved as she slings her backpack onto her shoulder. I nod and push myself away from the counter.

"I'll walk you both out," Bradley offers. "I'm going out for a bit, anyway."

That appears to get Lucas to focus more on the conversation.

"Don't be a dick," Lucas says to his brother, his voice flat. "It's not worth it."

"You wouldn't say that to Finn or Andrew," Bradley challenges. "Or they wouldn't be out there, right now—" he pauses and looks between me and Bailey, choosing his words carefully, "doing what they're doing."

"Watch it," Lucas snaps, his eyes darting to me, too. He looks back at his brother. "Stay out of that shit, man. You'll just get your ass beat again."

Bradley lets out a single, humourless laugh. "You really wanna lecture me on getting my ass beat, while you're stood there looking like you've just been thrown in front of a truck on the M1?"

"Oof," Alex mutters, perched on a stool at the island as he watches the back-and-forth between his brothers, like it's the most interesting table tennis match he's ever seen in his life. "You tell him, bro."

"Piss off, Alex," Lucas growls.

"I'll walk you out," Alex sighs, turning to face Bailey and me as he stands. "This could take a while."

When we finally make it outside, I'm happy to see that there's still plenty of daylight for the walk home. Alex waves a quick, "see you around" to Bailey before shutting the door in our faces, the sounds of shouting from the kitchen halting as it closes.

I wait until we're a good distance away from the house – allowing enough time for my pulse to stop hammering – before I let the volcano erupt.

"What the hell were you thinking?" I seethe.

Bailey rolls her eyes, chewing on a piece of gum in her mouth before blowing a bubble. "Go suck a lemon," is her fantastic response.

"You're unbelievable," I shake my head. "And stupid. And-"

"And what?" she challenges, rounding on me so I'm forced to stop walking. "What am I, Jade?" She carries on before I can get a word in, laughing and shaking her head. "Go on, you're always on my back – all of you are – so what is it this time? Stop playing you're music so loud. Grow the hell up. Stop being such a brat. Focus on your schoolwork."

I open my mouth to talk but she talks over me, ranting on full steam ahead.

"So I try to focus on my schoolwork but – nope, fuck you Bailey, you can't do that – which is just such bullshit and-"

"You're right," I interrupt and she falls short, not expecting my agreement. "It is bullshit. Sometimes life's just full of bullshit. But you know what normal people don't do when faced with such bullshit? Go hang out with a bunch of drug dealers."

"Oh, whatever," she mutters, spinning on her heel and marching ahead.

"Bailey, I'm being serious here. I mean what if something bad happened and I hadn't come to get you? Nobody knew where you were!"

"How did you come and get me? How did you even know where they live?" She asks, spinning back to face me.

The question catches me off guard.

"Er – someone pointed their place out to me once," I shrug. Technically I'm not lying... I just left out the fact that the person who pointed it out was also a resident.

She rolls her eyes and continues to walk ahead.

I follow behind, eyes shooting invisible lasers into the back of her head as I continue to seethe quietly to myself.

We don't talk on the rest of the journey home.

*********