Scott Kellerman had sat by Evangeline Channing in their Economics lessons for as long as she could remember. Except for when his friend Dylan, or her friend Barbara, would steal his seat, and she'd have to give him an apologetic smile and he'd return an insouciant beam as he slid into the seat behind her.

When they were much, much younger, he'd been her year 2 Valentine. His mother had made him a solitary red velvet cupcake which Scott had, very distinctly, iced a wonky pink 'E' onto. After he'd given it to her, they sat together every break time behind the jungle gym, and if one of them hadn't been in one day, they'd compensate by spending the entire lunch break playing make-believe - always Harry Potter.

Once, he'd invited her on a play-date. Evangeline's mother worked days and nights, so she never ran into Scott's mother who seemed to live at the school gate, gossiping about mothers like Evangeline's who can never manage to make it to even one PTA meeting.

While they waited outside the school gate, they joined hands in innocent excitement. When Scott yelled, "there's my car!" and a man in uniform descended from a black Mercedes E Class and held the back door open for them, she let him run with her hand in his towards the lofty automobile. When they arrived outside an even loftier manor with marble pillars and Scott's mother was at the door waving them in with red velvet cupcakes like the ones from Valentine's Day, Evangeline was sure she'd stepped into a dream. Which was why she'd cried so hard on the bus ride home when her mother told her she was never going to that pompous McMansion ever again. After that, Evangeline started spending recesses in the library.

By year 10, the two existed in totally different social spheres. Evangeline's high-spirited and sundry, and Scott's artificial and absolutely loaded. It so happened that their circles intersected through Cara - her family and his often sat together in centre court at Wimbledon.

"It was so weird," Cara would report back to Angie and Barbara under the bleachers during lunch, "I said hi or whatever and we talked about the fucking weather or something. And then he's like so how's Evangeline? Does she have a boyfriend?  Sorry but who even calls you Evangeline? And does he know you to ask about you like that?" Evangeline would laugh it off, Barbara would quip about how irresistible Angie must be to have a year 2 crush wrapped around her little finger. And that was the last of Scott -until year 13, present day.

Once the initial awkwardness between them had passed, Scott and Evangeline were cordial, maybe even acquaintances. He had been happy to reunite, and she'd been pleasantly surprised by how cool he was, now that she had the chance to decide for herself. She'd never considered him romantically - he struck her as the kind of teenage boy who did stupid things like put a lads' nights before her, and not let their torsos touch when they made love even though they were intertwined in the most intimate way.  Nonetheless, he was cool. They were cool.

Which was why now, Evangeline couldn't figure out why Scott would have done what he did.

• • • •

The heads are still staring me down, and I almost feel bad for putting them through this. The worst they've had to deal with before this is kids smoking pot in the bathroom and throwing wet tissue at the ceiling. Now...

"I'm sure you know why we've called you here, Evangeline," my head teacher Mr. Madison starts. The deputy head Mr. Kelly is stood behind me like a henchman. I don't say anything - he's calling me Evangeline; he means business. "A classmate of yours is... concerned about you."

My eyes snap upward towards Scott, behind the closed door of the office. He looks away. I shrug. That doesn't go down well with Madison.

"Evangeline," he says again, with less patience, "this classmate of yours claims to have seen you with a teacher... outside of school hours." He says outside of school hours like it's a dirty word and it takes all my self-restraint not to roll my eyes. I bite my tongue before I answer.

"Mr. Macklin tutors me." I have no clue how to play this, but withholding information until further prodded seems like a wise strategy. Mr. Madison glances up at Mr. Kelly, clearly dissatisfied, so I go on,

"On Thursdays. After school." This time Madison nods, thinking he's getting somewhere. I'm wearing the best poker face of my life.

"Thank you, Angie," looks like we're back in safe territory, "your mother made us aware of the situation at the beginning of the term. It's my understanding that the sessions take place in Mr. Macklin's house. "

I'm surprised he knows I've been to Macklin's house, but I sure as hell don't show it. For all I know he's playing it like a policeman - I've seen enough episodes of SVU: he's pretending he knows nothing when really he knows everything and he'll go on with his theories and understandings until I crack.

"It's also my understanding," he glances at Scott in the reflection from the window, and now I know that all of his understanding rests on Scott's reports, "that the nature of your relationship with Mr. Macklin has somewhat... escalated."

I wait a beat or so before I respond, deciding the character to play.  Calm, smart - smart enough to know that his suspicions about an 18 year old girl and handsome young teacher are reasonable - and most importantly, not guilty.

"Mr. Madison," I sit up and put my hands in my lap, confident and earnest, "the sessions have only taken place at Mr. Macklin's house because we live 3 doors away from each other. It seemed ridiculous to have to go all the way into the city when we were at 1-minute walk apart." I shrug with what I hope looks like mature innocence.

He sighs, taking another glance up at the henchman, before stating softly,

"Angie, we've been told that you were seen with Mr. Macklin in a park, in settings so informal that they gave someone cause to believe that you and Mr. Macklin are in a romantic relationship. Is there any truth to that?" I don't respond. "Angie?" He cranes his neck to meet my lowered gaze.

Now it's my turn to sigh,

"Sir," reverential always goes over well, "it's not true. None of it. I understand how the rumour mill works, I've been in the school for long enough, but the honest truth is that my session with Mr. Macklin only took place in a different setting because of the nature of the lesson." Madison tilts his head in curiosity, and I take it as an opportunity to keep on blagging,

"Since we were focusing on a certain poet, Mr. Macklin thought it'd be cool if we had our lesson in the conservatory that inspired her."

Madison leans back in his chair and he wants to believe me, I can tell. "Which poet?"

"Emily Dickinson." I say, without missing a beat. I'm praying somewhere on the boundless world wide web there's something linking Dickinson to a conservatory, a plant, something. Madison shifts uncomfortably and I remember he was a Geography teacher before the old head croaked. He nods slowly in pretension,

"Oh yes, of course, of course. That makes... perfect sense." I pick this moment to prey and offer him a sliver of power, and this whole interaction feels like tactical warfare. I shrug, looking down at my hands, a stance of helplessness,

"Honestly, sir, I think it's amazing that you make students feel so comfortable coming forward with potential dangers, and I don't want to undermine the importance of student testimony but, " I huff shakily, "I'm sorry, never mind."

He leans forward eagerly,

"Angie, please go on. But what?"

"I think it may be a case of ... trivial student matters going much further than they need to. I think... tension between myself and Scott might be what pushed him to exaggerate his concern." I shrug, gnawing at my bottom lip, a final show of innocence. Now, he sits back knowingly. He's in familiar territory. Vicious rumours fuelled by student body matters are something he's seen before - something he's comfortable dealing with.

"I understand. Thank you for letting me know, Angie." He looks up at the clock. Somehow this whole ordeal has taken a little less than an hour. "You can go back to class. Although we may need to speak to you again." He gestures to Mr. Kelly behind me, telling him to move or hold the door or whatever a flippant wave of the hand means, and I nod gratefully before standing to leave.

"Mr. Madison?"

He looks up from the report he's filling out in relief. "Yes, Angie?"

"Mr. Macklin won't be in any trouble, will he? I'm a visual learner and I 'd feel so bad if he got into trouble for just trying to accommodate my learning style."

Mr. Madison smiles softly. In his professional mind, it's all a big misunderstanding; a dedicated student and dedicated teacher - the things that keep his organisation afloat.

"Well, we'll have to call him in and have a similar conversation, but no, I don't imagine he will be."

"Thank you, sir." I leave and head back to class through the open door and although I can feel Scott's stare, I don't look his way.

Madison called me in with the strictness of a deeply concerned head teacher, but really, he didn't want to be involved. He doesn't want to have to make all the reports and call the authorities necessary to deal with student-teacher fraternisation. Really, all this, the fucked up secrecy and taboo and fear of dirty words, plays in my favour - our favour. Before getting back to class, I turn to make sure there's no attention on me, and duck into the bathroom to text Eric a warning.

*********************

When I leave the school at the end of the day, I feel like a criminal who's evaded capture, and I don't be meant to look smug but clouded by relief and walking out with the inspiring sound of my kitten heels clacking, how could I not?

"Bye, Angie!" Someone from my tutor group calls.

"See you tomorrow, Lily!"

Something threatened my happiness, and I faced it head-on and conquered. I feel like I'm ready for anything - like I can take on anything.

Until I turn to head down the block and hear a familiar harsh honk and a yet more familiar sing song voice,

"Oh Angie!" I turn on my inspiration-emitting heels and spot Walt's car, with Auggie's head sticking out of the back seat window, and she's grinning smugly, although when is she not?

"Walt?" I call, as I head towards the Volkswagen Sharan. "What are you doing here?"

For once he hasn't got on his family-friendly-Mr-Rogers grin on, his straight sandy hair is not so straight, and he's wearing the same look I saw on Madison hours ago - an authority figure's concern.

"Angie, honey, the school called today, and your mom asked me to pick you up so we could ... talk before you get home." I cock an eyebrow an incredulously,

"So you can find out if I'm banging my teacher and warn her so she doesn't kill me?"

Now, he cracks a smile. Although Walt's the walking embodiment of every PG-rating and PSA combined, he always laughs when Auggie and I make crude jokes. It makes me think  he was someone very different before he came into our lives.

"Get in the car, potty mouth." He shakes his head - he still can't hide his grin, though.

I shrug as I get into the front seat. I suppose the warmth of an unnecessarily large family car beats the cold of walking to the train station. I turn to the backseat,

"And you're here why?"

August gives me her own little grin,

"For the tea, duh. Why else would I willingly sit in the dad-mobile? No offence, Walt."

Walt squints, thinking about it for a moment, before answering,

"None taken. Listen, Angie," I turn towards him in my new innocent stance - hands in lap, "you're a smart girl."

I keep on looking at him, waiting for him to continue. It's arrogant, but I've decided that I like it: if he wants to accuse me, he can come right out and use the words he wants to.

"And sometimes, smart young girls think that they can only find their equal, mentally and ... emotionally," he means sexually; we're driving past Ann Summers, "in other smart people, and so they look towards old...er, older men." He's scratching the nape of his neck in that way men do when they're nervous.

"Like Mag-lin," Auggie adds. Walt exhales before he continues,

"And, you know, sometimes in life, we think we know what we need, because we think we know who we are, better than anyone else. But really, even if we do understand who we are... we, we don't really know what we need. You understand what I'm saying?"

Jokingly, I tilt my head and squint,

"I'm not sure... but if you're saying you suspect I'm screwing Mr. Macklin because I'm mature then, yes, yes I totally understand what you're saying."

Auggie lets out a loud and abrupt laugh, covering her mouth immediately. At the sound of yes, Walt's eyes momentarily widen and dart towards me on his left. I roll my eyes,

"Yes, I understand you, Walt. Not 'yes, I'm sleeping with Macklin'." His eyebrows relax,

"Okay..." but he still wants confirmation - he wants it word for word.

"I am not sleeping with my Mr. Macklin, Walt. I promise. I know him better than I did before he started tutoring me, obviously, but it's not like that at all. It's platonic, if I could even call it that. I swear." Technically, I'm not lying to him. I'm not sleeping with Mr. Macklin; I'm in love with Eric.

"Lame." Auggie calls out, dragging out the one-syllable word. I slyly flip her off.

Walt lets out a sigh of relief and an accompanying dad-laugh,

"Okay! Okay, cool. Coolio. I just needed to know if I'd have to come into that school and, you know, break any noses." He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Sure, Walt. Sure."

I know Walt and my mum care about me, which is why I could never tell them the truth. Sure, sometimes I feel bad. But when I can come home and smile with a family that loves me, and read literature and laugh with a man who loves me, I don't regret living in two spheres. Not one bit.

"Hey, Walt?"

"Yes, Auggie?"

"Can we get McDonald's?"

*********************

"10 minutes, alright?" Walt calls out of the window with a mouth full of fries. He dropped me off at the bottom of the hill to talk to Barbie. I told her and Caz all about today over lunch, but every good gossip session needs a final debrief.

"I'll be 5, I swear!" I call back. As he drives off and up and disappears, Auggie sticks her little tongue out at me through the dimmed window. I pull one the same face back until Barbara slaps my arm,

"Fucking spill. Is your mum gonna kill you?"

"Um, ow. Dude, I survived, somehow. He babbled for a bit, but he basically asked me if I was sleeping with Macklin, I said no and we were done. I guess he'll report it back to Major-Mum now." I shrug. Barbara looks almost disappointed,

"You didn't tell him?"

"Tell him that I'm in a bloody relationship with Macklin? Are you joking? Course not."

She's frowning and I'm getting the horrible feeling that without Caz here this is going to end up somewhere I don't like.

"I thought the whole point of talking to Walt instead of your mum was that you were gonna be honest with him..." She looks genuinely confused. She can't be serious - she can't really mean this.

"Babe, the only reason I was talking to Walt is because Mum made him ambush me at the fucking front gate. In what world is telling him the truth going to play out well?"

"So you're just gonna lie to him and keep on fucking Macklin." There's no question in her voice, only disappointment.

"Stop fucking saying it like that! It's not just sex, Babe! I like him a lot, and forgive me if I sound pathetic but he fucking likes me too!"

She cuts me off this time, and I'm not sensing any calm resolution any time soon,

"Oh okay okay, so you're just done with being a good person, then. You're just gonna lie to your family, is that it?" When she uses the g-word it cuts like a knife and my worst fear's confirmed - my best friend is judging me - and it sucks the life right out of me. When I answer her, I'm not angry, I'm not indignant -  I'm tired.

"Fuck you, Barbara. Going to church on Sundays and getting good grades doesn't make you a good person, either. But yeah, I guess I am done." I turn to head up the hill, and my heart is heavier than it's been in so long. I hear her call my name, I think, softly, and her tenderness almost makes me turn around, and I want to, but really, more than anything, I don't want her to see me cry.