HOME ECONOMICS IS THE LAST period of the last day of week, so safe to say all I want to do is go home and take a nap.

In study terms, heaps of things happened this week. Mrs. Fern set a partnered assessment, and I almost failed my Gym assessment — though that is the only class in which I don't really care about my grade. But in Monarchy terms, the waters stayed statuesquely still.

It was part of Benjamin's idea of laying low until they're lulled into false security — which meant turning my cheek the other way every time Reece beat up a kid for homework and Brittany screamed a freshman's ears off for doing practically nothing to her. It almost felt like a retreat. I was disgusted with them, and largely myself, for letting the bullying go on more.

But I know it was necessary, to ensure the Monarchy doesn't instigate a proactive strike. It hasn't been that long since Benjamin and Drew's nicks and scratches disappeared. I won't put them, or any others, at risk so soon.

Today is the day of the Home Economics assessment, and my usual cooking partner is nowhere to be seen. I lean over to a boy sitting at the next counter. I've seen him talking to Angela before, in a rather friendly manner. "Is Angela sick today?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. She wasn't in our homeroom class this morning."

"Okay," I mutter, settling back into my seat.

Angela is kind of needed today. Our abilities to exhibit understanding of nutritional components are supposed to be tested in a partnered cooking task, and the best cooking buddy I could ever ask for is not here. Shit.

But, maybe, Mrs. Fern will let me do half the work, if she sees I have half the womanpower. Or I could stay after school to complete the work myself. The possibility of this happening keeps me fairly optimistic for the test, until the moment Terrence sits down in Angela's chair.

I scowl at his apologetic face, turning my face away. He talks anyway, seeming needing to get the words out. "Brittany was way out of line last Friday. Things just got out of hand."

His words are genuine, with the intention of protecting our burgeoning friendship, pleading even. And the lilt of his voice asking for a second chance is very easy to stomp down and ignore. I'm trying to reimagine what exactly happened last Friday, before the punches started leaving bruises everywhere. I had a fleeting moment of blank fear, like ice water poured down my back without warning.

Until I was in danger, I'd never thought about my fight or flight instinct. Both Delaney and Leah were ready to fight. But I just recall being paralysed, staring Brittany down. Her large brown irises reminded me of shark eyes. I hate to think that she saw me afraid. I search the hazy faces of the people behind her in that memory, trying to remember where Terrence was when Reece and Derek started approaching, whether he had any sort of remorse in his eyes.

"It wasn't my fault," he tries to tell me. "I feel so bad that I couldn't stop it."

No, it wasn't his fault. He wasn't the one who made the call, Brittany was. He wasn't the one who stepped up to fight, Reece and Derek were. Countless people in the hallways watched it happen and didn't try to stop it — part of a senseless high school code of conduct against interfering with other people's business.

But none of those people in the corridor, none of the Monarchy, are trying to be my friend like Terrence is. There's nothing but sincerity when Terrence talks. Is he lying? Do I want to give him a chance? Because it's inevitable: Brittany will pull another mean stunt, and he'll apologise again like he wasn't part of it. It might be smarter to be paranoid rather than gullible.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say icily, deciding not to meet his eyes.

Terrence sighs heavily. He doesn't leave the table. I busy myself with the recipe sheet. Each counter had two copies of the biscuit recipe when I walked in, prepared for the assessment. Mrs. Fern walks to her seat at the front corner of the room, drops her canvas tote bag there and pushes a trolley loaded with ingredients to the front of the workstations.

"Phones away, get your recipes out. If you haven't prepped, start— what, Terrence?" she threads her fingers together, and looks at Terrence with an annoyed frown. The oven incident is probably still fresh in her memory.

Terrence lowers his hand, and tells her, "Zane and Angela are away today. So, can I take the assessment with Sophie?"

What? "No, no, no—"

My arms prickle at the thought of losing full marks for working with this brainless doucheface.

"Yes," she says. Mrs. Fern meets my protesting eyes, and sends a fleeting expression of pity before sighing. "Those two will have to partner up and take the test when they come back. Send one person to collect your ingredients and worksheet."

And I just deflate, sinking my head onto my arms like a balloon losing air. Terrence nudges my elbow, and I cringe at the lilt that tints his voice an ugly shade of conceited. "Well, partner, who is going to get the ingredients?"

"You, Terry." He doesn't even get mad at the nickname. "Since you're new to the team."

Calmly, Terrence heads up to the front of the room to fetch the ingredient packs.

Talking is kept to a minimum while we work. Terrence looks clueless half the time. I don't think he has the phrase follow instructions in his vocabulary, but he still doesn't ask for help. Mainly because he knows I won't tell him anything.

There comes a point when I hear him whisper, "Fuck it," and cast aside his laminated recipe.

From then on, all his actions look crazy. I go against the recipe and halve the batter, preserving some for my portion. I know he's going to royally fuck things up from this moment on. Terrence continues mixing in ingredients, flinging random handfuls of flour and sugar and arbitrary amounts of milk into his batter bowl. Without a measuring cup.

Every time I look over at his side of our counter, it's more and more unclear what he's doing. He could be trying to find the next periodic element. So if his biscuits turn out to be absolutely inedible, blame him. And if his idiocy affects my mark, someone be prepared to clean up his blood off the bench top.

"Hey," Terrence whispers. "Look at me."

After dusting my hands, sending floury billows snowing onto the counter, I frown at Terrence. "What?"

He's pushing a rolling pin across his dough. Classic mistake. He didn't flour it or the counter, and his dough is sticking in clumps to both surfaces. He'll have a shitty time cleaning up. As a baker's daughter, even though I missed out on the culinary genes, I picked up on little tricks of the trade.

"They see me rollin', they hatin—" he sings, pushing on the rolling pin with suggestive eyebrow raises. "Ow! What was that for?"

Serves him right. He needs to learn how to take tests seriously. This may not be the conventional way to take tests, but I'm not having his jokester tendencies cost me an A. Terrence digs the flour out of his eye and nose, grunting in slight pain.

"You needed to flour your pin."

"And does my face look like a rolling pin to you?"

I shrug flippantly. "I have really bad aim."

He's staring incredulously. I think he might get mad, until the deciphering look melts into a cocky grin. "Play it like that, then."

I ignore him, returning back to kneading my dough. But soon after, I see him dip a hand into the flour bag and sprinkle it over the counter and rolling pin before picking up his progress.

We don't talk much after, and I'm grateful for that.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

I scrub at my fingers, trying to peel off the dried bits of dough that insist on clinging.

It's been half an hour since I rolled my batter and slid it into the oven. Terrence pulls our biscuits out of the oven. Watching him open the open door and jump away from the hot metal when it almost touches his leg, I feel a laugh pushing its way out of my throat.

"Eek," Terrence squeals, carrying the tray to our counter and sucking on his burnt fingers.

I wave the oven mitts in front of him. "These are not just accessories, you know."

"They make me look really housewifey."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. Burn yourself then."

"Yes, boss." Terrence flicks his wrist and tilts his head in a mock salute.

You can so easily tell which are mine, and which Terrence's biscuits are. Mine are neatly rolled and golden-looking. Not to say his looks like white shit, but put bluntly, it looks like white shit. They're misshapen and have risen in a way that looks like dehydrated turds.

Terrence notices the judgmental curve of my lips, the sceptical pinch of my eyebrows and waves a hand protectively over his batch. "I'm still going to eat all of it."

"And when you do, you'll have sunk to a new low." I stab my fork over one of his biscuits, making sure to keep it hovering. "Even for you."

"You know, superficial people like you are what's wrong with society."

"People like me are what's wrong with society?" I scoff, "Hypocrite."

For approximately the fiftieth time, Terrence flashes his immaculate grin. It's so weird that whenever we're both away from the huge chasm of the Monarchy, we can hang out like regular friends. Except we're not regular friends; I don't think we ever can be.

I couldn't deal with the moral dilemma of being friends with a bully. Or someone who enables it. If only Terrence could be on my side, it would be so much easier.

He notices my change in mood — I notice his smile freeze and slip off his face — and silently turns back to putting the finishing touches on our biscuits. We make a surprisingly good team, considering how much our friends hate each other.

A dash of butter later, our masterpiece is ready. Looks pretty good. Well, mine do.

Mrs. Fern makes her way to us once she sees Terrence's hand up. Her eyes flicker over my platter, then Terrence's. The satisfied smile she wears for my food practically spells out an A+. She jots down some notes and cuts a small piece for tasting. She gives us the go-ahead to eat, then leaves.

After making Terrence put back the bag of flour, used utensils and cutlery, in hopes of annoying him away, he offers to walk with me to the bus. But I am not making that mistake again.

"What's the prank you've got planned now?" I ask.

"No prank. I just want to walk with you."

I raise my eyebrow, scrutinising his face. "Why?"

"Uh— I want to make some new friends," says Terrence.

"Your current friends seem interesting enough."

Terrence gives a noncommittal nod, seeming lost in his own thoughts. I can't really think of a reply that applies to his last words and carries on the conversation, so I let the chatter fizzle out. I'm still not letting my guard down.

Once we step out of the front doors, I catch sight of the Monarchy across the yard. Brittany and Madison are sitting in the shade of a tree on the lawn, long, tanned legs stretched out in front of them. Reece and Derek are tossing a football between each other in front of them. Is Terrence going to see them?

Turns out he doesn't. In complete silence, we keep trekking towards the bus. But I know he saw them, from the way the muscle on his jaw ticks. And I know they saw him, too.

I have never seen them talk to anyone outside of their clique of five. For the Monarchy, walks to and from class are spent with Monarchs like themselves, or with no-one. Everyone talks about them, but no-one approaches them.

Even on the lawn in the warm afternoon sunlight, people give them a wide berth, like around them is an invisible, untouchable corona.