Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On the 16th of July last year, when I was fifteen years, two months and four days old, the questions in my mind were:
1. Was I going to get a seat on the back row of the coach tomorrow when we went on the Year-10 trip to Littlehampton, or would Cleo blank me (again) and make sure it was filled up with the latest crowd she hung around with?
2. When was Mum going to stop seeing Robbie as the sweet, little, innocent, perfect child and me as the difficult, moody teenager?
3. What was I going to wear tomorrow? Jeans and a T-shirt (baggy? skimpy?)? Denim shorts and the black shoes with clumpy heels? Red shift dress? And how come other girls seem to know about these things and I don't?
4. How had I done in the exams? (Terrible probably but I honestly, really, truly was going to work harder next year for my GCSEs.)
5. What did others (especially boys) think of me? Stupid, pretty, ordinary, ugly? Did they think about me at all?
6. And last, but by no means least, was Jesse ever, ever going to look at me and think I was special?
A week later, it was impossible to believe that this was all I had to worry about.