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Five months. I just need to keep my luck with me for the next five months. Then Felix will be home. My safety net will be restored. We’ve already talked about moving in together. His parents are generous and talking about purchasing a flat for him while at university, so he can have some space away from home as he studies. I can get a job and help pay towards the bills. I’ll have a room to sleep in, a room where I can be safe. I can put all of this behind me.

Five more months. I remind myself that the time will fly by.

For now, I walk through to the sixth form common room and take a seat at one of the tables. I pull out my school folders and think about which subject has homework due before the others. I spend so much time at school—preferable to being at home—so my homework is usually up-to-date. I know I have an essay for history which could do with some fine-tuning. I love history, but it requires a lot more effort from me to keep my grade up. Psychology, drama, and design technology come easier to me, but history is my favourite.

I pull out my papers for my essay and read through, making little corrections where necessary and tightening up my conclusion. When done, I take out my textbook, reading ahead for the next chapter we’re due to study in class today.

I’m still reading when other students start to file through to the common room. Crowds of friends gather and laugh, exchanging stories about their night or grumbling about what lessons they have today. I’m left pretty much to myself. Most of my friends were Felix’s, all students who left last year given they were in the year above me. I don’t mind the solitariness. It’s sometimes easier not to have friends. Friends want details, stories and information. They want to come to your house and hang out or have sleepovers. They want to know what’s going on in your life. None of those things are things I can give.

The warning bell for the first lesson trills and students start to file out, complaining about their early-morning class or the teachers they wish they didn’t have. I shove my folders and papers back into the rucksack and head towards the block where the history classes are taught.

I take my usual seat at the front of the classroom when I arrive, then pull out my folder for this lesson, my essay, and my pens. The class is small, only ten students. It’s mostly other teenage girls, with one boy—Jack—who relishes being the only one. I know the other girls and we’re civil, but not quite friends.

“What a bunch of eager students we have today,” Mr Beaumont calls as he strides into class. He’s been teaching history at this school for so long it’s almost believable that he was around for the events when they took place. He’s a nice guy, though, and is always happy to help me when I have more questions about the topic. He was the one who encouraged me to take the subject for my A levels.

I look up and smile at him. He’s one of my favourite teachers, even over Ms Davenport, who teaches design technology and is a magician on the sewing machine.

“Morning, Mr B.”

There’s a chorus of other “good mornings” from the other students because everybody does love Mr Beaumont.

“Ah, so good to see you’re all so awake this morning! I have some news to share with you all,” he announces. “We are lucky enough to have a placement teacher joining us for the rest of the term. He’s getting a degree in history from one of the top universities in the UK and—for his sins—decided to go into teaching. Please be gentle. I know how tough you are as a class.” He chuckles and then takes his glasses off, cleaning the lenses before popping them back on.

“A placement teacher when we’re doing our A-level studies?” Ellie grumbles.

Ellie’s top of the class—in all her subjects, as far as I can tell—but she’s opinionated. She takes her education seriously, and I have no doubt she’ll be at home this evening, complaining to her parents and worrying about the impact on her education. I’m sure they’d care more than if I complained to my own mother.

“I’ll still be present, overseeing things,” Mr Beaumont counters.

“Well, I guess we’ll see how good he is,” Ellie replies.

There’s a little knock at the door, and then it opens.

“Ah, Mr Wakefield. I was just telling the class about you joining us for the rest of the year. Why don’t you come in and meet them all,” Mr Beaumont suggests.

I watch, open-mouthed, as Mr Wakefield strides in and walks to the front of the room and leans slightly against the wall.

“Good morning,” he says, tone authoritative and steady. He sounds so in control, but I feel like I’m stuck in a horror movie.

The man standing in front of me is the same man I met in Christian’s kitchen just a few hours ago. The giver of coffee and banana, the owner of grey sweatpants and a broad chest.

He looks around the class, starting at the top right corner, making his way to the left and then down. I follow his gaze until it lands on me, and I watch the expression on his face change. It goes from keen and eager to one of absolute horror.

I know how he feels. I feel stunned too. My stomach twists in distress as we both acknowledge that we know each other. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows hard.

At least it wasn’t his bed that I stole a night in. That’s the only redeeming factor in this situation that I can see.

The noise in the classroom seems to fade to a mere background hum as I try to get my centre. Mr Wakefield seems to recover far faster than I do, and the next thing I know, the class is abuzz with people calling out answers to a topic he’s started off. It takes me a while to realise he’s started asking questions to get to know us all. They aren’t about history or what motivated us to study this topic. They typically require yes or no answers, and he encourages us to raise our hands if our response is yes.

They’re relatively mundane: Who of us has a sibling? Who’s going to university? Who’s picked a topic to study? Who’s doing more than three A levels? Who watched last night’s episode of a cheesy British soap show? Hands up if Marvel is the best film franchise. Hands up if you think DC. Who’s passed their driving test?

As he asks the questions, he raises his own hand to answer. Based on his responses, I learn he has no siblings, did more than three A levels, loves the cheesy soap show, thinks DC is better, and has a car.

“Who here has already celebrated their eighteenth birthday?” he asks, and his eyes land on me when he speaks. I raise my hand, as do three other girls in the class. “Ah, so it’s just the rest of you who are counting down the days to legal freedom,” he jokes.

“I can’t wait to use my ID properly,” Jack proclaims.

“You just want to try to pull an older girl,” Ellie scoffs.