LITMIR.BIZ

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in the air. The loneliest hand that has ever existed in the 65 million years since our primate ancestors first evolved them.

      “Not really,” India says finally. “You won, Harriet. All by yourself.”

      And – as she turns in silence and starts walking back to the sixth-form building, followed by every member of my class – I can’t help but marvel at the irony.

      Because, despite my best efforts, all by myself is exactly how I’ve ended up.

      

      he poet John Donne once wrote that no man is an island. I’d like to seriously question the accuracy of that statement.

      In the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, 1,700 miles from Antarctica, lies Bouvet Island. It has an area of forty-nine kilometres squared, is covered in glaciers and ice, and nobody lives there or ever has. According to Wikipedia, it is the remotest island in the world.

      Thanks to today’s misadventures, it is still a more popular destination than me.

      The rest of the morning can be summarised thus:

      1 I apologise to India and Liv and give them my share of the tuck-shop voucher.

      2 They tell me it’s fine, honestly, and then avoid me.

      3 I overhear a girl in maths say I’m “still an arrogant, weird know-it-all”.

      4 I briefly consider telling her that weird originally meant “has the power to control fate” and if that was true I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

      5 I realise it’ll prove all three points and think better of it.

      News of my unsporting smugness and apparent In Your Face dance spreads around sixth form with the speed of a forest fire. By the time I get out of double physics with Mr Harper, it’s everywhere.

      I try to outrace it – attempting to start friendly conversations with strangers as fast as I can – but it’s impossible. The flame hops from student to student via whispers and raised eyebrows until all I’m doing is circling the common room like a desperate squirrel with its tail combusting.

      I’m smiling, trying to find things in common, asking questions and remembering details as hard as I can.

      But it’s too late.

      My seven seconds are up. The first impression has been made, and with every attempt to undo it I just look even more pathetic. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say any more.

      I am the school weirdo.

      Again.

      By the time I’m ejected from my sixth failed conversation attempt (“Did you know that pirates used to wear gold hoop earrings because they thought it improved their eyesight?”) I’ve officially given up.

      I haven’t seen Toby all morning. I should probably focus the remainder of my efforts on the one person in the year that still wants to talk to me.

      But he’s not in the common room, he isn’t in the dining hall and when I take my lunch to his normal spot in the bush behind the gym hall, he’s not there either.

      Seriously. For a stalker, Toby is becoming ridiculously difficult to track down.

      By the time I eventually find him, tucked into the corner of the art studio, I’ve basically resigned myself to playing noughts and crosses on the floor of the playground. I’ve already got two chalks ready, just in case I can persuade a year seven to play with me.

      Although, given how quickly my leper status is whizzing around the school, even that’s looking optimistic.

      “Hey, Toby!” I say, pushing through the art room door. He looks up with slightly mad eyes, like a miniature Albert Einstein except without the moustache or Nobel prize.

      “Harriet Manners!” he says, pulling his earphones out and quickly flipping over a piece of paper in front of him. “What an unprecedented surprise!”

      I am so, so happy to see him.

      “Are you having lunch in here today?” I say, bouncing forward and slamming my satchel enthusiastically on the table. “Did you know that in the average lunchtime you eat 150,000 kilometres of DNA? Although I’m afraid this cheese sandwich may have a few less, judging by the state of the lettuce.” I plop it on the desk in front of him.

      “Want to share?”

      Toby gently pushes the sandwich off his piece of paper and brushes a few crumbs away.

      “That’s very kind of you, Harriet. But Mum made me sushi.” He prods a little Thomas the Tank Engine lunchbox on the chair next to him. “Except we didn’t have any fish so it’s beef and I’m not keen on wasabi so it’s mustard.” He opens it and peers in. “With bread instead of rice.”

      “So,” I say slowly, “it’s a beef sandwich, then?”

      “Absolutely,” Toby agrees, holding one up. “Except Mum cut the crusts off and rolled it up into little balls so I’d feel like I was getting an interesting cultural experience.”

      I grin and glance briefly around the room.

      Thanks to a total lack of artistic interest and even less ability, I’ve spent as little time as possible in this part of the school. There are paints and brushes everywhere, bright canvases leaning against walls and a general atmosphere of creativity.

      I don’t like it.

      Entirely subjective grades make me uncomfortable.

      Toby looks, if possible, even more out of place. The front of his brown T-shirt says COME TO THE NERD SIDE – WE HAVE PI and he’s wearing trousers with an electronic computer keyboard across the lap, though he isn’t actually plugged into a computer. At the moment anyway.

      “So what are you doing?” I say, sitting down on the edge of his desk and reaching curiously for the piece of paper.

      Toby moves it away. “It’s my project for the Science Fair.”

      “Oooh.” The Fair isn’t for another three months, but maybe I need to get started on mine too. “What’s yours on? Can I see?”

      “I’m afraid not,” Toby says, shifting the paper into his satchel. “Showing you would jeopardise its top-secret status by definition of it no longer being a secret of any kind.”

      “That’s very true.” I frown. “So if it’s science why are you in the art room?”

      There’s a tiny pause while Toby stuffs a sushi-sandwich in his mouth, and then says:

      “It’s quiet and private and away from … people.”

      “Cool.” I look at the sunshine streaming through the windows. “I might do my project on the effect of music on animal behaviour using Hugo and Victor as voluntary subjects, or maybe study the Oort cloud because the edge of it is 4.6 trillion miles from the sun so I can investigate the composition of the—”

      “I have a question for you,” a voice interrupts from behind me. “Maybe you can add this to your investigation while you’re at it.”

      I spin round in surprise.

      Somebody is sitting in the corner near the door, almost totally hidden behind an enormous sculpture of an angel made out of plaster, clay and wire. I had no idea there was anyone else in here: that’s how quiet they are and how big the sculpture is.

      And how little my genuine interest in the art room has been, obviously.

      “Umm,” I say,

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