LITMIR.BIZ

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lived with Annabel since I was five, yet sometimes she is still a total mystery to me.

      “Why is Annabel talking to herself?”

      “She’s an alien unsuccessfully trying to fit in with the rest of the human race,” Dad says knowingly, dipping a bit of toast in egg yolk and then dripping it on the table. “Is there anything in your book to help us figure out what she wants with us poor earthlings before she sucks our brains out with her tentacles?”

      I start flicking eagerly through the chunky tome in my hand. There are 729 pages and I’m only 13/20ths of the way through, so there’s almost definitely some kind of precedent.

      Or at the very least something interesting about spaceships.

      “Sadly, all signs suggest that your brain is already gone, Richard,” Annabel says grimly. “So I’m probably going to starve.”

      Then she pulls a chair out and gestures at it.

      “Put your fact book down, Harriet, and have some breakfast. I start back at work tomorrow morning and none of us have heard a sensible word out of you for the last twenty-four hours.”

      I don’t know what my stepmother is talking about. Every single sentence I’ve said has been scientifically and historically accurate. There’s a bibliography proving it in the back.

      I shove a piece of toast into my mouth.

      “Can’t,” I say through a spray of buttered carbohydrates. “No time. Things to learn, places to go, kindred spirits to meet.”

      Quickly, I stomp into the hallway and grab my satchel from the corner whilst simultaneously discovering that in 1830, King Louis XIX ruled France for just twenty minutes.

      “Look how awesome she is,” Dad says proudly as I open the front door. “That’s my daughter, Annabel. My genetics, right there. Harriet Manners: model and style icon. Fashion legend. Sartorial maverick extraordinaire.”

      I stick one ear of my headphones in.

      “Harriet,” Annabel says. “Hang on a second. Where are you going?”

      I’m not entirely sure how I’ll use the Louis XIX information, by the way. Not everything I read is potentially useful or relevant, even to me.

      “School!” I put the other ear in. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake starts blaring out at full volume. “See you this evening!”

      And my first day as a proper sixth former begins.

      

      o, I’ve done a little studying on the art of making new friends and I’m happy to report that there appear to be a few basic rules for us all to follow.

      I have boiled it down to: find things in common, smile and laugh lots (this indicates a sunny and welcoming personality), ask questions, remember details and never wear the same outfit as them without asking first.

      Which sounds deceptively easy.

      Over the last sixteen years I’ve successfully made just four friends: my stalker classmate, Toby Pilgrim; my dog, Hugo; a Japanese model called Rin (who would happily befriend a sausage); and my Best Friend Nat, who I met when I was five and literally couldn’t have less in common with if I tried.

      So I think it’s fair to say I need all the advice I can get.

      The way I see it, the fact book in my hand isn’t just fascinating trivia, relevant to the trials and tribulations of daily living (which it also is). It’s a bridge between me and other people. With these scientifically proven nuggets of information, I’ll be able to find things in common with everyone.

      Oh, you like tennis? Well, did you know that the longest ever match lasted eleven hours? You’re a big fan of keeping fit? The most push-ups ever performed in one day was 46,001!

      Have a cat? Cats kill more than 275 million creatures a year in the UK alone!

      It doesn’t matter whether it’s film or sport or songs or animals or a fondness for fizzy drinks (they dissolve teeth!): somehow, I’ll be able to find a connection. A link between me and them. Something to pull us together.

      All friendship requires is focus and dedication.

      And a little bit of knowledge.

      I learn all about crocodiles as I wander down the road to school and past the bench where Nat usually meets me (except now she’s at fashion college on the other side of town).

      Caterpillars get a brief look-over as I quickly glance around for Toby – there’s no sign of him – and pull my phone out of my pocket to check for texts from my modelling agent, Stephanie (as per usual, absolutely zero – my fashion career appears to have fallen into some kind of coma).

      US presidents fill in the gap as I clumsily open and walk through the school gates.

      The world’s largest lakes occupy my opening of the stiff front door and stroll down the silent corridor into my empty classroom.

      Then I take a seat, turn to a page about the London Underground, and wait.

      I’ve specifically chosen to get to school early today so I have plenty of time to adjust before my new form arrives. Thanks to Dad’s job at the time, I was living in America for the first few weeks of term – being tortured by a tutor who turned out to be a fake, and fainting on fairground fashion shoots – so I really need the extra time. This way I can acclimatise to my new environment, cram some last-minute knowledge in and maybe stop my stomach from rolling over and over like a sick guppy while I’m at it.

      Nervously, I clutch my book as tightly as I can.

       Focus, Harriet.

      The London Underground is the world’s first underground transport system. It has a network of 402 kilometres, carries 1,265 billion people a year and is actually more overground than it is undergr—

      “Harriet Manners?”

      I swallow. This is it. This is where my new beginning starts. Be cool, Harriet. Be casual. Be as full of relevant yet breezy information as physically possible.

      With a deep breath, I plaster on my biggest and friendliest smile and put my book down.

      “Good morning,” I say in my brightest voice. “It’s super nice to meet y—”

      Then I stop.

      Because standing in front of me is a group of what appear to be fully grown adults, holding clipboards and pens.

      And every single one of them is staring at me.

      

      or the first few seconds, I assume my classmates have just aged quite a lot over the summer holidays.

      That’s how weird teachers look in casual clothes.

      Then – like the Magic Eye picture of a galloping horse Dad has stuck in the garage – strange colours and shapes slowly start to make sense.

      Mr Collins from biology in high-waisted jeans and a green polo-neck jumper. Drama teacher Miss Hammond in a beige jumper, tie-dye pink skirt and woolly lilac socks. Receptionist Mrs O’Connor – devoured by an enormous yellow jumper that says DEFINE ‘NORMAL’!!! – and my English teacher Mr Bott in his standard black suit, white shirt and

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