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be, anyway). I think of how much my best friend of a decade would have given to be there instead.

      Then I swallow and grab the piece of paper out of Toby’s hand.

      “All right,” I say as loudly as I can. “I’ll do it.”

      And I make my way up on to the stage.

      

      here’s a small fresh-water animal called a hydra that lives in ponds, lakes and streams.

      The hydra can be torn completely into pieces, and it’ll still be OK. The bits of it will, cell by cell, creep and crawl towards each other and reassemble, forming a hydra again.

      There’s just one condition: some of the brain cells have to remain unharmed throughout. The secret to the hydra’s survival is keeping its head.

      Sadly, I am not a hydra.

      As soon as I stand on the stage, my brain disintegrates. I know Juliet’s speech by heart – sometimes I recite it in the bath, just for fun – but I’m desperately scanning the script clutched in my sweaty hands because now I can’t remember a single word.

      Every time I look at Nat, I know I have to try as hard as I can to get a part in the play. Every time I think about performing in front of the entire school, I know I have to try as hard as I can not to.

      And every time I look at Alexa, sitting two metres away with a smug smile, all I want to do is run behind a curtain or down a hole in the floorboards somewhere.

      Plus there’s my innate lack of acting talent to contend with. I love Shakespeare, but I appreciate it academically. My artistic abilities are, as ever, non-existent.

      So I just have to get this over with as fast as possible before I’m ripped apart.

       Sugar cookies. Sugar cookies sugar cookies sugar c—

      “O Romeo, Romeo!” I blurt nervously, clutching hard at my chest as if I’m having a small coronary. “Wherefore art thou … umm …” I hold the paper in front of my face. “Sorry, I’ve lost my place.”

      “She speaks!” Toby says from the side of the room where he’s edged closer. “Oh, speak again, bright angel!”

      The whole room starts sniggering again.

      Alexa raises her eyebrows and her smile gets a little cattier.

      “Err …” I briefly consider curling up into a ball and rolling off the stage, and then glance at Nat and decide against it. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not …”

      Alexa rolls her eyes and yawns elaborately.

      “… I’ll no longer be a Montague. No, sorry, a Capulet. I’m a Capulet.”

      “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”

      “I think you should probably be quiet, Toby,” Miss Hammond says firmly. “Or you’ll be asked to leave the room.”

      “But Harriet is the sun,” Toby objects.

      “That’s as maybe, but I suggest you enjoy her silently.”

      Toby pulls a pretend zip across his mouth and winks at me from the corner of the stage. I’m going to kill him when I get out of here, and not a single jury in the country will convict me, due to the reasonable circumstances.

      I take a deep breath.

       Keep your head, Harriet.

      “T­i­s­b­u­t­t­h­y­n­a­m­e­t­h­a­t­i­s­m­y­e­n­e­m­y­t­h­o­u­a­r­t­t­h­y­s­e­l­f­t­h­o­u­g­h­n­o­t­a­M­o­n­t­a­g­u­e­w­h­a­t­s­M­o­n­t­a­g­u­e­i­t­i­s­n­o­r­h­a­n­d­n­o­r­f­o­o­t­n­o­r­a­r­m­n­o­r­f­a­c­e­n­o­r­a­n­y­o­t­h­e­r­p­a­r­t­b­e­l­o­n­g­i­n­g­t­o­a­m­a­n­o­b­e­s­o­m­e­o­t­h­e­r­n­a­m­e­w­h­a­t­s­i­n­a­n­a­m­e­t­h­a­t­w­h­i­c­h­w­e­c­a­l­l­a­r­o­s­e­b­y­a­n­y­o­t­h­e­r­n­a­m­e­w­o­u­l­d­s­m­e­l­l­a­s­s­w­e­e­t­s­o­r­o­m­e­o­w­o­u­l­d­w­e­r­e­h­e­n­o­t­r­o­m­e­o­c­a­l­l­e­d­r­e­t­a­i­n­t­h­a­t­d­e­a­r­p­e­r­f­e­c­t­i­o­n—”

      “OK,” Mr Bott says, holding up his hand. “I think that will do. Thank you, Harriet. That was … illuminating.”

      Alexa starts a slow, sarcastic clap.

      “And that will do too, Alexa Roberts,” Mr Bott adds sharply.

      “What, sir?” Alexa says innocently. “I was simply showing my enthusiasm for Harriet’s profound and inspiring performance.”

      “I find that hard to believe,” my English teacher says fairly. “So let’s move on as fast as possible, shall we? Next.”

      

      he next hour is like watching some kind of terribly amateur circus.

      I slink to my position with Nat at the back of the hall and sit as quietly as I can while my cheeks return to their normal colour.

      Luckily, there’s plenty to distract me on stage.

      There are people doing cartwheels, people singing, people dancing, people pretending to ‘breathe fire’ with a lighter and a small aerosol (they get a detention). Somebody even brought their dog with them, except instead of jumping through a hoop it sits down on the stage and farts resplendently.

      All of which would be a lot less surprising if there wasn’t a sign on the door saying:

      Finally it’s Nat’s turn. She stands up and smoothes her hair down and I can feel myself starting to get genuinely excited.

      Maybe she’s going to be good.

      No: maybe she’s going to be great. Maybe this is the amazing future my best friend is destined for, and this will be the moment that changes everything. In ten years’ time I’ll be lying under a parasol by her Hollywood pool, applying SPF 50, because I don’t really have skin that tolerates Californian weather.

      “Good luck,” I whisper as she squeezes my hand tightly.

      And then – with great poise – Nat walks slowly on to the stage and stands very still for a few seconds, looking at us calmly.

      I stare at her in astonishment.

      All anxiety, all jitteriness, every bit of nerves has magically disappeared. In their place is total composure and dignity. Tranquility

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