I read my mum's neat scrawl and then read it again.

Grades dropped by the end of the year, unsure why. Maybe problems at home. Has been caught twice drinking and has been seen more than twice under the influence, once being on school grounds. Why would such a good student fall of the rails? Teenage angst? Boredom?

Must keep an eye on Eloise.

I realise these are the notes she set for herself when her mind stopped becoming her own. The guilt eats away at me and I quickly close the book and throw it into the box with the others.

Eloise seems over it all now.

I've seen teenagers derail. Fortunately most of them pick themselves back up again and the ones that don't certainly don't make it back to school to finish their A Levels.

My phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts and startling me so much that the other books on my lap slide to the ground.

I check the screen and smile when I see that it's my mum calling.

"Hey." I carefully pick up the books and place them back into the box on my desk. "Is everything okay?"

"No, I've run out of cloudy lemonade," she states, sounding almost hysterical.

"Okay, have Dad pick some up on the way home," I suggest, but all I get is silence. "Would you like me to bring you some?" More silence. "Mum?" Panic consumes me. I instantly stand and reach for my coat. "Mum?"

"I'm here." Thank Christ.

"I'm on my way. Is there a brand you prefer?"

"Umm..." She goes silent again and my panic turns to frustration.

"Mum, which brand shall I bring?"

After another moment she clears her throat and finally speaks. "He gets me the one with the beige label. I can't remember the brand."

"No problem." I quickly tug on my jacket and make my way to the door. "Anything else?"

"No. Just my cloudy lemonade."

"Okay, I'm hanging up now, Mum. I'll be there soon."

So much for a quiet afternoon.

f.u.c.k. I mentally curse as I stand in the drinks aisle, looking at four different kinds of cloudy lemonade. What label did she say again? Orange?

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

I try calling her, but get no answer. Blowing out a breath, I grab the orange labelled bottle and throw it into the basket.

"If it's for Mrs Price, she likes the beige label," comes a sweet and unsure voice from behind me.

I turn and stare at the young girl with a basket full of junk food hanging over her arm. "Eloise."

"Yep." She pops the P and I watch her mouth move as she chews on a wad of chewing gum. Her full lips are glistening with moisture from recently wetting them with her tongue. "She always drank the one with the beige label. Always."

"Thank you," I say and place the one I grabbed back onto the shelf.

"No problem." She starts walking and I fight the urge to catch up to her. I fight the urge to ask her yet again how she's doing. An accident like the one she so narrowly avoided has to have shaken her up a little, yet she seems calm about it. Although it was a month ago.

Why am I still hanging on to it?

Maybe because I'm shaken up about the fact that I came very close to witnessing a young girl's death.

How old is she? Seventeen maybe? She doesn't look it, but then again, most girls in their teens don't look like teens in this day and age.

"You might want to get a few bottles," she calls, stopping at the end of the aisle and flipping her hair over her shoulder. It's a really nice shade of red and I can't help but wonder if it's bottle dyed. I found myself wondering this in cla.s.s earlier too. I've seen ginger hair, but this colour can't be named as such. It's not bright orange, but more of a subtle, deep red that seems to switch colours in the light. It falls in loose waves to the top of her shoulders. I can tell she probably braids it at night to make it that way. No way are those waves natural; they're too perfectly formed.

"Sorry?" I ask, blinking myself free of my thoughts and meeting her hazel eyes.

"Get her a few bottles. She drinks that stuff like its water."

"Right," I murmur, mentally kicking myself for forgetting this fact whilst piling five more bottles into the basket. My mum has always had an unhealthy obsession with cloudy lemonade, but I never paid enough attention to this when I lived at home, hence the fact I don't even know what brand she drinks. "How do you..." She's gone when I look up and my question trails off. "Know?"

It seems Eloise is an observant character.

I make my way to the tills and then make my way home, home being the place my mum is, not the place I'm staying.

Mum is prattling about in the kitchen when I enter the home in which I grew up. I place the bags filled with the lemonade bottles on the side and clear my throat to alert her that I'm in the room.

She blinks when she looks at me, seemingly confused over my presence in her kitchen, but fortunately snaps out of it and thanks me with a kiss on each cheek before putting the bottles away.

"Will you stay for dinner?" She asks, checking the clock on the wall above the counter.

"I've already eaten, but thank you."

"How was day one?"

Good question. "Interesting. You're right about the year tens. They're all way too bored."

"This town needs more to do; the streets aren't safe for them to play in like you used to."

I nod my agreement before finally asking the question I've wanted to ask but haven't dared. "So... how are you feeling, in yourself?"

Mum stops in her tracks, a rolled up plastic carrier bag in her fist. I watch her eyes become dull and her brows crease with a frown. "I'm not sure how to feel." She smiles suddenly and places the bag into the holder that's pinned to the side of the counter near the tiled floor. "I'm glad you're home. I feel good about that."

My jaw clenches as an unbearable feeling of sorrow consumes me. I clear my throat to rid myself of the lump that seems to be stuck there. "I'm glad to be home too."

"I'm not too sick to know a lie when I hear one," she teases and pinches my cheek after turning back towards me. "Regardless, I know you've missed us and I know you love us as we love you and that's all that matters, that and the fact that you're here now."

The lump returns, but I swallow it down with a heavy gulp of air and move towards the hall. "I have a lot of work to finish. Is there anything else you need before I shoot off?"

"Could you call your dad and ask him to pick up some lemonade on the way home from work? I forgot to order some during the food shopping I did online yesterday. Hasn't the internet made everything so simple?"

I leave without correcting her. I can't handle another second in this house. Seeing her deteriorate breaks my f.u.c.king soul.

Eloise Living in a small town has its advantages and its disadvantages. Frequently seeing people you know can be both a good thing and a bad thing.

If you're trying to avoid somebody, it's impossible and if you're trying to find somebody, it's possible. It's also nice b.u.mping into people you don't expect to see but are happy to look at.

I won't deny I turned slightly stalker when I saw Mr Price enter the shop. I followed him to the drinks aisle, but quickly disappeared after our brief conversation. If he noticed the lack of pop in my trolley, he'd know I had no reason to be down that aisle and that I'd probably followed him. Or maybe that's just me being paranoid. He seemed to be thinking deeply about something and I don't think it had much to do with the lemonade he was staring harshly at.

Mrs Price has mentioned her son on a few occasions in lessons in the past. She was and is very proud of him, but from her stories you could tell there was something going on there, a reason why she never had anything recent to tell us that seemed to be a personal memory. It all seemed like relayed information, as if retelling news rather than experiencing the event.

My mum always said I thought too deeply about things that didn't matter. Speaking of which, I bet she's wondering where I am.

I'm not even sure why I turned stalker on Mr Price. He gave us homework on the first day. I mean... who does that?

Chapter Three.

Eloise Being late on day two of sixth form is probably not the best impression to make with my Maths teacher, Mr Diplock. He's a cool guy, but harbours a strict no nonsense att.i.tude.

I contemplate skipping cla.s.s completely as I race down the empty halls towards the cla.s.sroom where my lesson is being held.

I may look slim, but I'm definitely not fit enough to run more than five feet at any one time. Still, I make it to the door only fifteen minutes after the bell has rung. Unfortunately I'm wheezing like a dying man as my lungs fight for the air I deprived them of as I ran.

Once I've calmed myself, I wince and open the door quietly, hoping the inside is noisy and I can sneak in undetected. Luck isn't on my side today as twenty heads lift and stare in my direction.

"Sorry, Mr Diplock," I say, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind me. "It won't happen again."

Mr Diplock sharpens his dark gaze on my face, his body tense and his demeanour clearly holding no small amount of annoyance. "You're right, it won't." He sits on the side of his desk, his eyes still on me.

I'm about to make my way towards an empty seat at the back of the room when he clears his throat, stopping me in my tracks.

"I remember last year, you were late to four lessons and didn't show up to..." He taps on the tablet in his hand before pinning me with another stern gaze. "Twelve lessons. Considering there are only... I'll let you work it out. There are fifty-two weeks in a year and, in total, students at this school get thirteen weeks off for their holidays and recreation. If we have two lessons a week, what percentage of lessons did you miss last year?"

I gulp, my mind a blur of numbers and my eyes blurred with humiliation.

"You don't know? Well then I guess you can leave, figure out the answer and bring it with you for Wednesday's lesson." He holds out a sheet of paper. I move forward nervously and take it from him. "You can also handle these, seeing as you don't need my cla.s.s to help you further your education and would rather sleep in."

"But, Sir..." I try, but quickly close my mouth when he strolls past me and opens the door, waving his arm to motion me through.

I keep my eyes on the floor, too scared to look up at my peers, who are no doubt laughing silently.

I'm ashamed of the tear that falls after the door is slammed behind me and even more ashamed of the one that follows quickly after. My feet carry me along the empty hallway to nowhere in particular. I keep my head down, my heart hammering an angry beat as my humiliation turns to anger and the urge to go back and call Mr Diplock a few choice names almost overwhelms me.

Using the back of my hand, I wipe my tears away and continue onward, my face buried in my scarf that hangs in a loop around my neck. My hands grip my elbows and my body shakes with frustration.

How could he humiliate me like that? Sure I shouldn't have been late, but that was just... it was mean. It was unnecessary.

I make a left towards the sixth form common area and pray that it's empty. Right now I need to be left alone to my own mind and the vending machine.

The s.p.a.cious room has groups of couches on one side and computers on the other for last minute study time. It's empty, save for the pictures on the walls and the shelves full of random non-fiction books and ledgers. I exhale a breath of relief and slump onto the nearest couch, the one hidden in the corner, so anybody walking past won't see me and think I'm taking a morning nap.

I wish.

I'm far too annoyed right now to even think about napping.

I don't think I've ever been in a situation so humiliating. I hate being the centre of attention, especially when it's negative. Sure, I don't shrink away from group settings and animated chatter, but I certainly don't go looking for situations where I'll be in the spotlight. I'm happy to just mingle and have a good time.

That right there, in that stupid a.r.s.e cla.s.sroom, was definitely not my definition of a good time.

I rest on my back on the soft, leather sofa with my legs hanging over the arm. My eyes scan the ceiling tiles and count the stains and marks as my lungs fill to bursting point before releasing. I breathe this way over and over again, in an attempt to control my temper and my need to cry.

"Mr Diplock is a t.w.a.t," a voice I immediately recognise as Garrett's says and I feel the couch sink, not far from my head.

Without moving, I point my eyes further up and see his cute, smiling face peering down at me. "You were in there?"

"Yeah, there were a few people in there."

"Great," I mutter and throw my arm over my face to hide the red flaming in my cheeks. "How badly did they laugh?"

His warm fingers wrap around my wrist and pull it up as he leans over me, still smiling, showing perfectly aligned teeth. His mum obviously made him care about his dental hygiene. This is good; it means he'll taste nice if he ever decides to kiss me.

"They didn't. Most of them stayed silent, but Riley..."

"Riley was in there?" He'll never let me live that down.

"Riley called him a c.o.c.k, in those exact words."

I blink, frowning slightly in disbelief. "For real?"

"For real." Chuckling, he releases my wrist and waits for me to sit up beside him. "He was mean. He shouldn't have singled you out like that. You weren't the only one who was late. That kid with the greasy hair..."

"Harry?"

"Yeah, he showed up five minutes before you did and Diplock didn't say s.h.i.t."

"I did miss quite a few cla.s.ses last year though." I wasn't exactly on my best behaviour last year, that's for sure.

"It doesn't matter. It's the second day and everybody is still getting used to the new routine after six weeks of fun. Plus, you work at Crystal's coffee shop right?"

"Yeah, I finished late last night."

"It's in the sixth form guide book that if you work, you're allowed a bit of leeway with your tutors. It's only right."