The Tank, the infamous nickname of Attis Jones. The enforcer of the rugby team, the tallest boy in school, the boy no one would go near with a barge pole. 

Peggy sank into the chair next to him, half expecting him to take the pencil he twirled in his greyish skin and plunge it into her soft stomach. 

Instead he crossed his arms and glowered out the window. 

A chair scraped and Vivienne plonked beside her kicking her boots onto the desk. 

“Vivienne, get your feet down this instance!” Mrs Maddison yelled. Smirking, Vivienne turned to Peggy instead and asked. 

 “What’s your name?” They’d been in classes together since kindergarten. 

Peggy isn’t sure if she prefers Vivienne Stock not knowing her name, it would make her harder to find after this is all over. She glances around the room, her friends are sneaking glances at her, like they expect this girl to take a chisel to her. To watch Peggy shatter under her glares. 

“Peggy.” She declares it. Like it's a brand. Like that single word should strike fear the same way Vivenne’s name does. 

“Vivienne,” Pausing she runs her eyes over Attis, “But no one can ever spell that so you better call me Viv.”

Peggy almost says she knows who Vivienne is. People in two towns over know who Vivienne Stock is. Instead she says;

“Nice to meet you.”

Besides them, Attis shifts in his seat crossing his muscular arms over his chest. 

“You still not talking to me?” Vivienne asks him, quirking a bushy eyebrow. 

Attis grunts. 

“Right,” Mrs Maddison claps her hands together. She’s uploaded a powerpoint behind her. Teachers over the age of forty should not be allowed to use powerpoint. White background, black text. Fashion Show. Peggy’s chest lifted. “This year all Sixth Formers taking Art will enter the Herringbone-House Fashion Show. You will create three designs, pre-approved by me of course, and enter them into the contest. It is imperative we present the respectable image of St Benedict's.”

Peggy grins. This is the kind of thing she was made for. Hours spent hunched over the sewing machine, crocheting countless jumpers for her dogs, weeks creating the perfect dress for last year's prom. She was going to win this competition, she could feel it in her gut. 

“Is there a prize?” Ayla asks. 

“The group who wins first prize will receive £500 each and win their school’s art department a refurbishment.” Beside her, Vivienne dropped her feet from the desk and sat straight. “Therefore, it is essential you all produce your best work.” 

“Who will be in groups with?” Vivienne leans forward, picking at the skin around her chipped nail polish. 

“The people you are sitting with.” 

“Bloody hell.”