Tony and Lucie are waiting for me outside. Tony sees my pack of gum and takes it from my damp hand. Goodbye, old gum, I shall never see you again.

“You look worse than when you got in.” Tony shoves five sticks of gum into his mouth. “Did you get molested again?”

Lucie’s brow furrows. “Again?”

“Why are you eating so much gum before class?” I snatch the pack back from Tony’s hand — it’s empty. “Paquin will ask you to throw it in the bin.”

“It’s an act of rebellion, Lou. You should try it, it’s good for you.”

“Again?” Lucie repeats, tugging at my sleeve.

“Don’t listen to this guy.” I take her hand and start pulling her towards the classroom. “He’s full of shit. Let’s move, we’re going to be late.” The stranger will come out of the bathroom, and I definitely don’t want to see him.

Tony slaps me on the back. “And Paquin will skewer you even more if you’re late.”

Actually, I’d be fine never having to see the stranger again, or else I’ll be doomed to remember this terrible moment. He was British; I heard it in his accent. Let it be known that I am NOT moving to London if people act like this in public toilets.

We make it to class on time. I assume my usual spot at the back of the class, which was assigned to me as punishment for previous inappropriate behaviour which included:

• Asking Madame Paquin why we always read boring-arse books.

• Drawing something crude on the whiteboard and laughing like a caveman (her words).

• Failing to hand in an essay on Shakespeare and justifying it by saying: “Rockstars don’t write essays on Shakespeare.”

Now I sit all alone at the back of the class, where I have an amazing view of Tony and Lucie, who share a table and like to laugh into their fists whenever I get called on. But my seating arrangement also has its benefits. Lars, my favourite Danish guy, is seated right in front of me. He’s freakishly tall, and I use him as a shield to hide from Paquin.

The nightmare quickly starts. Not two minutes after she enters the classroom, Paquin requests one of us to summarise the book. I watch helplessly as Lars chooses this moment to bend over and retrieve his book from his backpack, leaving my dumb face in plain view of Paquin.

“Monsieur Mésange.”

Tony’s strangled laughter reaches my ears. I promise him an act of swift revenge, somehow, someday.

“Monsieur Mésange,” Paquin repeats. “Why don’t you sum up the book for me?”

Everyone turns to look at me, which just makes it so much better. I clutch the side of my desk, a bitter taste filling my mouth. Not that I know for sure what Paquin does during the holidays, but I suspect she mostly takes meetings with her coven like the reputable witch she is. Don’t tell me it was instinct that whispered to her I was the one to interrogate this morning. I call it wizardry.

Like a sign from providence itself, a sudden knock on the door interrupts my ordeal. I promise to start worshipping Jesus immediately if this person gets me out of this nightmare. The door opens and my jaw drops when the guy from the toilet sticks his face in the opening.

Paquin slams her copy of Dorian Gray on the desk, her face flushed. “You’re late!”

A slight frown mars toilet guy’s face. “Actually, I’m new,” he says in his British accent.

A few laughs scatter across the classroom, especially from the girls. Sacha’s face has a suspicious glow to it, and I’m guessing it’s not from Paquin’s barking. Toilet guy takes his sweet time walking into the room and then he hands Paquin a note. She reads it and gives him a once-over.

“Michael Parker.”

He nods, sending his curls bouncing. A few girls descend into another round of giggles. I lean back into my chair, annoyed.

“Take a seat, Michael.”

There’s a flutter of sound around the classroom as several ladies shuffle around in their chairs, now regretting having their best friend sitting next to them when New Guy could have taken their place. There are three available seats in the classroom today. But for some mystifying reason and despite the deep scowl on my face, New Guy seems to think I’m the right choice for him. Is it because we just met in the toilet? Does that mean we’re connected now? Is this how British people make friends in England? By staring at blokes in the reflection of the mirror in public toilets? Am I the only one who thinks that’s odd? But there’s no avoiding it. New guy walks all the way to the back of the class, removes his coat, and takes the chair next to mine. Somewhere in my field of vision, Tony’s face is split open in silent laughter.

Mature, real mature, Tony. I click my tongue disapprovingly for good measure.

“So, Michael,” Paquin says in her horrid accent. “You are British.”

He puts his hands on his lap. “Guilty.”

“Welcome, Michael. Your neighbour, Monsieur Mésange, was about to give us his impressions on The Picture Of Dorian Gray.”

Damn this witch! I feel Michael’s eyes on me, as well as everybody else’s. Perhaps if I pretend to be caught up in a fit of coughing, I’ll be able to buy myself some time.

“Today, Monsieur Mésange?”

Tony is gesturing me to move it along. I’ll kill him, I swear I’ll kill him.

I jerk my head towards Toilet Guy. “I was interrupted and now I’ve forgotten everything. Why don’t you interrogate him? It’s kind of his fault, after all.”

Paquin sighs while the rest of the class laughs, either with me or at me. Hard to tell.

“Michael is new. He hasn’t read the book.”

Michael stares at my copy on the table in front of us. “Actually…”

What? What? You’ve read it? If you answer for me, I might forgive you for the toilet scene. But before my hopes get too high, Paquin raises her wrinkly hand and smashes them. “Monsieur Mésange will tell us his impressions of the book.”

Right. If she wants to play, I’ll play. All eyes are on me and it’s not like I have a choice. What did Tony say to me once? Fake it till you make it. “I liked it.” I sound confident enough. Not too confident. Just enough.

“Why did you like it?”

“I really liked the beginning. You know… with the portrait.” More laughter follows.

Paquin approaches me, hawk-like. “Have you read the book, Monsieur Mésange?”

As the laughter in the room increases, my temperature rises and my carefully crafted careless persona is about to be crushed. I meet Michael’s gaze and hate, absolutely hate, to find pity there. I don’t know this guy, he’s not my friend, and he has no right to stare at me like this.

I draw in a sharp breath. “Sure.”

“How does it end?” Paquin’s hawk eyes are extremely intimidating.

I give a sad attempt at a laugh. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for the others.”

“Everyone here has read it!” She throws her own copy of the book at our table. It bounces off; Michael catches it before it lands on the floor. “But it seems you haven’t, young man. Or tell me, how does it end?”

On my right, Michael is trying to distract me. His hands, under the table, seem to be miming either stabbing or something wildly inappropriate. I spear him with a glare, and he stops.

“He dies,” I tell Paquin. “He dies at the end.”

“How?”

“He was…” The hell with it, I have no clue. This book doesn’t even have one decent film adaptation. Remembering what Michael did under the table, I attempt, “He was stabbed.”

Paquin’s face splits into a malevolent smile. “You know, Monsieur Mésange… It truly baffles me that you wouldn’t even think of searching for a summary of the book on the internet before you came in here today. Your lack of resourcefulness is astounding.” She retrieves her book and squeezes it between her clawed hands. “As a result, you must bear the consequences. I will write to your parents about your lack of concern for the rules, and about your refusal to do basic homework.”

At least Tony has stopped laughing and has now switched to a painful grimace instead. Lucie’s eyes are brimming with empathy, which means I’ll get some proper comforting later. So, it’s not all that bad.

Enjoying the effect my humiliation is having on the class, Paquin slowly slinks back to her desk. “This year is important. You must pass all your exams, including English Literature. Enough with the slacking. To show how serious I am, I’m giving you six weeks to write a proper essay on The Picture of Dorian Gray, using a list of questions as a reference. You will work with the person sitting next to you. No exceptions, Monsieur Mésange,” she adds, watching my horrified face. Her gaze softens when she turns to Michael. “I’m sorry Monsieur Parker. I bet you regret having picked this particular seat.”

Michael looks like he’s never had a regret in his entire life. Perhaps he’s mentally impaired. Suddenly feeling very weak, and now properly shielded by Lars, I turn away from him and rest my burning face on the table. When Tony turns around to check on me, I pretend to shoot myself in the head.