for this… we must make it work. There’s no going back.’

No going back. I think of the sunlight glinting on the River Wisla, the swallows swooping, crisp white snow on the rooftops, of my best friend Nadia sitting alone next to an empty desk that used to be mine.

My heart feels cold and heavy, like a stone inside my chest.

Two weeks later, I’m still praying for a miracle. You don’t really get miracles at St Peter and Paul’s, though, just grey-faced teachers and chaotic kids and lessons that make no sense at all.

It’s not so much a school as a zoo. The pupils are like wild animals, pushing, shoving, yelling, squealing. They stared at me with curiosity those first few days, like I was a new exhibit, and I guess that’s just what I was.

I thought I was good at English, but I was wrong. At first I knew nothing, understood nothing. Words swirled around me like a snowstorm, numbing my head and making my ears ache.

I’ve tuned in to the accent now, but it’s too late. The kids have lost interest, moved on. They leave me alone, mostly. I’ve given up on trying to communicate – staying silent is safer. Pity I can’t be invisible too. I am tired of teachers who sigh and shake their heads, of kids who wave their hands about in frantic sign language or turn up the volume and yell when I don’t understand them the first time.

It’s better to keep my mouth shut. The teachers forget about me and the kids talk about me as if I am deaf as well as silent. Sometimes, I wish I was.

‘It must be tough, coming to a new country where you don’t understand the language. I feel sorry for her…’

‘You’d think she’d try, though. What’s she doing here if she doesn’t even want to learn the language? My dad says these Eastern Europeans come over here and take all the best jobs and houses…’

‘Most of them are on benefits. They don’t want to work…’

‘She looks terrified. Does she think we’re going to eat her?’

‘Well, she looks good enough to eat… hey, Blondie, sit by me, I’ll give you some English lessons!’

I think it was better when I didn’t understand.

In PSE, the kids chuck paper planes about when the teacher’s back is turned. PSE is short for Personal and Social Education. At first I didn’t understand why anyone would need lessons in how to be a balanced and sociable person, but after two weeks at St Peter and Paul’s I am beginning to see. The kids here need all the help they can get.

They roll their eyes and pass notes to each other while the teacher talks about coping with difficult feelings. Nobody is listening.

Miss Matthews is young, keen, smiley. In Krakow, the kids would have loved her, but here they read magazines beneath the desk and whisper about last night’s episode of Hollyoaks. Lily Caldwell is painting her nails under the desk, a glittery purple colour that matches her eyeshadow.

Miss Matthews writes up a title on the whiteboard: The Worst Day of My Life. She asks us to draw on our emotions and experiences, to write from the heart.

I could choose any day from the last two weeks, any day at all.

So far, I haven’t even tried to take part in the lessons. There is a support teacher in some classes, but she doesn’t speak Polish so she’s not much help. She gives me worksheets with line drawings of farmyard animals and food and clothes, along with the words in English. You have to match the words with the pictures. Fun, right?

Mostly, I sit silently, dreaming of Krakow summer skies. At the end of each lesson, I copy down the homework, close my book and forget it. How can I learn chemistry and history when I barely know the language? Why attempt French when I can’t even work out English? I have tried a little in Maths and art, where words don’t matter as much, but even there I haven’t a clue if I’m doing the right thing.

Trying to take part in PSE would be just plain crazy – my vocabulary is small, my grammar worse than useless. It would be asking for trouble. The Worst Day of my Life…

Somehow my exercise book is open. My pen moves over a clean, white page. Words pour out, words about my first day here, about hopes and dreams turning to dust in the grey corridors, about cold-eyed teachers,