little groups, chatting. I have no friends to chat with, so I lurk at a distance, hugging my satchel. That’s when I see Kurt Jones, skulking along the side of the running track, behind the lines of Year Eight pupils.

He sees me watching and brings a finger up to his lips, eyes wide above the rim of his glasses, asking me to be quiet. Well, that’s easy. When am I ever anything else?

Kurt sneaks closer, coming to a halt beside me.

‘I don’t think they’ve missed me,’ he says. ‘Have they?’

I bite my lip and nod, and Kurt’s face comes to life.

‘You know what I’m saying!’ he says. ‘Awesome!’ His smile falters. ‘Um… so, they definitely know I was missing?’

I nod again.

‘Well, no worries. It’s not like they can prove anything. Unless they actually catch me with the evidence –’

Mr Fisher’s voice booms out across the grass. ‘Kurt Jones! Come here this minute!’

‘Oops. Speaking of evidence, I’d best get rid of it – for now, anyway. Hang on to this for me – and keep it hidden!’ He pulls something out from under his blazer and stuffs it into my satchel, then strides towards Mr Fisher and Miss Matthews.

‘Where’ve you been, Kurt?’ Lily Caldwell pipes up. ‘Popped out to the charity shop for those gorgeous crimplene flares, did you? You’re so cool!’

Kurt ignores the jibe. The Head herds him away, and he looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows at an anxious slant. I hold my fingers to my lips, and he rewards me with a smile.

When they are out of sight, I delve into my satchel to see just what he’s planted on me.

My fingers slide across books, gym kit, pencil case, then recoil in horror as they touch something warm and furry.

I blink. No… no way. I must have imagined it.

I reach down again, then jump back as something soft and fast and panic-stricken darts away from my touch. Kurt Jones has put a small, furry animal in my satchel. I lift up the flap and peer inside, and a small, pale, pointy face with beady black eyes and a twitching nose stares back at me.

It’s a rat.

The really annoying thing about Kurt Jones is that he has vanished off the face of the earth, leaving me stranded with a rat in my satchel. This is not good.

I don’t even like rats – their yellow teeth and twitching whiskers make me nervous, and their tails look pink and naked. I can’t help thinking of a fairy tale Mum used to tell me, about a town plagued by rats and a mysterious piper who lured first the rats and then the town’s children away into the mountains. That story always made me shiver.

Still, this rat is clearly tame. It’s a creamy colour, with fawn and brown patches and very bright eyes. I just can’t work out what it’s doing in my satchel.

By the time the fire brigade have checked over every inch of the school for smouldering exercise books, it’s past midday. We trail back to Miss Matthews’s classroom to collect up stray bags and hand in our folders. Dan Carney’s desk is no longer heaped with flaming paper or mountains of foam, though there is a slightly charred look about it. The bell rings for lunch and I slope off to the canteen. And there is still no sign of Kurt Jones.

I think the rat is hungry, because he has eaten most of my language worksheet. It’s the one about food, which is kind of appropriate. I choose a rat-friendly lunch, heaping my plate with lettuce, tomato and cheese salad.

I find a corner table and lift my satchel flap. The rat peers out, eyes glinting, whiskers twitching. I offer him a tomato, but he just sniffs and looks up at me, reproachfully. I’m tempting him with morsels of lettuce when Frances McGee slides into a seat across from me.

‘Salad?’ she says, frowning at my plate. ‘That’s rabbit food.’

Rat food, actually, but I don’t say anything. Frances has a tray heaped high with pizza and chips, a can of Coke, a packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate and a large helping of apple pie and custard. She is obviously not a salad kind of girl.

I stuff a slice of cheese into my satchel and fasten the straps firmly. I am pretty sure rats are not allowed in the school canteen, not even tame ones.

‘You don’t say much,’ Frances comments, biting into her pizza. ‘Everyone thinks you’re either dim or stuck