if you did need to go to the toilet rather urgently. We searched high and low for you!’

‘Sorry, Sir,’ Kurt says. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘As for you girls,’ Mr Fisher continues, ‘I am not happy about today’s little scene in the lunch hall… not happy at all. I will be watching you all very carefully.’

‘Will you, Sir?’ Lily Caldwell says, fluttering her eyelashes and sticking her chest out a little. ‘Oh!’

Mr Fisher turns a startling shade of pink. ‘Off you go home,’ he says, exasperated. ‘All of you.’

The four of us straggle out into the rain. Kurt gives us a wave and strides on ahead, his school bag swinging, his flared trousers flapping gently in the breeze. Lily Caldwell huddles in the doorway, beneath a Hello Kitty umbrella, lighting a ciggy. She is trying to look cool and hard, but coughing way too much to look either.

Frances McGee falls into step beside me. ‘That girl is something else,’ she says darkly as we walk up towards Aigburth Road, dodging the puddles. ‘Poisonous little witch.’

‘Lily is not nice girl,’ I sigh.

‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ Frances says. ‘You understand a whole lot more than you let on. And you can speak, if you want to! So… friends?’ Frances tugs down her beanie hat against the rain.

‘Yes, friends,’ I tell her.

‘Call me Frankie,’ she says, and links my arm, and the two of us walk along together. ‘What a day,’ she sighs. ‘Arson, animal rights kidnappings, fights in the canteen, rat riots, detentions…’

‘School in England is not like home,’ I say carefully.

‘Well, not every day is like today,’ she laughs. ‘It’s not usually this good!’

I frown. I don’t think I’ve got the hang of this English sense of humour yet.

‘Does it rain always, in Liverpool?’ I ask.

Frankie laughs. ‘Of course not! The weather has been yucky since you arrived, I admit…’ She looks at me, her plump face kind. ‘You hate it, don’t you, Anya?’

‘No, I…’ The words have deserted me, and I wipe a hand across my face, pretending I’m wiping away raindrops and not tears.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Frankie says. ‘Who knows, you might even get to like it. Miracles do happen!’

Yeah, right. Then again, I guess it’s never too late to hope.

We turn the corner into Aigburth Road, and there on the pavement in front of the shops is… an angel.

Seriously – a dark-haired boy wearing white-feathered angel wings is standing on the kerb, facing away from us, holding a tray and a large white umbrella.

Then he turns round and I do a double take, because this is not an angel at all, it’s Dan Carney. At least, I think it is.

It’s hard to tell, because he isn’t burning exercise books or setting off fire alarms, and he isn’t scowling. He is carrying a big tray of home-made cupcakes, all pastel icing and sugar-strand sprinkles, tilting the umbrella carefully to keep them dry. His soft brown eyes are shining behind a fall of braided hair, his mouth stretched wide into a grin. Then he sees us, and his face falls.

‘Do you see what I see?’ Frankie says, holding my arm a little tighter.

‘I see,’ I tell her.

‘Angel boy,’ Frankie says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she means, because the Polish word for ‘English’ is angielski, which sounds an awful lot like the English word for ‘angel’. Dan Carney may be English, but I’m not sure if he’s an angel, even with the wings.

He looks around, as if checking for escape routes, but short of sprinting across the busy road or loitering under the awning of a shop that sells ladies’ underwear, he has nowhere to go. He stands his ground, trying to hide behind the umbrella.

‘He’s selling cakes,’ Frankie whispers. ‘Must be a part-time job. C’mon, let’s take a look!’

She drags me over, lifts up the white umbrella and pulls me under its shelter. We are face to face with Dan Carney, the mad arsonist of Year Eight. Up close, I’d swear I can see a faint pink blush beneath the caramel skin of his cheeks. I can smell vanilla, warm and sweet, but that’s probably the cakes, of course.

‘All right, Frankie?’ Dan Carney says. ‘Anya?’

He knows my name. I thought I was invisible, but Dan Carney can see me. His melted chocolate eyes hold mine over the tray of cakes, turning my insides to mush. Then the umbrella tilts, and a dribble of cold rain slides down the back of my neck, bringing me