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waving its feelers, wandered onto the second question, then took off to bother Lissa Hargreaves in front of me. She had a fit, of course, because it wasn’t her wasp. It was my wasp and it had come to tell me that I was going to Oxford. Eventually Mrs Wills came over and shooed it away with a copy of Rules for Candidates.
    I finished with five minutes to spare, had a quick read through, tingling; then, as Mrs Wills was cruising the aisles with treasury tags, I took all my hair-grips out and checked all the tops on my highlighters. I was high as a kite. When she said to us all, You may go now, I pulled my cardigan on, grabbed my little plastic bag and half-ran for the door. Rebecca caught me up and we fell into step, comparing notes. Really though I was thinking of the bacon bap I would shortly be ordering in the canteen.
    ‘I was so not prepared for that Lawrence question. I’ve made a total mess of the ending, I ran out of time. I just hadn’t revised enough,’ she gabbled.
    We both knew this wasn’t true. It was something you said, schoolgirl etiquette. ‘Me neither,’ I said.
    We made our way down the stone steps and past the gallery of school photographs, all those glossy Head Girls and Prefects, and on the bottom row a decade of guide dogs bought with silver foil.
    ‘Don’t you wish you could have your essays back for another hour, sort them all out?’ Rebecca glanced back at the office with a convincing expression of longing. Maybe she had cocked up. ‘Which Hardy question did you do?’
    Now we were walking through the undercroft, nearly at the canteen. The wind blew Rebecca’s short straight hair up off her high forehead. Her plainness annoys me at odd moments, and I know it’s unreasonable, people in glass houses and all that. At least she wears better clothes than me. And if she’s got no bust to speak of, it seems a small price to pay for not having a vast backside.
    ‘The one on landscape.’ I grimaced. ‘Aren’t we all just flies crawling across the giant tablecloth of fate?’
    ‘Plus, we’d gone over it in class. Yeah, I think I did OK on that question.’ She held the door open with a slender arm, then a frown creased her brow. ‘God, I don’t know, though. I might go and see Mrs Clements about it after dinner, get her to talk me through it. Do you want to come?'
    ‘What’s the point?’ I ducked past her into the canteen; the smell was wonderful. ‘It’s finished now. Try and forget it.’ I nudged her into the back of the dinner queue and we leant against the wall while Year Sevens dithered at the front. ‘Listen, while I remember, I want to ask you something. I’ve been thinking of changing my name.’
    ‘Your name?’ Rebecca looked at me as though I was mad. ‘To what?’
    ‘Kat. I want you to call me Kat from now on.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Well, I like it. I think it’s more me .’
    ‘Kat?’
    ‘Yeah.’ I soldiered on. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to change your name? Becky, Bekka, Bex, Beckham? You know, for fun?’
    Rebecca shook her head. ‘Actually, I hate it when people shorten my name.’ You would, I thought. ‘But if you really want me to call you Kat, I’ll try not to forget.’ There was just that hint of disapproval in her voice. Kat? Kat? What next? Tattoos and class-A drugs? The line shuffled forward and she started to get her money out.
    Suddenly I slapped my sides with a sensation of panic. ‘Bloody hell.’
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘Oh, hell , I’ve gone and left my purse in the exam room.’ I knew exactly where it was. I’d got up and walked out with it draped over the back of my chair. It’s another pre-exam ritual I have, the removal of the purse. Besides, it digs in when I lean over.
    ‘Do you mean your belt thingy?’ Rebecca began to rummage through her bag. ‘I might have enough change, well, if you just wanted a snack. I could lend you—’
    ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll have to go and get it, I can’t leave it there for somebody to