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We are all up at six on Sunday morning to see to the animals and conduct the first milking of the day. After the chores are completed - something that doesn’t take as long with six workers instead of three - we have some spare time to relax before the next milking.

I suggest an idea to my father. If the girls are going to help on the farm they will need to be able to get about the fields, and the easiest way to cover the distance is by vehicle. I therefore propose to teach Mary how to drive. My father thinks about it and then nods, stating that it’s such a good idea that while I teach Mary, he will take Jill and Wendy out in the Land Rover to do the same.

After some discussion of the best location to use, he instructs me to use the far field near the river. The area is currently unused, and it won’t matter if we turn the grass to mud by driving over it.

We have been discussing the idea in private in the study. I didn’t want to suggest it in front of Mary in case he rejected the idea. I go back through to the lounge where Mary is just finishing her lemonade and is reading the gossip pages out of yesterday’s newspaper.

I instruct her to follow me, and I take her up to the bedroom where I pull out two pairs of overalls. I strip to my underwear and pull one of the boiler suits on, handing the other to Mary and telling her to do the same. She asks why, but I refuse to tell her, just saying this is part of her training.

We head down to the barn and get in the two-seater buggy. It has a four-stroke 250cc engine capable of propelling the vehicle up to 50 mph. The controls are identical to that of a car, this particular model having a four-speed gearbox instead of an automatic transmission that is fitted to many such vehicles.

I drive us out of the farm, down the farm tracks that connect all the fields. We are headed to one of our more distant fields down near the river. The ground here is boggy and too wet for growing crops, but its fine for grazing cattle. This particular field is not used very often, as it takes too long to move the cattle from here for milking. We do sometimes put the sheep here, but it’s mainly left fallow.

Mary gets out and opens the gate, as she has done several times as we cut through fields. I drive into the field and come to a stop. While Mary is closing the gate, I slip from the driver’s to the passenger seat. Mary walks up to the buggy and is surprised to find me sitting on the left.

“This is where you take over,” I state.

“Me?” Mary exclaims.

“Yes, you,” I say, “I have been driving since I was old enough to reach the pedals.”

Seeing that I’m not going to move, Mary reluctantly walks round the buggy and climbs into the driver’s position. Once she is strapped into the bucket seat, I begin to explain the controls.

“You’ve been in a car often enough to know the basics, this is nothing different. Three pedals, clutch, brake and throttle, gearstick in the centre, steering wheel in front of you. You can ignore the indicators for now, it’s not likely you’ll need them anyway as we aren’t allowed on the roads.”

It’s not legal to drive on the road until you are seventeen, and then there are limitations until you are fully qualified. Both of us are only thirteen. The two elder girls are fifteen. Therefore, we are all some way off from being able to drive on the public highway.

Following my instructions, Mary places the buggy into first gear and slowly engages the clutch. The buggy gently starts to roll forwards. I ask her to change into second gear and we cruise slowly round the field. Once moving in a straight line across the field I make her drive in figures of eight to get used to the steering, gradually speeding up so that she can get a feel for how far to turn the wheel in order to steer, as it varies depending on the speed of travel.

We carry on this exercise until the inevitable happens. Turning too fast, the rear end steps out in over steer. We spin round and end up facing backwards, the engine stalling as we do so. I have been waiting for this to happen, so I’m not surprised. Mary is slightly shaken by this.

“I knew that would happen, don’t worry about it. You now have a feel for how the buggy behaves. You should be able to get a feel for when you are about to lose grip by the weight of the wheel,” I explain. “Let’s try again, only this time try to keep control by steering into the slide with opposite lock. If we do end up in the wrong direction, declutch so we don’t stall. We have plenty of room to play without hitting anything; I will tell you if we start to get to close to the edge of the field.”

After an hour of driving round the field, Mary has the hang of basic control and is able to travel about using the full range of gears. I decide that we have spent enough time in the field and ask her to drive us down some of the tracks, taking the scenic route back to the farm. She also needs to learn the various routes through the fields, and this is the best way to do it.

As we drive down one of the tracks we have to stop and pull off to let the Land Rover past. It is being driven by Jill. My father is in the passenger seat and Wendy is in the rear.

Wendy does occasionally drive vehicles, but isn’t confident, so usually avoids it whenever possible. She won’t be getting away with that today. My father is concentrating on training Jill, as she is the least experienced, but will be making Wendy take her turn. Both the girls are over a year away from being able to drive on the roads, but there is no harm in learning. They will have a head start amongst their peers. We have a number of private roads and tracks at our disposal, where driving doesn’t require a licence.

We set off once more, swiftly but safely bumping down the tracks around the fields. We turn a bend and have to pull up sharply as a group of ramblers are walking down the middle of the track in our way.

“Hey, watch where you are going,” shouts one of the men. “What do you young hooligans think you are doing tearing up the countryside anyway? You’ll scare the cattle.”

Hitting the release on my belt buckle, I quickly get out of the vehicle before replying, “None of the cattle round here will take a blind bit of notice of the noise, in fact as we deliver feed using these buggies, they will probably come to investigate to see if there is anything on offer.”

“How old are you? You both look too young to drive,” a woman with slightly greying hair asks.

“Our age isn’t relevant, as long as your legs are long enough to push the pedals and you’re strong enough to turn the wheel then there isn’t an issue,” I reply. “Now would you kindly move to the side so we can pass?”

“I’m not sure you two should be driving that thing,” the woman continues in a condescendingly snotty voice. “Where are your parents? You should be properly supervised; I have a good mind to call the police out here.”

I sigh. Why do these idiots have to be awkward?

“Good luck with that, even if you manage to get a signal out here the chances of getting the local plod off their backsides is fairly remote,” I state, “especially as the only crime being committed is trespass, and we’re not the ones on private land without permission. This track isn’t listed as a public right of way, if you’re after the Angles Way, then that’s three fields over in that direction. If you take a right ahead at the next fork, you’ll end up in a field next to the footpath. There’s a gate you can use to get back on the public right of way. However, you may have to climb over it as I think it’s locked. Be careful of the goats, the billy goat is a bit boisterous and may decide to charge at you if you get too close to the flock. Now please stand aside, we’re running late for lunch.”

I climb back in the buggy and strap myself in. I instruct Mary to ease the machine forward towards the people, who move to the side as we edge past. As soon as we are clear I tell Mary to floor it, which she does leaving a cloud of dust behind us as we skid down the track towards the farm. They shouldn’t be in too much danger from the goats, even if the old billy does try to ram them, although that doesn’t happen very often. More than likely they will get their clothes chewed if they wander too close, which serves them right for straying from the right path.

We turn up in plenty of time for lunch. My father arrives around ten minutes later with Wendy driving. Mary and I are in the showers when they return. We are covered in dust from speeding down the dirt tracks, so take the opportunity to freshen up while we can. Mary dons jeans and a t-shirt and I opt for my denim dress over the top of a white camisole.

We settle down to a nice roast dinner. I’m at the sink washing up when there is a knock on the kitchen door as Jason Yearly comes in.

“Hi everybody, hope I’m not interrupting,” he states as he enters.

I freeze on the spot. I was so focussed on the dishes that I hadn’t seen Jason’s approach out of the window, and although I’m facing away from him, the is no way I can extradite myself from the room without drawing attention. I take a few deep breaths and decide to carry on washing up, putting my concentration into the task, so that I don’t think about my situation and faint.

“I was wondering if I could borrow some of your lovely young ladies here,” Jason continues without batting an eyelid. “The milking sheds are back up and working at Elm Tree Farm, so the cows are going home tomorrow. Trouble is, although I was keeping ’em separate from me own, I had a short in that electric fencing. The cows managed to escape the field and mix in with my lot. I’ve rounded them all up, but I need a hand sorting out whose is whose.”

“I think we can manage that, can’t we girls?” my father replies, trying to hide the worry in his voice and distract Jason from looking in my direction. I still have my back to him, although I can see his reflection in the metal meat dish I have just washed up.

“I know you have your own cattle to sort out, so if I can just borrow these four lasses, I’m sure we can get the job done. Janice has gone to her mother’s for the afternoon, and won’t be back until this evening, so I’m on my own until then. Therefore it won’t matter if it’s Simon or your daughter who decides to come, it doesn’t bother me,” Jason responds. Turning in my direction he adds, “I assume you use a name other than Simon when out as a girl?”

There is an awkward silence in the room. I slowly turn round to face the old family friend, “I go by Jasmine now. You don’t have a problem with me being dressed like this?”

“Why would I?” the farmer shrugs, “you can count cattle just as well in a dress as jeans. Look, if you’re worried about my wife, don’t be. I’ve known for over a week about your change of lifestyle, and I’m okay with it. I figure you have your reasons and I can understand you wanting to keep it secret considering Janice’s tizzy over the subject.”

“How did you know about me?” I ask.

“I heard about the boy attending school as a girl, and how you reacted to it at the mardle-meet,” Jason answered, referring to the farmers’ wives get-together. “She was getting her knickers in a twist about a boy living as a girl. I personally couldn’t care less. Your parents asked me to look after the farm when they suddenly needed to go up the school. Then I see you coming home in a girl’s school uniform and I figured it must be connected. Can’t be more than one boy attending as a girl.”

“I thought you didn’t see us,” my father states.

“That I did,” Jason replies, “but figuring it be none of my business, I ducked back into the cow shed.”

We all just stand speechless that he knew and didn’t say anything.

“Wendy,” Jason turns to the elder girl, “Heard about your spat with your mother. Wish I could have seen the look on her face when you kissed Jill. If I knew what you were planning, I would have made sure to come and watch. As it was, I didn’t want any involvement with their stupid protest and figured I would be needed to step in and cover here on this farm if the Whittakers got called up the school.”

Having cleared the air, with it seeming that Jason doesn’t mind our revelations over gender and sexuality, the five of us - Jason and we four girls - drive over to the Yearly farm to help sort the cows. I stay in girl mode, not bothering to change out of my dress.

We collect the cows and bring them down to the yard. We set up some metal fencing, creating a corridor down which the cattle can walk. There is a Y-shaped fork in the chute we create, with gates so that we can send the cows in different directions.

Mary and Jill operate the flow control gates while Wendy and I persuade the herd to co-operate. They don’t seem to want to behave, so we have to reinforce the instructions using some lumps of two by four. Cows have thick hides, so you have to slap them fairly hard in order for them to feel it. Jason oversees the process and directs the cattle into the two pens. He identifies each beast by the numbered tag in their ears.

It takes us a couple of hours to set up the fencing, split the cattle, move them into separate fields, and then tidy everything up. After we finish we all head indoors for a well-earned cup of tea. Jason hands rounds some large bars of chocolate, having obviously bought some as a reward.

“Thanks, girls, I couldn’t manage that by myself,” Jason says. Looking at the clock he adds, “I better be getting you lot home, Janice will be back soon, and I suspect you won’t want to meet her.”

As I’m still in full girl mode, and could do without a confrontation at the moment, I decide it best to head off. As we drive back towards our own farm, Jason calls for me to duck as he recognises the car coming in the other direction. He waves to his wife as she passes, hopefully not recognising me between the two other girls on the back seat.

We spend the evening relaxing in front of the telly after a tiring but productive day.

It is with some trepidation that I enter the school on Monday. For the first time, I am openly entering the building without any head covering. Up until now, I have been too self-conscious to appear without my wig or headscarf, my hair being to masculine for my liking.

The only minor exception to this was when I turned up at school last week during the demonstration, but even then, I snuck past everybody and covered my head as quickly as possible once I was past the protesters.

I’m not keen on looking like a boy, and my new hairstyle is definitely feminine despite its ultra-short length. However, I’m concerned that it may be pushing the rules a fraction. The school likes students to appear businesslike, and reserves the right to send home any pupil with an outlandish hairstyle. I suspect my two-tone hair with shaved patterns may be of borderline compliance.

As soon as I walk into the classroom for registration, I’m drawing attention. I get several comments from the other girls, complimenting me on my haircut. Josh comments that it looks cute, which causes me to blush. This also gets him some ribbing from the boys, but everything is light-hearted and doesn’t appear to be nasty.

Mr Francis walks into the room and glances in my direction with raised eyebrows.

“Morning, Sir,” I say, “If this haircut is too radical for school, then I will go back to wearing my wig or headscarf. I wasn’t comfortable walking round with a male haircut and this is the best that we could come up with that’s at least somewhat feminine-looking given my short hair.”

The room has settled down and fallen silent, waiting to see if I’m in trouble. Mr Francis strokes his chin in contemplation before asking me to stand and slowly turn round so he can take in the full effect. Feeling slightly self-conscious with all eyes on me, I do as he requests.

“I can understand why you have opted for the style,” Mr Francis states, “and I think it suits you. You are pushing the limits of what is acceptable, but the rules are subjective and open to interpretation. I’m not going to reprimand you for it, but some of the other teachers may object. I suggest you keep your wig or headscarf handy and offer to cover you head if needs be.”

I smile and nod in relief. The register is taken and we all answer when our names are called in turn.

“We have an assembly this morning. However, I need Jasmine and Mary to remain here, don’t worry you’re not in trouble. The rest of you, please proceed to the drama studio,” Mr Francis instructs.

Everyone else gets up and departs leaving Mary and I behind. Mr Francis tells us that Dr Lambert would like to speak with us and will be along shortly. He then follows the class to the assembly to make sure they behave in an orderly fashion.

A minute later Dr Lambert shows up with Jill in tow. I assume she must want to talk about our home arrangements.

“Hello, girls,” Dr Lambert greets us as she takes a seat opposite where we’re sitting. Jill sits down on a nearby chair. “I need to speak with you all and this seemed the best time to do this. As you may know, I am the school counsellor, and in that capacity look after the welfare of the students. I am also the liaison for social services. In that capacity I need to speak to the two Miss Greens about their situation, and I would also like to talk to you, Miss Whittaker, about how you are getting on.”

“Fire away,” Jill responds. “We’ll go first as I suspect you may need more time with Jasmine, and if we overrun then it will only be one of us missing lessons.”

“Okay, Jasmine would you please wait outside?” Dr Lambert asks.

I go to stand up, but Jill puts a hand on my shoulder saying, “There is no need for Jasmine to leave, we are staying with her family, and I think that our lives are now intertwined in such a way that both subjects you want to discuss are closely linked and overlap.”

Dr Lambert looks at Mary, who has now grabbed my hand so that I don’t disappear. I shrug my shoulders.

“In that case, let’s begin,” declares Dr Lambert. “Jill, Mary, I understand you were abandoned by your mother and forced to leave your home.”

“The bitch has pissed off to Poland,” Mary angrily replies, “She was paying the rent by screwing the landlord, so it doesn’t take much to guess what happened once she sodded off with her new toy boy.”

“Luckily for us, Mr Whittaker turned up to pay us a visit, the same time as the landlord, and he was able to extract us from the situation,” Jill adds. “I have been bombarding that woman, who I refuse to refer to as my mother, with text messages and phone calls to her mobile in the hope that she actually decides to pay some attention to us. If the slut is actually sober enough she may be able to fax over a letter handing over guardianship of us to the Whittakers.”

“I’m guessing there is no need to ask your opinions of your mother,” Dr Lambert states, “That is quite obvious from your choice of language. How are you getting on living with the Whittakers?”

“It’s the lap of luxury compared to how we were living,” Jill answers. “We no longer have to worry about such things as the power going off due to unpaid bills, or the lack of hot water due to not being able to afford to heat it. We are provided with a balanced diet and don’t have to worry where the next meal is coming from. Despite what Jasmine may say, her parents are very nice people, and very accommodating and open-minded individuals.”

“Jasmine, how are you getting on now?” Dr Lambert enquires, “What are your thoughts on how the Greens regard your parents? I assume you are comfortable talking in front of them, or would you prefer to continue in private?”

“I regard these two as sisters. I have learnt my lesson and don’t keep secrets from family,” I reply in answer to her second question. I see Mary tear up at my description of our relationship, and I put my arm round her to comfort her.

“I must admit that I was wrong about my parents on a lot of things,” I declare, “they are nowhere near as intolerant and bigoted as I believed them to be. They haven’t murdered me, or disowned me and chucked me out, as I expected them to. In fact, they have been very supportive. Things are still a little tense, but they have been willing to accept me for what I am. They are also rebuilding bridges with my brother.”

“Are you seeing a psychiatrist now?” she asks. “I did write to your doctor and ask for him to arrange an appointment as swiftly as possible.”

“Sort of,” I reply, “I had a meeting with Dr Patel the weekend before last, which turned out to be a complete waste of time. We didn’t get on at all and ended up with a complete breakdown in communications. I am scheduled to see a Dr George in a fortnight’s time, so hopefully that will go a lot smoother. I met up with Dr Truman and an endocrinologist, Dr Stirzaker. They have placed me on a low dosage of hormones to maintain healthy bone growth, but not enough to send me into puberty in either direction.”

“It sounds like everything is going smoothly enough and that you are all happy with the situation,” Dr Lambert affirms, “You will be receiving a visit from a social worker to make sure everything is legal and above board, but I suspect Mr Whittaker has everything in order. If any of you want to speak to me in private, for any matter, come and find me.”

Dr Lambert leaves us alone in the empty classroom, there is still a minute or two before the rest of the students arrive back from assembly and the first lesson starts. Jill hugs both of us, and on her suggestion, we head to the bathroom for a wash so that nobody else knows that we have gotten emotional. Mary especially, is showing signs of having been crying. Jill also shed a tear. I am the only one who remained dry-eyed, but feel like I need to freshen up anyway.

We emerge just as the other students are passing the door heading towards the classroom. We slip out and follow them back to our homeroom to collect our bags and head to the first lesson. Jill sets off down the corridor in the opposite direction to do the same.

The day progresses well. Being a Monday means P.E., which once again means going into the changing rooms. My nervousness has now gone, as I’m not regarded as any different from the other girls. We are practicing hockey again, which although tiring, is fun.

My new hairstyle gets a few comments, but overall I don’t seem to have any trouble. Unfortunately, this changes during the last lesson of the day, which this week is Geography. Mrs Gardener - often referred to behind her back as ‘Grumpy Gardener’ - is an older woman with greying hair. She isn’t particularly liked and has a reputation for being strict and vindictive towards her students. She also comes across as being slightly old-fashioned in her values, often comparing modern teenage behaviour to an idealised view of how things were when she was young.

We operate a two-week timetable, and there are several slots that vary over the fortnight. This is one of them. We alternate between doing History and Geography on different weeks. This is the first time I will have been in Mrs Gardener’s lesson without my wig. I don’t think she has actually seen me in only a headscarf, although a memo was circulated to the teachers stating I wear a wig or headscarf for medical reasons.

I realise I have made a mistake as soon as I walk in the door. In retrospect, I would have been wise to put my wig on before entering. I did think about this at lunchtime, but I didn’t really give it much consideration until I walked in the door.

“Miss Whittaker, what on earth have you done to your hair?” Mrs Gardener shouts as I sit down.

The room falls silent as the rest of the students take their seats, waiting for my response. Everybody knows that once she gets started in a bad mood, she snaps at everyone. It’s looking like this is going to be a tiresome lesson right from the start. I decide there is no point in answering, as it’s obvious from looking what’s been done, therefore I assume it’s a rhetorical question.

“You had perfectly good hair, yet you’re openly flouting the school rules on sensible styles by cutting it ridiculously short and shaving patterns into the side,” she continues, “you are lucky you are not in my form, you would have been sent home at morning registration. In my day girls looked like girls, not trying to make themselves looks stupid or like boys in drag.”

That comment really hits a nerve. I can hear several of my friends gasp, and several pairs of worried eyes look in my direction, concerned about how I might react. I’m aware that short hair is associated with boys. I accept that. I’m also aware that I have masculine features, something that I actively try to combat. I have two basic responses to such comments. Either I become upset, or I become angry, depending on how comfortable I’m feeling about my appearance. As I am comfortable with how I look, the comment annoys me more than being hurtful.

“I take it you don’t like my choice of style,” I reply flatly. I can see Lisa wince out of the corner of my eye. She has obviously detected the anger in my speech, and having been on the receiving end of my last outburst, recognises the danger signs.

“No I do not,” Mrs Gardener confirms. “Who is your form tutor? I will be having words regarding your conduct.”

“Mr Francis, who is fully aware of why I have this unusual style, and hasn’t complained for the simple reason I can switch back to my previous haircut if anybody objects,” I state, pulling the wig out of my bag and placing it on my head. I have put it on enough times to know how to position it by feel without needing to look in a mirror. Several of my fellow students are trying to stifle giggles at my reaction.

Mrs Gardener just looks on speechless. I have caught her completely off guard. It’s obvious that she doesn’t pay much attention to the school memos that are sent round the teachers.

“I’ve always had short hair, I just kept it hidden. Up until now, I have been wearing my wig to lessons, as I agree that my hair was looking too masculine, and I certainly have no desire to appear as a boy in drag. I’ve had it styled to look more feminine and as this wig isn’t the most comfortable of headwear, I have opted to leave my head uncovered,” I declare. “If you prefer I can go back to wearing the wig, or alternatively I have the headscarf I was wearing last week, which isn’t as warm. I don’t like having my hair this short, but until it grows out, I can’t do much about it. Now if you have finished insulting my appearance, can we get on with the lesson?”

I see Mrs Gardener is taken aback by my response. She quickly recovers, turning from shocked back into angry, “How dare you speak to me like that? I will not have such insubordination in my class.”

“Just because you’re a teacher, it doesn’t make you god,” I reply, “nor does it give you automatic rights to insult and bully your students. You asked me what I had done to my hair, and I gave you an answer. If you don’t like the answer, then that is your problem.”

I keep eye contact with Mrs Gardener, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see the concerned reaction from my classmates. The last person to speak to this teacher in this manner was put in isolation for a week and had to take all their lessons in Mr Holroyd’s office. Mr Holroyd is our deputy headmaster and is responsible for overseeing disruptive students.

Mrs Gardener obviously doesn’t like my answer, but she angrily starts the lesson anyway. The subject we are covering is agricultural land use, something that I have a better understanding of than the majority of students, due to growing up on a farm.

After lecturing us on the subject, she starts to snipe questions at us. I seem to be coming in for a lot of attention from Mrs Gardener, with two thirds of the questions being aimed in my direction, and the other third at the usual suspects that she doesn’t like. However, unlike the normal targets of her abuse - the students who don’t do well academically in this subject or are otherwise unruly - I can actually answer the questions correctly. This seems to annoy her even more.

This routine continues for twenty minutes, and the tension in the room is not diminishing.

“Jasmine, I suppose you would know the major environmental impact of cows?” Mrs Gardener sarcastically throws the question in my direction.

“Firstly, they’re not cows,” I say pointing to the crappy photograph that the teacher is projecting onto the screen at the front of the class, “they’re bulls. You can try and milk them if you like, but the fluid you would get wouldn’t be drinkable.”

This causes some laughter from a few of the students, which annoys Mrs Gardener even more, and she applies a Paddington hard stare at the pupils emitting the sound.

“There are three major outputs from the cattle industry: Milk, Meat and Methane,” I continue to say, “You want to cut down on the greenhouse gases, stop worrying about cars or building stupid wind farms, and find a way to make cows fart less.”

“Wind farms aren’t stupid. They are an important source of clean energy, and watch your language,” Mrs Gardener replies angrily.

Great, it would appear that Mrs Gardener is an environmentalist, the emphasis being on the mental aspect. This is another pet peeve of mine, and I roll my eyes as I state, “Wind isn’t constant and therefore not a reliable source of energy. In order to have power when the wind drops you have to have a conventional power station on standby to take over. You can’t simply fire a power station up at a moment’s notice, they have to be running constantly whether they are putting power into the grid or not, they are still burning fuel. The more wind farms you build, the more conventional power stations you need to provide backup. Therefore, they don’t actually reduce the carbon dioxide emissions. That is without including the amount of energy you need to make the things in the first place, which greatly increases their carbon footprint.”

“I have had enough of your insolence, young lady,” the teacher angrily declares. “How would you like to spend the rest of the lesson in Mr Holroyd’s office?”

“That suits me fine,” I reply sharply. “Perhaps then I can get an education from somebody who knows what they are talking about, rather than from someone who can’t even tell the difference between a cow and a bull.”

I am at the end of my temper, and I can feel my head pounding again. I snatch my exercise book and pen off the desk, grab my bag, and start to head out of the door as Mrs Gardener completely loses her temper. Ignoring her raving, I calmly walk out into the corridor as an object whizzes past my head and smashes the glass in the door. Catching the object, the whiteboard eraser, I continue away from the classroom.

I walk through the empty corridors round to Mr Holroyd’s office. It is situated opposite the library and only a short distance through the school from where I have just come. I knock on the door, but don’t receive an answer. I wait a few second before knocking again and opening the door slightly. Poking my head round the door, I find the room to be unoccupied.

I enter the office, closing the door behind me. I don’t know where our deputy head is, but as this is where I was instructed to go, I decide this is as good a place as any to wait for the end of the lesson. As well as the teacher’s desk, there is a second desk set up for any unruly students sent for supervision. Pulling my exercise books out, I sit at the desk in the corner and start to do some of my homework.

Working in silence, I’m able to relax and my headache goes away again as I calm down. I could really do without the stress of arguing with teachers.

About ten minutes before the end of the lesson, the door opens and Mr Henry enters the room.

“Ah, there you are. We were wondering where you got to,” he states.

“I guess I’m going to be in detention again?” I answer.

Mr Henry brings the chair out from behind Mr Holroyd’s desk and sits down beside me. He asks for my side of the story, so I explain the events leading up to my walking out. I hand him the whiteboard eraser.

“Thank you, Jasmine,” he says. “What you have told me corroborates what the other students have reported. After you walked out several other students got up and started to leave. Mrs Gardener continued shouting, and a couple of the other teachers in neighbouring classrooms intervened and took her to the staffroom. I was phoned to come and take over the lesson. Mr Holroyd was covering in one of the nearby classrooms, and is keeping an eye on things.”

“I’m sorry if I overreacted, but I refuse to be insulted without good reason,” I reply. “Mrs Gardener overstepped her authority, and I admit I lost my temper as well, but I stand by my actions.”

“Don’t worry; I think you did the right thing. It also appears that the whole incident has been recorded. I have listened to the outbursts by both of you, and Mrs Gardener will be taking leave until further notice,” Mr Henry states. Seeing my puzzlement he continues, “Charles recorded everything: something Mrs Gardener forgot about.”

Charley is one of the boys in the class. He is partially deaf and wears two large hearing aids all the time. Because he doesn’t always catch what is being said, he has an MP3 player hanging round his neck and he records all his lessons in case he needs to refer to them later. Such devices are usually banned, but he has been given an exception.

He normally keeps it out of sight under his shirt, with the only evidence of its existence being a small microphone on his collar. As such, most people don’t realise it’s there, or forget about its presence, as I had done. It seems that he had it operational from the outset and it’s recorded our argument.

I’m led back to the classroom. As soon as I enter, I’m immediately surrounded in a group hug by my friends. It seems they were worried I might have done something stupid. I think I scared Lisa when I broke down last time.

We wait patiently until the final bell of the day. We are dismissed and head towards our lockers to collect our things. The route takes us past the staff room. As we approach, the door opens and Mrs Gardener emerges. On seeing me, she immediately becomes irate and starts shouting abuse at me, storming forward in my direction.

The difference this time is that she has obviously become aware of my status, as she is now accusing me of being a pervert and using male pronouns.

A large Year 11 boy steps between us, preventing her from reaching me. The young man is getting on for six feet and would appear to be well-built. He physically blocks her approach as I back away. Mr Henry shouts from behind me for the woman to calm down. He had been following us back through the school on his way to the main office.

Mrs Gardener, seeing that all eyes are on her, decides to retreat and returns to the staff room, escorted by several other members of staff.

“Nothing to see here,” Mr Henry says loudly to the gathered crowd, “please be on your way.”

He is looking directly at me during the last statement, so I take the hint and get out of the way before anything else happens.

The confrontation in the corridor has shaken me up. The sudden shock of the abuse has set my head pounding again as the adrenaline hits me. My vision has started to de-saturate again as it did when I confronted Bart and David. I manage to make it to the cycle sheds, but as soon as I’ve ridden out of the grounds I have to come to a halt. The thumping of my heartbeat in my ears is becoming deafening as my vision starts to fade further.

We pull up at a children’s playground near the school. I can’t ride any further, and get off my bike. I swing the stand down, leaving the bike by itself. I quickly sit on a nearby swing before I collapse. My legs are shaking and I can barely stand, let alone cycle. I grab onto the chains holding the seat, wrapping my shaking arms round and grabbing the metal tightly to stop myself from falling off. I close my eyes, as I can no longer see for the tears streaming down my face.

I can faintly hear my friends speaking, but can’t make out what they are saying. It seems to be getting dark, which is unusual as we should be several hours off sunset.