And By The Way (Chapter 1)

ONE | THE ROCKSTAR

OK. So it's 3.40 p.m. All anyone's thinking of is going home. In ten minutes. Make that nine. At the top of the class, Ms Kelly (think sparrow) is rocking onto her tiptoes and off them again, waiting for an answer to the question she's just asked.

'What is a friend?'

We're sixteen years old. I think, by now, we know what a friend is. No one's going to answer a question that lame. I scan the class. Tired and bored sums up everyone. Including me. But then, a voice. It's Sarah, a friend of mine, who's so not into this touchy-feely stuff.

'A friend,' she says, looking meaningfully at Rachel beside her, 'is someone who returns texts.'

Uh-oh.

'Yes, Sarah. Very good,' says Tiptoes, cheerfully missing the point. 'Someone who returns text messages.' She looks around. 'Anyone else?'

Mark Delaney's hand goes up. The class stirs. Delaney fakes Attention Deficit Disorder so he doesn't have to work. That he's actually paying attention is, like, a total novelty.

'A friend,' he says, 'doesn't lose it when you point out that her fake tan's patchy.' This is directed at Orla Tempany.

Who's already snapping back, 'A friend wouldn't say something like that in front of a whole class.'

And suddenly it no longer matters that we're minutes from freedom.

'A friend pays back what they borrow,' says Peter Sweetnam to Simon Kelleher.

'A friend doesn't leave you alone on the dance floor.' (Amy Gilmore.)

'All right. All right,' says Tiptoes, raising both palms towards us. 'Some very good examples of respecting each other and, yes, respect is a big part of friendship.' She places her hands gently together, like a nun. 'But I'm looking for something else, another essential element of friendship.'

She is Buzz Lightyear, who thought he was a superhero, but was just a toy. She thinks she gets us. She so doesn't. If she hadn't butted in, we might have got a decent debate going for a change. I check the clock. Four minutes. If everyone stays quiet, maybe she'll just let us go.

'A friend is someone who listens.' David McFadden says it simply, in his usual laid-back way. I look at him like he's a total loser, because if there's one person who bugs me, it's David McFadden. He just smiles and starts to close his books. Which is when I get it: the only reason he answered the question was to get the lesson over with.

It's worked.

'All right, people.' (I wish she wouldn't call us that.) 'Don't forget. The sailing course starts tomorrow. So, no showing up here at nine. It's down at the Motor Yacht Club.'

The class starts to empty. Rachel and Sarah make their way to my desk, as usual. They glide, rather than walk, movements fluid, posture perfect. Catwalk material. Rachel's a cross between Pocahontas (the hair) and Anne Hathaway (the face). Sarah's more Paris Hilton (but good-looking).

'I didn't actually get your text,' Rachel's saying. 'I told you that.'

'It sent OK.'

'Well, I didn't get it.'

'Let's get out of here,' I say, and start to walk. They follow, still arguing.

'I was just making a point.' (Sarah.)

'Well, you didn't need to. I return most of your texts.'

'Most. Not all.'

'Some of them, Sarah, don't need an answer,' Rachel says.