Isabel is sort of laid there, on a bed or a table, I don't know which, and she fixes me with one of those looks and says 'Why didn't you ask her then?'

I get a bit nervous, I go 'What do you mean?' and Isabel says with that exasperated laugh of hers, 'You know, why didn't you ask Jo when you spoke to her at break?'

I'm really nervous now, and am positive I am red (I never used to blush, I only started when I became trapped in this age and this place; when I found myself around children all the time), but try to remain composed with a 'What are you on about?' To which Isabel goes 'Jo Orton '.

Of course I know what she's on about, and I say 'Yes I know what Jo you're on about' (could it be any other?) 'but what am I meant to have asked her?'

Isabel is just giving me a look. Sixteen year olds have so many subtle looks that I've forgotten about, and I'm really not sure what this one means. Nevertheless, it seems obvious I have to say something more. So I go 'Well I did ask her to help me study French.' I did, and I blushed then too. 'As a favour.'

Isabel has raised herself up and rests her head in her left hand. 'I didn't mean that. I know about that. I want to know why you didn't ask her what you really wanted to ask her.'

I try to look confused but really all I look like is the startled teenager when they discover that their closely guarded loves and obsessions were not so closely guarded after all, that all their peers have been laughing for weeks at their inability to make action out of desire.

Isabel just fixes me again in the eyes and says simple as you like, 'Why didn't you ask her to go out with you?'

I wake up.

[the boy done wrong again]

Later, I dream that Jo is kissing me. She has her hair down and is wearing pale red lipstick. Her hair drifts between us like a veil and gets caught between our lips. I wake again and want to bawl.