“I walked up to the window, raised my palm and pressed it against the pane. It left a bloodied handprint. Through the red shape—my red flag, my riot sign—I could see Neil staring at me.”

“My uniform felt like a costume. I put on a fresh coat of black nail polish. I twisted up a tube of Revlon Red and put my war paint on. I sharpened the tips of my Fierce Words so they were like a row of shiny arrows.”

“I was thinking that if it really was my fault, if every reaction could be traced to an action before, then at the very beginning would be me at the canteen queue with my twenty-dollar note instead of my packed lunch. In turn I could blame my mother for not caring enough and maybe I could blame my father for making my mum stop caring. Maybe all this was supposed to happen. It had been happening all along. It was too hard to try and stop it now. In a twisted way, there was cold comfort in that.”

“I swapped my heart for a bargaining chip a long time ago. And here I am turning it over and over again in my hand, not sure what to trade it in for.”

“You don’t give your mum enough credit for raising you, Elle. Look at you. Teenage sweetheart with a sugar shell and strychnine centre. We might as well finish speaking the truth now.”

“I grabbed Lexi’s tousled head and kissed her hair. She smelt like John-Paul Gaultier and blood.”

“So it is just you and your friends then.” “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?” Is it because we’re girls? I want to say. You think a bunch of girls are not capable of something like this?”