CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

46: THE FALL

            Next morning, I'm out of the house before six. I told Nicolás we had extra maths olympiad practice which I doubt he bought but he also didn't prod. I didn't tell him about trying to apply to Stellatus. I mean, inevitably I'll fail—I did decide not to show up to half of my GCSE exams—and it'll be embarrassing if he gets his hopes up.

Darkness reigns the world still. Black is interrupted only when I skate past a door as it opens and the tarmac floods with light. The glow elevates ice to a coat of glitter until I'm past it and the lack of friction regresses to nowt but a safety hazard.

I know I shouldn't skate but the ice has finally become even enough to make it possible and I'm not wasting the opportunity. The ride is smoother than the cement at the skatepark. I've missed the thrill of speed, even when it comes with a wind that threatens to skin my cheeks.

I deny myself music. Pathirana's advice for writing personal statements cycles in my head. I tried to jot down summat last night but couldn't conjure up a single word. A familiar fog filled my brain—one that grows thicker the harder I try and only disperses when I give up.

Since I had no success writing on my bed, reckoned I'd have a go at changing the scenery.

The path turns to gravel and I kick my skateboard up. The wheels stain my trousers where they rub my calf at each step. Birch leaves squelch under my trainers.

Sansel Park—named a "park" extremely generously considering it's a patch of grass encased in chainlink fence—is my chosen destination. It's halfway between me and school with only a slight deviation from my normal path. And it's empty. So it'll do.

I select a bench enveloped in evergreens, placing my skateboard on top of the planks to have a dry surface to sit on. I use my maths textbook as a pad to open my notebook on top of. I title the page "Motivational Statement" and position the point of my pen to the first line.

My momentum ends there.

I crack the knuckles of my left hand and tap the ballpoint against the page. What do I write?

"Your personal statement is your chance to sell yourself." How do I sell myself? The only thing I've learned from my work experience is that "my social worker wants me to" ain't a good answer to "why are you interested in this job?" and that stealing from the register is not advisable.

I would be a valuable pupil because... because... because what?

By my foot, a slab of ice clings to needles of sticker weed protruding from the fissure between two stones. Unable to curb the impulse, I bend over and press my finger into the crust. The ice melts under my body heat and velcros to my skin.

Why should anyone choose to let me into their college instead of one of the other gazillion better-qualified people applying?

You're missing the obvious answer. They shouldn't.

My spine spasms when Beewolf settles onto it.

You have nothing to offer. You only want this so you have new victims to hunt.

My finger breaks through the ice.

I return to my notebook, ready to write summat that'll prove Beewolf wrong, but my pen has slid off the page and I have to stand to search for it, giving the wasp more than enough time to shred whatever confidence I've managed to patch together.

This is stupid. I won't get in anyway.

And what if I hurt them? What if it's right and all I want is a hunting ground for innocents who won't know to hide?