St. Mallory's Forever!

28 HELEN: Boys are people too.

Soooo glad I wasn't in heels. You just can't run in those, and we were going to need to.

Don't worry, we weren't running from the boys, although it looked like some of the others wanted to. Don Pedro — Teresa, actually, but the Don is a much cooler name — seemed to snare a couple of boys straight away, and the rest of us just stood there awkwardly. You know how it is when two groups first come together.

And on this occasion it was two gender groups as well as two different schools. Not that the Don seemed bothered by this, but for everyone else it was like there was some sort of invisible barrier separating us. Linbury Court on one side of the room, St. Mallory's on the other. And never the twain shall meet.

After about ten minutes, I got bored and went to get a drink from the table on the far side of the hall. No alcohol, of course.

One of the guys arrived at the same time I got there, and he sort of looked around everywhere, peering at the girls, as if looking for someone in particular.

For some reason his eyes kept coming back my way. At first I thought it was just me, but then he sort of stare at me while appearing to be deep in thought.

Now being a Londoner I'm well-used to grotty boy staring at me for whatever reason, but this one was quite nice, so I was kind of flattered. So when he casually worked his way closer to me and his eyes trawled the room for a fourth time and came back to me I sort of looked at him, and then he sort of blushed and looked away.

Ten social interaction points to me! Usually I'm the one who goes all bashful at moments like this, but his discomfort actually boosted my confidence.

"I'm not going to eat you," I said, in my best imitation of Mum's no-nonsense voice.

He mumbled something I couldn't hear above the disco blaring.

"Can't hear you," I mouthed back. "Speak up!"

He looked at me, obviously wondering what to say next.

So was I, but I had the advantage that it was still his turn, so I just gave him my patented do continue smile.

He half-smiled back. And raised his voice to audible. "The other girls..."

"Have never been to a mixed school. They don't know how to talk to boys." He was kinda cute, in an embarrassed posh schoolboy sort of way, so I swapped the do continue smile for something more friendly. Not easy, given that my dress was far too tight and was rather hindering my breathing.

I'd had it a couple of years – the dress, I mean – but it was still the nicest thing I owned, so despite the rib-cracking bodice it was having yet another outing. The last one, though. Obviously I've grown a bit over two years, especially you know where, and while I'm not one to flaunt what I've got, in this dress they're fairly straining at the leash. Fortunately the lights were low for the disco, so maybe no-one would notice.

Or maybe they already had.

"You're new here," the boy said, looking straight at my chest. Or maybe he was just looking down to avoid eye contact. "From London," he said. "Wandsworth, if I'm not very much mistaken."

My stomach started churning like a washing machine changing cycles. How could he possibly know that? Had I accidentally put on an "I'm from Wandsworth" t-shirt?

And why was he looking at me there? Oh my God. Had I worn this dress once too often? I daren't look down. Daren't turn around. Daren't do anything. The wrong move now and I could end up the first ever topless streaker at St. Mall's. Mum would kill me! That's if I hadn't committed suicide first from the sheer embarrassment of it all.