: Rottweiler

No matter how much I pestered, and how much I went on about it, Gareth would not tell me what had happened that day. He kept very quiet and was in a very surly mood for the next few days. Pete and Matty picked up on the mood change, but then it slowly went away, and he went back to being his usual irritating self. He made me promise not to bring up the incident with Peter or Matty or anyone, and I reluctantly agreed.

Honestly, it didn't take too long for my mind to turn elsewhere. Obviously, I was focusing on Billie. Maybe I'd been a bit stupid in agreeing to keep up the charade for a bit longer, but honestly, I was enjoying the break from Glyn's attentions.

On the downside, I had to put up with Billie walking me to and from every lesson, eating dinner with me and so on. My friends were no help: they were openly encouraging "couple" activities such as handholding and cuddling in the quad. Also, people that weren't Billie were also pestering me.

Such as Adam's mates. Well, whatever you'd call them; along with Louis he'd kind of taken to hanging around with us more than them lately, but I suppose they're still his friends. Anyway, they found this situation with Billie and me pretty amusing, and the nickname of Hanky Panky stuck.

And then there was Billie's mates, or just any Year 11. Him being at the top of the social hierarchy (for some unknown reason) meant that everyone took this fascination to any girl involved in his life. Honestly, I think it was more the fact that he'd never shown any interest in any girls before. Only that summer, if rumors were to be believed, he'd turned down repeated propositions from Mari Kneath, Gwen's cousin.

So suddenly, everyone knew who I was. I wasn't that-girl-with-freaky-freckles. I wasn't even that-girl-with-the-older-brothers or that-girl-Adam-Lougher-hangs-around-with. I was Nerys Powell, girlfriend of Billie Winters. And it was crap.

I always thought that whispering and stuff like that was reserved solely for movies and novels and so on, but in my case, it wasn't. Christ, even the girls who sat behind Beth and me in form were at it, right in the hearing distance.

"She's actually going out with him, they went to the cinema last week which is when they went public," I heard one of the girls whisper to her friend.

"Why's he going out with her, though?" her friend had replied; "Isn't that pervy? He's older than us, right?"

True. But you know, it's only by about a year. He's hardly a pedophile, I felt like saying to them, and then I wondered why that comment annoyed me slightly. It was like I actually felt defensive over Billie and me, like we were a real couple. I shuddered at the thought and ignored them.

One day, I was staying behind at Drama; it was only about two weeks after this all started, and the rest of my group went home. Gareth had an IT club meeting on the same day, so I was walking up to meet him at Miss Moore's room. On the way, I passed through the technology department where I ran into Mari Kneath and her friends leaving one of the workshops.

I mentioned Mari Kneath. She was, at that point, Head Girl, incredibly intelligent and adored by nearly everyone. She was Gwen's cousin but more to the point she was actually kind of nice, if not a bit much to handle.

So there they were, a large gaggle of Year 11 girls with brightly coloured ring binders tucked under their arms and equally gaudy hoodies slung over their shoulders. They all had perfect hair and perfect smiles and were walking with a confident swagger reminiscent of Billie or Adam.

And then they spotted me and came to a halt.

"It's Nerys, right?" Mari asked, smiling widely. I noticed there was a smear of pale pink sparkly lip-gloss across her top teeth and smothered a laugh. She stepped forward.

"Yes," I said, giving them a quick smile and attempting to dash around them. Mari was faster than me (she's on the sports teams. Needless to say...I'm not), and she grabbed my arm.

"Hold on a second, I just want to speak to you a moment," she said, laughing. "Don't be scared. I'm not going to beat you up or something."

Looking in her eyes, I wasn't so sure, but I swallowed and nodded, pulling my arm out of her hands. I wondered that if I screamed Adam would come running from somewhere, a knight in shiny ... Nike trainers?

"You're going out with Billie." It was a statement, and one I quirked and eyebrow at. Christ, I thought, why were people still asking me this?

"I guess I am," I said, guardedly, wondering where this was going. We weren't really going out, but she didn't need to know that.

"He's a friend of mine," she then said, hitching her polka-dotted bag up her shoulder.

"I know."

"He's not been hanging around with us lately," she continued. "Any of us, in fact. Not even his team-mates." That wasn't strictly true, I thought; he had been hanging around with those lads, but they'd been hanging around with us too, in a way.

"Well," I said, frowning, "He has because Liam and everyone has been with us –"

"Whatever," Mari interrupted dismissively, flicking her choppy fringe out of her eyes. Although I'd always thought her to be quite pretty, I began to notice things about her – like how her mascara clumped her eyelashes together and how there was excess foundation around her jaw line that was an ugly orange-pink colour, and suddenly she got on my nerves. "The point is..."

"Billie," one of her friends spoke up. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized she was Miranda Speare, the girl who had a phobia of vomit and had hyperventilated after I threw up on the coach on the way home from France. I eyed her and waited for her to finish what she was saying.

"Billie," she repeated, "is Mari's."

Well, obviously not I felt like scoffing. I had heard – from the horse's mouth, in fact – that he'd turned her down only that summer. He'd confided in Louis and Adam (I simply overheard this) that he found her slightly too overbearing and kind of too perfect.

Instead of scoffing I just nodded. "Okay," I said slowly.

"And he's been hers since Year 8," Miranda continued, straightening her skirt. "Seriously, we've been waiting for them to get together for...well, years, I guess. It's a perfect match."

"And it was going to happen," one of their other friends jumped in. Her name was Amanda, but I didn't know much else about her. "This summer, it was going to happen –"

"But he turned you down," I found myself saying, and then I bit my lip.

"Because of you!" Mari exclaimed, brow furrowing. She took another step forward, and I took another back and contemplated shouting for Adam again. He'd have been long gone by then, but I still thought it was worth a try. "You were on his mind all summer, I swear, it got so annoying! And now, now you've stolen him –"

"Hey, now, wait for a second," I frowned, holding up one hand. "I hardly stole him; you weren't even going out in the first place. Now if you've got this thing for him and he turned you down, that's nothing to do with me."

"It's everything to do with you," Miranda glared. "If you didn't exist then Billie wouldn't have rejected –" At the word rejected, Mari's face went red, and Miranda backtracked. "He would have said yes," she went on delicately, fiddling with a strand of hair.

"Maybe he would have," I agreed. "But he didn't. He's his person, you know. At the end of the day, he makes his decisions, and I'm not the deciding factor in those decisions. I wasn't even going out with him in the summer. So really, him rejecting Mari has nothing to do with me, so if you'd just move –" I didn't get the chance to finish because Mari exploded.

"You think you're so great, don't you?" she demanded. "Because all of a sudden you're Billie Winters' girl and everyone is talking about you, and it's gone to your head, and you just think you're so amazing, but you're not because no one likes you, and I mean that –"

"Excuse me," I interrupted politely. "I have to meet my brother. I don't really care."

"You should hear what my cousin says about you," Mari sneered. "What all of her friends say about you, oh, and especially Gordon, he hates you, says you're interfering and don't know when to keep your nose out –"

"You're assuming I actually give a damn what they think," I snapped, "Because I don't. I really couldn't care less what your stupid cousin thinks of me, or that moron Gordon. They don't really matter to me if I'm quite honest."

I heard footsteps, and I saw Gareth's blonde head peeping over the rails on the stairs, accompanied by some of his friends. He looked nervous.

"They should matter," Mari snapped, "Because they could make your life a living hell."

"They could," I allowed, "But I'd still have my friends. Because, no offense, but none of my friends particularly like Gwen. They think she's annoying and bitchy and stupid and show off and so on. Pretty much like yourself, I'm beginning to find out."

Mari let out a weird noise, somewhere between a hiss and a growl, and I snorted. I heard a giggle and recognized it as Gareth's, and my smile only became wider.

"Why you little –" Mari began to growl when the door behind me swung open with a swishing sound. I heard the thud of boots on linoleum, and then an all-too-familiar French-accented voice speak.

"Nerys? What is going on?"

I looked over my shoulder at Pascal and did a double take. Two things crossed my mind – why was she here and more importantly, what the hell was she wearing?

An ankle-length mint green dress, that's what, with a string of large bulbous pearls around her neck and a bright pink patent leather jacket thrown over the top. Completing the ensemble was a pair of chunky muddy army boots and a bag made out of Capri Sun pouches. Her bright pink hair was backcombed, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses was perched on top of her head. Put with her usual mismatched earrings and numerous facial piercings, Pascal certainly looked...interesting, to say the least, and also completely unbothered by the weird looks she was receiving. In her hand was a set of car keys.

"Pascal?" I said, frowning, "What're you doing here?"

"Your father could not make it pick you and Gareth up," she replied serenely, moving forward, "So he called me and asked if I would do it. I said yes, of course. But you two did not come out so I thought I would come looking. I knew Gareth had IT club so I was going there first."

I'd forgotten that this used to be her school too, once upon a time.

Pascal walked up to stand beside me. She gestured to her outfit. "I'm going out," she explained. "There's a work party."

"Ah. I see." I didn't.

"Ah, yes," Mari sneered. "Lovely party wear, that dress. Where did you get it? Oxfam?"

Pascal regarded Mari coolly. "I made it myself, actually," she said, blue eyes flicking from Mari's head to her feet. Pascal angled her body towards me. "Is something happening here?" she asked.

"Mari was just warning me away from Billie," I responded, as Gareth jogged down the stairs and pushed through all the Year 11s.

"Hi," he said breathlessly to Pascal, who smiled at him and ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Warning you?" Pascal questioned, raising one eyebrow. "As in...Threatening?"

"Not threatening," I said delicately, "But I think that's where it was heading."

"I see. That's not very nice," Pascal said, turning to Mari. "Do you like this Billie?"

Mari sniffed, raising her chin slightly. "I have a right to him," she said pompously, putting her hand on her hip. "I deserve him. Nerys isn't even that pretty, for God's sake, I mean, I'm not being bitchy or anything, but you're a little fat, sweetheart –"

Pascal made an angry noise in her back of her throat and thrust her keys and Capri Sun bag at Gareth, who grabbed hold of them nervously. Pascal pointed one bright orange nail at Mari. "That is not very nice," she said, a thunderous look on her face. "People in glass houses should not throw stones. You are not exactly thin yourself."

Which was true. For all her sports playing, Mari was actually kind of on the big side.

"-And who says it's anything about looks?" Pascal challenged. "If this Billie is a good man then he'll see more in Nerys than just the way she looks. And personally, if I were a boy, I would much rather be Nerys' boyfriend than yours, and that is going off looks. You need to learn how to put your make up on properly, and you need to lay off with the fake tan."

Her French accent was receding and being replaced by her Canadian accent. A sure sign she was losing her temper, and something that made Gareth edge towards the door.

Mari spluttered. "What – what's that supposed to mean?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Your lip gloss is on your teeth and your foundation's getting a little too thick around your jaw," Pascal said with a roll of her eyes. "Criticise the way I look all you like, but you're stupider than you look if you think I'm not going to criticize you back. Come on, Nerys, Gareth, its time that we left." She snatched her bag and car keys back and began to stride towards the exit.

As I made to follow her, however, Mari reached out and pulled me back. "Just, just stay away from Billie," she snapped, and then pushed me away and running up the stairwell. She looked like she was going to cry, and her friends all shot me reproachful looks before following her.

She was completely mad.

"Come on, Nerys," Pascal said impatiently from the doorway. I trotted after them as they began to walk through the quad to the carpark, Pascal shooting rapid questions at me as we walked.

"Who was she? How old is she? What's she got to do with you and Billie...?" They went on and on, and I answered them with the longest answers I could muster.

But upon leaving the quad, problem number two occurred. As we began to walk towards the carpark – and, in turn, Pascal's car, a bright red Mini from the 1960's she'd bought only a few months ago; she loved it – Billie and the basketball team rounded the corner from the yard. Judging by the looks of them – all wearing PE kits, looking sweaty and red-faced, they'd been practicing on the basketball nets that were in the yard. Confirming this fact was that they all carried a basketball under their arm.

The odd one out was, naturally, Joe West; he was still in his uniform, looked incredibly bored and had a smudge of mud across his cheek that was also bright red as if he'd been hit by something. I hazarded a guess that one of the basketball's had made a detour into his face. He didn't look happy.

Billie caught sight of me and threw his ball to Joe, who just barely managed to catch it with his fingertips. He then began to jog towards me, and I slowed down to a halt. Pascal noticed, but made a shushing gesture to Gareth and began to pull him away.

"What're you still doing here?" he asked, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Drama," I replied curtly.

"Oh, yeah," he said, a look of recognition dawning on his face. "When's the performance for that, anyway?"

"It's in December."

"Right. Is it free?"

"I think so."

"I might come and see it."

"You do that."

He cocked his head to one side, folding his arms over his chest. "Is everything okay, Nerys?" he asked, stepping forwards and placing his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

"Not exactly," I replied shortly. "I just met a guard dog of yours."

He looked perplexed. "What?"

"Mari. Apparently, I'm interfering, fat and not pretty enough to be your girlfriend. Also, according to her and her friends, you're hers, and only she deserves you," I informed him. He pulled a face.

"Maybe I shouldn't have turned her down like I did," he pondered, screwing up his mouth. I raised an eyebrow. "I laughed at her," he clarified. "I shouldn't have done, I know, but she asked Liam and me was stood behind me and pulling faces and me just...laughed."

I slapped him on the arm. "That's not very nice," I said, disapprovingly.

"Nope," he agreed, "But she's a bitch anyway, so it all adds up. Don't listen to her."

"I wasn't planning on it," I replied. "I don't think I'm fat and I don't give a crap if I'm not pretty or if Gordon Morgan thinks I'm interfering or whatever. I'd just appreciate it if you called your Rottweilers off, thanks."

He smiled, amused. "It's done," he promised me. And then, in one of those really weird moments that kept on happening lately, his hand reached up as if – oh, I don't know, like he was going to caress my cheek or play with my hair. He kept on doing that, and then realizing at last minute and dropping his hand. This time, however, he didn't stop, instead of tucking a strand of my hair, loose from my ponytail, behind my ear and then stepping back, looking kind of nervous.

"I'd better..." I gestured towards the Mini. Pascal was leaning against it, watching us with a smile on her face, while Gareth sat inside the car, in the backseat.

"Sure. Who is that?" Billie frowned.

"That's Pascal. She's my brother's fiancée."

"Nice...hair?" Billie looked puzzled and then recovered. "She looks exotic."

"She's French if that helps any."

"French? Like, seriously?" Billie looked amused.

"She's not really French. She grew up in Canada. She's only been to France about three times in her whole life, but she considers herself French more than anything," I explained. "She's very romantic."

"Really?" Billie cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: "Bonjour, Pascal! Vous avez l'air très joli! J'aime ta robe!"

"Merci," she shouted back, a smile on her face, and waggled her fingers at me.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said to him, and he grinned at me.

"See you," he agreed, walking back towards his friends. "And don't worry, I'll call the Rottweilers off."

"Much appreciated." I began to walk towards Pascal's car and climbed into the front seat. She joined me, sitting behind the steering wheel and starting the engine. She looked positively delighted.

"So that was Billie, huh?" she asked, French accent back again. I nodded, wrinkling my nose. The car stank of her flowery perfume.

"He told me I looked very pretty," she informed me, "And that he liked my dress."

Wow. I hadn't been aware he was blind (not that she wasn't pretty but God, that was an ugly dress).

"Did he now?" I asked, avoiding Gareth's eye in the wing mirror.

"Yes. He speaks French," she gushed, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. She

"I know. I told you that."

"Hold onto him," Pascal told me. "Anyone who speaks French and sees that this dress is a highly stylish piece of clothing is..."

I tuned out, not wanting to hear the rest of her sentence, and fought the urge to whack my head off the dashboard.