Ave Beaufort is staring at me and she will not look elsewhere. Ave wants to talk to me: her shoe is tapping away at the floor, rhythmic as a chorus, and she will not stop until I respond. No doubt she is glaring. (And seething. And feeling. I don't wish to know what she is feeling.) Her Prom Queen campaign's overflowing through the school now. She's taken it up a notch since Monday. VOTE AVE BEAUFORT. Stickers. Cupcakes and cookies. Her face in pastel. She needs to catch up to my votes, influence the student body, whatever. Ave calls it making memories. I know it for what it is: a goad. I will not talk to her. I look ahead. The bell hasn't rung yet: I have time. Go to the sports field. Go to the toilets.