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The last exam is English Language Paper 2. I've been staring at the timetable on the fridge for six weeks and the dates have stopped meaning things. They're just shapes now. Monday the eighth. Wednesday the tenth. Friday the nineteenth. I've crossed them off with a Sharpie — Mum's good Sharpie, the one she uses for labelling Yus's PE kit — and the timetable looks like a murder board from one of those Netflix crime shows except instead of suspects it's GCSE subjects and the only thing getting killed…