It was a horrible day at school. Samantha Jones had been picking on me all day, saying my tits were different sizes and that boys would never want to go with me. Those boys who saw my tits would laugh and say I was a freak. She didn’t know that I had a boyfriend, and if I had my way, she never would. His name was Paul, and I had met him in the coffee bar near the precinct. I met him by spilling my coke on him. Obviously I didn’t do it deliberately, but someone knocked into me and nudged my elbow, and hey presto, coke boy.

Paul is the same age as me, 16, and goes to a boys’ school on the other side of town. Mum, who likes him, says that he would have needed a scholarship to go there, as the school was costly. He would come round to mine after school some days; occasionally he would stay for tea, and sometimes I would go to his house and have tea with him. His dad worked away a lot, so it was often just his mum at home.

Sometimes, on special days, his mum would not be home, as she would be working late, and we could be alone in his bedroom. That was nice; we could take our time, kissing, touching, caressing, loving. No hurries. When his mum returned, she would always shout upstairs to say she was back. That gave us plenty of time to make sure that we were properly dressed.

I wasn’t seeing Paul today; his dad was home, and they were going out to eat as a family. I wasn’t quite family, close but not completely. I didn’t mind; Paul was my first proper boyfriend, and I didn’t know what the future between us held, and I was sure that I didn’t want to be one of those clingy girlfriends. Not like Samantha Jones.

When she allowed a boy to be her boyfriend, he would have to spend all his time out of class with her, every break, every lunch. They would meet up before school, and he would walk her home after school. Geraldine Frampton, who was in her inner circle and also a friend of mine, said that Samantha wouldn’t allow her boyfriends to touch her or even see her boobs. I wondered if that is why she never seemed to keep a boyfriend for more than a few weeks. She was a tease.

I wasn’t a tease. I had let my boyfriends touch me and see my boobs. I had held their dicks and made them spurt. I never told; I never said, and the boys didn’t either. Perhaps I was lucky. Paul was the first boyfriend that I went all the way with. I wondered if I had a reputation; I didn’t think so. I was never nasty about any boy that I had kissed.

A big plop of water landed on my head and then another, and soon the rain was beginning to get heavy. I was right next door to St Mark and St Just, the church a few streets from home. The door looked open, and I decided I would run in there for some shelter. It was just before 5 o’clock; I doubted that there would be anyone in there.

I was inside in a moment and only slightly damp. I stood in the open doorway watching the rain come down. It was a good thing I had taken shelter, or I would have been soaked to the skin.

“Hello,” a voice said. “Come on in; no need to be afraid,” a voice said.

I turned around and looked into the interior of the church. It was dark, compared to outside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Then I saw him. A priest, I think; he was wearing one of those long black dress things that priests wear and had a big cross on a thong around his neck, and yes, he had a priest’s white collar.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “The rain just started to come down, and I didn’t bring a coat today; I only have my school uniform.”

“That is okay, you are perfectly welcome; come and sit by me and tell me about yourself. I am Father Greene, and this is my church.”

I went and sat on a pew and shuffled along, giving him room to sit next to me. He did sit quite close, and he patted my knee, I think, in a reassuring way.

“Now then, which school do you go to?”

“I go to Beckfoot High,” I replied. “It’s the one on Main Road; my name is Mica.”

He squeezed my leg again. “Hello, Mica. Yes, I know the one. I am going there for parochial visits next year. Will you still be there next year?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think so; it depends if anything else comes my way.” There was a good chance I could go into modelling full-time. I had already done some shoots, and some people wanted me to do more.

My eyes had fully adjusted to the poor lighting, and I could see that he was looking me up and down, which I thought was an odd thing for him to do.

“And how is school? Do you have a lot of friends? I would imagine that a pretty girl like you would make friends easily.”

“Well,” I confessed, “some, and some not so much so.”

“Oh? What about the ones that are not so much ones?”

“Samantha Jones, she really doesn’t like me and tries to make fun of me all the time; she is quite nasty.”

“Oh dear, Mica, what does she do?”

“It isn’t so much what she does as what she says.”

“Mica, words can be hurtful, but they are only words; they are not hurtful the way sticks and stones are.”