It’s been quite an afternoon. Fun and misery all mixed up. The whole school was there, or so it felt. We went all the way from school, down Hillcroft Road and the high street, to the river. ‘What do we want? Peace now. What do we want? Peace now.’ I’ve got it stuck in my brain.

I wanted to walk with Julie, but I looked for her everywhere and couldn’t find her, so I went with William instead. He was on his bike – the pillock; it kept getting in the way. And we met Delilah, with her friend Sam, at the estate agent’s as planned. Delilah and Sam were all giggly I had to have words with D about her outfit. ‘Delilah,’ I said, ‘do you really think combats are the thing?’

She looked horrified. ‘Are they finished?’ she said. ‘Is no one at your school wearing them?’

I said, ‘Delilah, it’s just it’s a peace march, that’s all.’

She was carrying a big plastic bag and she dropped it. ‘I hate myself,’ she said. ‘I get everything wrong.’ Poor Delilah. She tends to do that – lurch from one mood to the next. William told her no one would notice, that he loved her Puma trainers, and added, ‘Anyway, at least you’re not wearing tweeds and wellies like Miss I’m-Too-Square-to-Get-a-Boyfriend here.’ I’d have knocked him off his bike if we hadn’t been passing the chemist’s. John was at the window and he gave a big thumbs up and a peace sign when he saw us. It gave me a flutter of pleasure.

At the river things were a bit less organized. I think we were supposed to be crossing the bridge, but they had police there to stop us. The river was low and kids were assembling at the bottom of the slipway. There was some serious chanting, but a few boys were mucking about with a shopping trolley, giving each other rides, and others were trying to climb up to the bridge from the bank. I kept looking around for Julie, but I couldn’t see her. William said he was going then – we were really near the pub where his dad drinks and he probably didn’t want to bump into him – so I turned round to ask Delilah if she wanted to walk home too and saw that she’d wandered off. She was at the bottom of the slipway, with her plastic bag open, handing out what looked like leaflets to everyone who passed. I clambered down to join her and only then, seeing the amusement on people’s faces, saw what the leaflets were. Invitations. To a party.

‘Delilah!’ I said, lunging. ‘Put those invitations away.’

I tried to grab the plastic bag from her, but she grabbed it back. I grabbed again and this time she let go and I felt myself do one of those comedy windmills as I tried to keep my balance. But the problem with wellies – where they fall down in relation to, say, Puma trainers – is grip.

‘Oh,’ said Delilah, looking down at me. She started laughing hysterically. The invitations had scattered all around me.

And, naturally, according to Sod’s Law of personal relationships, that was when Julie came up.

‘What ARE you doing?’ she said. She was wearing her short white mac with the belt.

Delilah, still laughing, said, ‘Picking up my invitations. Would you like one?’

Julie said drily, ‘I’ve already got one. I think most people have. Not a great idea giving them out to everyone unless you’re prepared to accommodate the whole school. Are you?’

I was scrambling to my feet. I know Julie and Delilah don’t get on, but it was as if Julie was being particularly mean to Delilah to get at me. It was horrible. I said lamely, ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you, Delilah.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ she said, suddenly hoity-toity, and walked off.

So that was another friend I’d alienated. Then I asked Julie if she was off and she said yes, and I said did she want me to walk her to the bus stop and she said all right. But she didn’t talk to me at all on the way and when we got there a bus was just pulling in and she ran for it. As it moved off, I waved and scrunched my face up to make it try and say ‘What’s wrong and why aren’t you talking to me?’ She didn’t entirely ignore me. She gave a sort of half smile like she wanted to do more but something was stopping her.

It seems self-obsessed and frivolous that I should end the day flustered about a spat with my best friend. But I can’t help it. Half of me wants to call her up and plead with her to like me again. The other half is furious with her for making me feel like this. Why should I call her when I’ve done nothing wrong?

We should be beyond things like this. We’re not children. We’re fourteen, for goodness’ sake.