It started the same way it always did: Effy sliding her hand into yours under the desk, tugging just enough for you to glance at her. Her smirk said everything.

By the time the teacher turned toward the board, Effy was already halfway out of her seat, her dark hair spilling across her face as she whispered, “Cover for me?” You never had the heart to say no.

So you did what you always did—scribbled her name at the top of the attendance sheet, murmured some excuse about her “feeling sick,” or casually dropped her homework off at the teacher’s desk. It was reckless, stupid even, but Effy had that gravity about her. She pulled you in, and you couldn’t fight it.

You’d find her later—behind the bike sheds with a cigarette, or sprawled out in the grass near the back fields, her boots kicked off, staring at the sky like she had all the time in the world.

“Did you get me out of it again?” she’d ask, her voice low, teasing, like she already knew the answer. And you’d shrug, trying to look annoyed.

“You’re going to get me caught one of these days,” you’d mutter.

But Effy only leaned closer, her eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s why I like you… you always do it anyway.”