I had history after the break. That used to be one of my favourite subjects, but this syllabus was far more advanced than mine had been. The class was focusing on World War II, which was what I'd been studying during my last few months as a human. Back then I'd only had to learn the major events of the war, and the leaders of the various countries. But as a fifteen year old, who'd supposedly progressed through the system, I was expected to know the detailed ins and outs of battles, the names of generals, the wide-ranging social effects of the war, and so on.

I told my teacher I'd been concentrating on ancient history in my old school, and complimented myself on such a clever answer — but then she said there was a small class of ancient history students at Mahler's and she'd get me transferred first thing tomorrow.

Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi!

English next. I was dreading it. I could bluff my way through subjects like geography and history, by saying I'd been following a different syllabus. But how was I going to explain my shortcomings in English? I could pretend not to have read all the books and poems that the others had, but what would happen when my teacher asked what I'd read instead? I was doomed!

There was a free table close to the front of the class, where I had to sit. Our teacher was late — because of the size of the school, teachers and pupils often arrived slightly late for class. I spent a couple of minutes anxiously scanning the book of poetry I'd bought last Friday, desperately committing a few scraps of random poems to memory, in the hope that I could fob the teacher off with them.

The door to the classroom opened, the noise level dropped, and everyone stood up. "Sit down, sit down," the teacher said, making straight for her desk, where she laid her stack of books. Facing the class, she smiled and brushed her hair back. She was a young, pretty black woman. "I hear we've a new addition," she said, looking around the room for me. "Will you stand up please, so I can identify you?"

Standing, I raised a hand and smiled edgily. "Here," I said.

"Close to the front," she beamed. "A good sign. Now, I have your name and details written down somewhere. Just give me a minute and I'll…"

She was turning aside to look among her books and papers, when all of a sudden she stopped as though slapped, glanced sharply at me and took a step forward. Her face lit up and she exclaimed, "Darren Shan?"

"Um. Yes." I smiled nervously. I'd no idea who she was, and was scouring my memory banks — was she staying in the same hotel as me? — when something about the shape of her mouth and eyes jogged a switch inside my brain. Leaving my table, I took several steps towards her, until we were only a metre apart, then studied her face incredulously. "Debbie?" I gasped. "Debbie Hemlock?"

"DARREN!" DEBBIE squealed, throwing her arms around me.

"Debbie!" I whooped and hugged her hard.

My English teacher was Debbie Hemlock — my ex-girlfriend!

"You've barely changed!" Debbie gasped.

"You look so different!" I laughed.

"What happened to your face?"

"How did you become a teacher?"

Then, together: "What are you doing here?"

We stopped, wide-eyed, beaming madly. We were no longer hugging, but our hands were joined. Around us, my fellow students gawped as though they were witnessing the end of the universe.

"Where have…" Debbie started, then glanced around. Realizing we were the centre of attention, she let go of my hands and smiled sheepishly. "Darren and I are old friends," she explained to the class. "We haven't seen each other in…"

Again she stopped, this time with a frown. "Excuse us," she muttered, grabbing my right hand and roughly leading the way outside. Closing the door, she swung me up against a wall, checked to make sure we were alone in the hall, leant in close and hissed, "Where the hell have you been all these years?"

"Here and there," I smiled, eyes roving her face, stunned by how much she'd changed. She was taller too — even taller than me now.

"Why is your face the same?" she snapped. "You look almost exactly as I remember you. You've aged a year or two, but it's been thirteen years!"

"How time flies," I smirked, then stole a quick kiss. "Good to see you again, Miss Hemlock."

Debbie froze at the kiss, then took a step back. "Don't do that."

"Sorry. Just glad to see you."

"I'm glad to see you too. But if anyone sees me kissing a student…"

"Oh, Debbie, I'm not really a student. You know that. I'm old enough to be… Well, you know how old I am."

"I thought I did. But your face…" She traced the outline of my jaw, then my lips and nose, then the small triangular scar above my right eye. "You've been in the wars," she noted.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you how right you are," I smiled.

"Darren Shan." She shook her head and repeated my name. "Darren Shan."

Then she slapped me!

"What's that for?" I yelped.

"For leaving without saying goodbye and ruining my Christmas," she growled.

"That was thirteen years ago. Surely you're not still upset about it."

"The Hemlocks can carry a grudge a long, long time," she said, but there was the glint of a smile in her eyes.

"I did leave you a going-away present," I said.

For a moment her face was blank. Then she remembered. "The tree!"

Mr. Crepsley and me had killed the mad vampaneze — Murlough — in Debbie's house on Christmas Eve, after using her as bait to lure him out of his lair. Before leaving, I'd placed a small Christmas tree by her bedside and decorated it (I'd drugged Debbie and her parents earlier, so they were unconscious when Murlough attacked).

"I'd forgotten about the tree," she muttered. "Which brings us to another point — what happened back then? One moment we were sitting down to dinner, the next I woke up in bed and it was late Christmas Day. Mum and Dad woke in their beds too, with no idea of how they got there."

"How are Donna and Jesse?" I asked, trying to avoid her question.

"Fine. Dad's still travelling the world, going wherever his work takes him, and Mum's started a new… No," she said, prodding me in the chest. "Forget what's been going on with me. I want to know what's up with you. For thirteen years you've been a fond memory. I tried finding you a few times, but you'd vanished without a trace. Now you waltz back into my life, looking as though the years had been months. I want to know what gives."

"It's a long story," I sighed. "And complicated."

"I've got time," she sniffed.

"No, you haven't," I contradicted her, nodding at the closed classroom door.

"Damn. I forgot about them." She strode to the door and opened it. The kids inside had been talking loudly, but they stopped at the sight of their teacher. "Get out your books!" she snapped. "I'll be with you presently." Facing me again, she said, "You're right — we don't have time. And my schedule's full for the rest of the day — I've a teachers' meeting to attend during lunch. But we have to get together soon and talk."

"How about after school?" I suggested. "I'll go home, change clothes, and we can meet… where?"

"My place," Debbie said. "I live on the third floor of an apartment block. 3c, Bungrove Drive. It's about a ten-minute walk from here."

"I'll find it."

"But give me a couple of hours to correct homework," she said. "Don't come before half-six."

"Sounds perfect."

"Darren Shan," she whispered, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "Who'd have believed it?" She leant towards me, and I thought — hoped! — she was going to kiss me, but then she stopped, adopted a stern expression and pushed me back into class ahead of her.