“It isn’t yeah, it’s yes,” said Mum. “Or do you think you’re American?”

I grinned inside. Americans are almost as bad as gays, in her world. Except for those Americans who run charismatic Churches, and preach against the gays, and the blacks, and the Jews that are ruining the country.

The fact is, my two almost-friends are anything but sound. Goldie’s a stuck-up hypocrite, and Poodle is a little freak who doodles over everything. It’s compulsive, he tells me. So are his other habits, he says; his tapping, jigging, and twitching. In the old days, they’d have called him possessed. Those Church folk love their demons.

Dad enjoys his demons too, being such a big churchgoer. And Poodle’s mum makes puppy-dog eyes at the visiting preacher. It’s funny, how certain preachers attract so many female fans. Our Church has plenty of those, being a charismatic Church with lots of audience participation. Sometimes a girl from Mulberry House comes in to play the guitar and sing. Bright red hair and a long neck, like maybe a flamingo. One of those Churchy voices, clear, with not too much vibrato. I’ve seen her around St. Oswald’s. She’s got a part in the school play. She likes to perform, in Church and onstage. I’ve seen the others watching her; Goldie and Poodle especially. I can’t see what they see in her, though. Pretty enough, but not my type.

“If you want to invite your friends over, you can.” That was Mum, trying to be supportive of my social life. God knows, she ought to be grateful that I’ve even got any friends. She’s always wanted me to have some.

“It’s Bonfire Night next Thursday. There’s a bonfire in the park. I thought we could go, the three of us. Then maybe back here for tea. Maybe invite their parents.”

Mum and Dad don’t like Bonfire Night. They think it’s a soft door to paganism. Like all that burning people alive never happened under the Church’s rule. But I also knew that Mum was dying to meet my shiny new friends and their parents. And that’s why we’re going on Bonfire Night—Goldie, me, and Poodle—while Goldie and Poodle’s parents have sherry with my mum and dad, and talk about Church and St. Oswald’s.

I know. It sounds revolting. But, Mousey, it’s all part of my plan. What Poodle calls a persona. With the right persona, I can hide in plain sight. I can do whatever I want as long as I keep up appearances. With the right persona, I can make them do anything—my parents, Poodle, Goldie, my teachers—make them dance like puppets.