Dillon shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Femininity?’ says Dani.

‘What kind? Out of Friedan’s three images?’

‘Motherhood,’ says Dani.

Dillon back to his hands. He traces a vein with a finger. When he prods at it, it gives under his touch.

‘OK. Twenty minutes. Write as much as you can.’

Dillon pulls his pad from his bag. He glances over to Rose. She was away all last week. He hasn’t spoken to her because they don’t speak in school. He wonders how it was.

His eyes flick back to the image on the board. The woman wears gingham. She seems very happy to be washing up.

He starts to write.

At the end of school, he messages Alisha.

where u?

His phone bings.

*headache*

And then: heh heh

He heads down the path. The air is fresh, with the hint of wind growing just on the edge of the warm sun. He can smell mown grass. His T-shirt is loose. Summer touches his skin.

Rose is at the gate. She’s standing on one foot, the other hooked around her ankle. He gives her a brief smile.

‘What are you up to?’ she says as he walks past.

He turns, stops. The sun is behind her. He can’t see her face. He takes a step to the left. The light breaks through the curtain of hair to one side of her face. He squints into it.

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she says.

‘Sorry?’

‘A walk.’

She moves closer, and the sun hits her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes narrow, the hint of a smile. She looks like she knows something he doesn’t.

‘OK.’

They fall in step together, walking towards the bridge.

‘Was London good, then?’

‘Yes.’

He waits for the detail. She says nothing. So he asks, ‘How?’

She shrugs. ‘It was weird.’

‘Weird good?’

Another shrug.

The stone buildings of the high street are clear and sharp. Flowers in hanging baskets by the Coachman. They pass the supermarket and the bus stop.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks. She’s almost smiling, like it was a joke, but also not.

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

He doesn’t.

They reach the bridge. They drop down the bank at the side and join the path. Dillon checks behind him, under the arch. No one is there.

The river flows fast. The field beside it is lush. The path is dry, and the smells in the air are mostly summer, pollen, the sting of green, the warmth of dusty leaves. A tiny hint of dirt under it all, dog shit, something dead.

The farther they go, the stranger it becomes. Walking without talking. Both know it wasn’t normal for her to suggest this. Both know the farther they go, the more they are saying.