I’m going on the French exchange today. I don’t want to. I get through the day, feeling worse every minute, but trying to act like I don’t give a shit, and then instead of going home I head to the mall.

I buy a carton of strawberry milk and a man swears at me for getting in his way. I find myself yelling at him. I go into my secret room and drop the act and let myself collapse.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I feel sure that there’s something incredibly wrong. I’ve been dreading the French exchange for too long. I dread and dread and dread it, but it never happens: surely I should be on it by now? But that makes no sense.

I’m cold. I wrap myself in the pink blanket and hug my knees. I try not to cry: I have nothing to cry about, not really. Dad is brilliant, and I have Gus. Mum’s one of those people who is obsessed with yoga and apparently she can’t do it here, so she has to live far away for now. I can be cool with that. She didn’t leave because she hated me. Did she?

I lean my head back on the wall and wish I knew how to make things better.

The door opens. I gasp and jerk my head up.

It’s a girl. She has thick dark hair and she’s tall and fit. We look at each other. I’m not meant to be here. She probably is: it’s clearly a place for the shopworkers and I’d guess she’s from H&M.

She looks scared. Scared of me? I guess no girl wants to walk into a small hidden space and find a strange mad-looking guy.

‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘Sorry. I’m probably not allowed to be in here. I just thought …’

‘That’s OK. I don’t think I’m meant to be here actually.’

‘Oh! Don’t you work in one of the shops?’

‘Nope. I just come here to get away from everything.’

‘Same.’

We look at each other and everything is marginally better. I nod at her to stay, to sit down. There’s something about her. I want to talk to her.

‘I’m Joe,’ I say. I gesture round the room. ‘Welcome to the palace.’

‘I’m Ariel.’

‘Like the little mermaid?’

‘Yeah,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Like that, if you must.’

‘Sorry. At least I didn’t say washing powder, I guess.’

She gives me a half-smile. ‘No one ever really says washing powder. I did notice it in the supermarket once and it gave me a bit of a shock. Just seeing your name on some washing-machine liquid. Like if you saw one that was called Joe.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’d probably buy it.’