I stared at the page.

‘Can you think of three things that people eat?’ I said. ‘Things that aren’t noodles, pasta, pizza or chilli?’

Sasha didn’t look away from the screen, but shook her head. ‘I don’t think people eat anything else,’ she said. ‘That’s all there is.’ Then, after a few seconds, she said, ‘Curry.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I added: Curry.

‘Chips?’

‘Nope. I’m doing a healthy-meal plan here.’

‘Salad? Lasagne?’

‘Salad’s not a whole dinner. Lasagne comes under pasta.’

‘OK, Miss Picky.’

After a stupid amount of googling, I filled the empty slots with sausage and mash and some kind of fish, which would be particularly good for the baby. I was pleased with myself. It had taken so long that I had to reboil the kettle for the Pot Noodles. I stuck the list on the fridge with a Modern Toss magnet, and while the noodles were reassembling themselves, or whatever it was they did, I made a shopping list.

Meeting Joe had given me something. He made me want to be my best self. I’d been trudging along, believing Sasha when she said my only job was to get through my exams, but in fact I needed to do more than that. She looked after me, and I was going to look after her – properly – too.

Tomorrow, even though Joe would be in France, I’d go to the secret room and write something nicer on the wall for him to see when he came back. I knew I couldn’t write my phone number, but I’d think of something good. Maybe I’d write it in French. That would be exceptionally flirtatious, and not like usual-me at all.

Then we might meet there again one day. I hoped so.

10

I wake up in the middle of a dream, and for some reason I urgently need to remember it. It feels like it’s the most important thing in the world. There’s a schoolbook next to the bed so I scrabble around for my pencil case and write on the back cover of the book. When I come to properly, with my pen in my hand and my eyes still half sealed with sleep, I look at what I’ve written:

Hurt head. French exchange? Girl in cupboard.

Ooookayyyyy. Even more random than expected. Yeah, this is the day of the French exchange, and I’m dreading it, but if my dream was a mash-up of hurting my head, not wanting to go on the French exchange and some girl being in a cupboard, I don’t think it’s quite as life-changing as it felt a moment ago.

I touch my head, just to be sure. It doesn’t hurt at all.