I’m wondering if Amy will show up when she appears out of nowhere and kisses my cheek.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

It comes out by accident, but she grins at me. “It means I’m happy to see you.”

She hasn’t dressed up. I guess this is just her usual out-of-school self, and I suddenly feel conscious of my wig and the head I’m desperate to scratch.

Zak winks at me but doesn’t leave. He stares at us like we’re his entertainment for the evening.

Amy turns to him and says, “Looking good.”

“Thanks. You too.”

The way she smiles, I wish I’d said it first. But it’s too late, now. Instead, I say, “These parties are usually pretty lame.”

I hope it sounds cool. I hope it sounds like I’m at a party every night and this one is bottom of the list.

“We’ll see,” she replies. “You mind if I hang with you?”

“Sure,” Zak says, and I wonder if this will make it into his do-over diary.

“You want a drink?” I ask.

“I’ve got that covered,” says Amy.

She reaches into her bag and flashes something metal, tucking it away before I can look too closely. But I know what it is.

“Sneaky,” Zak says. “You want some Coke with that?”

Amy nods, and Zak heads to the bar while I desperately think of something to say.

“You still think I wrote on my walls?” she asks.

“Did you?”

“Of course not. You have an overactive imagination.”

The bass drops, and the sound goes up another notch, leaving us to stare awkwardly at each other while the dance floor explodes and the people standing round the edges yell to be heard.

Zak and I might not be the coolest, but we still fit in here. That’s what I like about our school. Despite all the cliques, no one is bullied for being different. We come to these parties because everyone’s welcome. We don’t dance or get wasted. It’s just a different place to chat the same shit. But tonight is different. When Zak comes back, Amy downs half her Coke, then fills the glass with whatever is in her flask.

She doesn’t offer it around, and Zak looks disappointed, but I’m relieved. I don’t drink because I’ve seen what can happen when you do.

Amy has other ideas. “You want to dance?” she asks, and, when I shake my head, she huffs and pulls Zak into the sticky mess that is the dance floor.

Zak beams because he doesn’t need an excuse. Sometimes, on nights out, I can see him fighting the beat that makes his body sway back and forth like the wind.

Tonight, it’s as though Amy has cut his strings. They laugh as they make up their own moves, and I feel happy and a little bit jealous.