At lunch, Amy sits with us, and Zak smirks and says, “You suffering today?”

“I’m fine,” she says, and then, turning to me, “Thanks for last night.”

“Were they angry with you?”

“No more than usual.”

I flash Zak a look that he parries with a frown, and Amy catches us and says, “What was that?”

We sit in silence until, eventually, Zak sighs and says, “I’m going.”

As he passes, he leans in and whispers, “Ask her again if you have to. But believe her this time.”

When it’s just the two of us, I practice sentences in my head while Amy eats with her eyes down.

Eventually, it’s her that speaks first. “You’re still worried about me, aren’t you?”

When I nod, she takes my hand and says, “Come on. I have a story for you.”

30

Amy sits by the head-start line and touches the chalk.

When she closes her eyes, I think of all the films I used to watch with Mum—the ones where boys meet girls. They all had scenes like this, just the two of them, and, somehow, they always knew what to do.

Mum apologized once because I didn’t have a dad to give me “life lessons.” She said she would do her best, but there were some things she couldn’t tell me.

Those father/son moments you see on TV—if I’d had some, maybe I’d know what to do here with Amy. But, instead, I watch her until she opens her eyes and says, “My old school was horrific. There were dramas on top of dramas, you know? I remember my parents telling me how important the eleven-plus exam was. They basically said it was do-or-die. It was as though your life was over if you didn’t make it into St. Gregory’s. But I made it, so they were happy, and so was I…for a while.”

She shakes her head and breathes out, then stares over my shoulder and says, “It’s a lot better here.”

“What happened?”

I don’t think she’s going to reply. But then she says, “My dad was attacked. Last year…he was on his way back from football, and they…they got him.”

“I’m sorry…” I say, but Amy holds up her hand for me to stop.

“He got really busted up.”

“Is he okay now?”

“He’s fine,” Amy says. “All better.”

Her eyes are closed again, and, behind her, the sky is the color of a strawberry smoothie.

“The police found out who did it,” she says. “It was that guy who owns the garage, Mr. Wells, and his brothers. Dad said he was mugged. He said they stole his phone and his wallet and his keys, and he never saw their faces.”

Amy looks like the day we met. Like someone you’d want to put your arm around but then chicken out at the last second.