“Not exactly,” says Amy’s mum. “She’s repeating a year. We’re looking for a fresh start, aren’t we, love?”

When she doesn’t reply, her mum says, “Amy goes to St. Gregory’s. They’ve suggested that a change of scene could bring out the best in her.”

Amy shivers, then stiffens as her mother touches her arm. When she catches me staring, she says, “Don’t worry. Amy can speak for herself.” But she doesn’t. She stays silent for the whole tour.

Sometimes I look at her, then away. “Stolen glances,” they call them, which is a nice way of saying you’re a wuss. Afterward, the woman shakes my hand and says, “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

Then I stand outside reception, waiting for Amy to turn round, to smile, maybe, or just look at me. All that happens is that her mum, one step behind, lifts her arm and goes to put it around her daughter’s shoulders. But it just hangs there, waiting, then falls back to her side.

At the gate after lunch, Mr. Trafford stops me. “Did you sell the place?” he asks.

“Yeah. I made it sound like Disneyland.”

Some teachers think everything’s sarcastic; others think nothing is.

“Excellent,” he says. “Good job.”

But, wherever Amy Pearce ends up, it won’t be here. It looked like she couldn’t leave fast enough.

And that’s when it hits me. I have met her mother before. We all have.

6

Amy lived here before us.

That’s why I recognized her mother—because she showed us around. She hit it off with Mum right away, telling her what a wonderful house it was. There was a man, too, but he didn’t say much. He hung back while she did the talking. Amy wasn’t there.

I wish I’d paid more attention, but we’d looked at so many houses. I thought this was just another one Mum would say no to, because there was always something wrong.

“It’s perfect,” she told Jay afterward. And, six months later, it was ours.

I touch my door and wonder. Why didn’t I see the holes that day? Why didn’t I look closer? I could have asked about them, but would Amy’s mum have told the truth?

I knock on Nia’s door, then again, and, when she finally answers, she stares at me until I say, “Can you remember whose room this was?”

“What?”

“When we first saw the house. Was this a girl’s room?” Billie Eilish is singing about bellyaches, and my stepsister reluctantly turns the music down and says, “What are you talking about?”

I point at the holes. “This isn’t normal.”

“You’re not normal,” she replies. She doesn’t smile, because it’s not a joke.