Everything feels super weird, but, then, Mum and Jay would be exactly the same if we were hosting. Parents are awkward when they’re trying to impress. Only the coolest ones pull it off. Chris doesn’t seem bothered, so Jane’s trying for both of them. And I’m already starting to like her more, because she has the same nervous tics as my mum.

She twirls her hair around her finger and keeps trying different smiles as if she knows it’s not quite right. I was nervous about coming here, but it seems Jane is nervous too. That makes me feel better.

“It won’t be long,” she says. “Maybe Amy could show you around while I serve dinner.”

Her dad looks up from his newspaper just long enough for something silent to pass between him and Amy. Then she stands. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour this time.”

52

“See,” Amy says. “No holes.”

We’re standing by her bedroom door, the white paint unmarked and identical to every other one on the landing. “And no weird words on the walls,” she says, walking inside and waving her arm dramatically.

“I see that.”

Amy sits on the edge of her bed and pats the duvet for me to do the same, but I don’t.

“I keep thinking about that boy,” I say, and she stands and pushes her door closed.

“Is that allowed?”

“What do you mean?” Amy asks.

Jay has a rule with Nia. No boys behind a closed door.

“Won’t your parents…worry?”

“Should they?”

“No.”

“That was a bit too quick, Tom. I thought we had something.”

She’s playing with me again, acting weird like the day she came over. But she’s also trying to change the subject.

“The boy,” I say. “What were you really doing?”

I think back to that afternoon. She was searching for something, and I can’t shake the look in her eyes when she found it. They were completely focused, but, now, they’re wide and innocent.

I try to see something in her reaction, a secret hiding between her words, but her face gives nothing away.

“I told you. I hate it when parents don’t pay attention. I’m reminding them what they can’t afford to lose. They should thank me.”

I laugh, and Amy looks offended and says, “It may not be ‘normal,’ but that doesn’t make it wrong.”

I want to believe her—that all she’s doing is some kind of twisted community service—but it’s a ridiculous thing to do.

Her mum shouts that dinner’s ready, and, in the hallway, Amy says, “Please don’t talk about it in front of them.”

I watch her for a few seconds, then whisper, “I won’t.”