Exiting the drama hall, I spot a pupil hanging out in the wrong place. Her large rucksack weighs her down, a single plait swings like a long rope from her droopy head and she seems to be playing with a stone, using the sole of her shoe to scrape on the paving. I look down and see she’s managed to draw a faint heart.

‘Layla?’ I call out.

She jerks upright like a soldier standing to attention, a good girl worried she’s been caught doing wrong. When she sees its me, she loosens a little, her eyes falling upon the heart on the floor. Like with most kids, the summer holidays has bestowed her with growth spurts in various directions. She’s still petite, but more lithe, cheekbones overtaking what was recently puppy fat.

‘Why aren’t you in rehearsal?’ I ask.

Without making eye contact, she just shrugs. I should tell her that’s rude.

‘I’m not doing the musical,’ she mumbles.

‘What?’

‘Just not.’

‘But you’re Layla Birch. Your cast needs you. Mr Sullivan needs you!’

‘No he don’t.’

‘Layla, I hope this isn’t because you didn’t get the lead because you know what Shakespeare said: “There are no small parts—”’

‘Whatever, he’s dead.’

I don’t like her tone. Not that I say this out loud. I’m already bored of hearing myself snapping out the old teacher clichés and we’re a mere three hours into the start of term. Perhaps I had Layla Birch wrong. Maybe that last term was a fluke, or her teenage hormones hadn’t kicked in.

‘So you think dead people don’t matter?’ I ask her.

She looks up at me, softens and with sincerity says, ‘They’re just dead, Miss.’

The tinkle of distant piano chords drifts out from behind me. There’s a noticeable vamp, accompanied by the incoherent lyrics of a Kander and Ebb song, although I can’t work out which one. Layla looks to the drama hall doors. I bet she knows what song this is.

‘What’s the matter, Layla?’ I ask, softly, making the mistake of taking a step closer to her.

She jumps back. I freeze, hold out my arms, tiptoe back a little.

‘Can I have permission to show you something on my phone, Miss?’

‘’Course.’

She drops down onto one knee, her grey school skirt covering her shoes, and takes her phone out of the inside zipper in her rucksack. A good girl. Not hiding it in her pocket to sneak a peek. God, she’s even had the phone properly switched off. I wait whilst the screen lights up and comes to life. After a few taps and scrolls, she hands it over.