‘Not me, Miss, no,’ Layla laughs again, more genuinely. ‘I’m not a celeb. I mean, two hundred likes isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of things – but for me, boring old Layla Birch, it was a lot. I’m not even that popular or anything. I think lots of people from school were at that festival so they connected to it and liked it, or maybe they thought my hair looked good. Who knows? Then I repost two years later and ’cause my mum’s dead, no one cares.’

‘That’s not true. You can’t use likes to determine whether people care.’

‘Yeah, Miss, I can. So many people came to her funeral, Miss. People I didn’t know. It was like the whole school showed up. And everyone was so nice to me. It wasn’t actually nice, though. Like, I didn’t enjoy them being nice. I’d rather it’d just been a normal day, not my mum’s funeral, and everyone just ignore me. But it was like, I dunno, such a big deal. For like, randoms. Kids I’ve never spoken to cried. But they all soon forgot, didn’t they? No one cared about me reposting that photo. Like my best friend said, the past is gone. No point in going on and on about it, is there?’

I need to be careful with my words – I know I’m walking on thin ice.

‘Layla, sorry but I’m a little bit, erm, confused. The school musical is in the future, not the past. Actually the rehearsals are in the present, right now—’

‘There’s no point, Miss. I’m not doing it.’

‘Okay. Fine. But can I ask why not?’

‘Yeah. ’Cause there’s no point.’

‘But you’re talented.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Miss. Everyone’s mum’ll be watching them. Except mine.’

We freeze, the harsh truth shining on us like a spotlight.

‘I used to think she was watching over me,’ Layla says, almost in a whisper, as she slouches into the brick wall behind her. ‘But she’s gone, hasn’t she? She’s not watching over me at all. She’s just … gone.’