‘No,’ I say, surprising myself. ‘Look, Layla. I’ll never know if Jack’s watching over me. There’s a great possibility he’s not – that yeah, he’s gone. But what if he’s not? What if he is watching me, somehow? Am I gonna be the teacher who lives for the holidays? Or am I gonna try to make a difference, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest inch?’ and I hold my thumb and index finger an inch apart, scrunch up one eye and peek through the space I’ve created. ‘In short, I want him to be proud of me—’

A long whistle from the netball court jolts me: lunchtime practice is coming to an end. I’ve said much more than I’d intended. With each word, I’ve learnt, and in a reversal of roles, Layla has stood listening to me like the non-judgemental teacher. I welcome the light breeze that washes over me, the rustle of leaves so recently fallen from the oak trees lining the street outside the school gates.

‘My mum wouldn’t be proud of me, would she, Miss?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’m just bumming around the drama hall instead of, well, you know.’

Grateful that the focus has shifted back to Layla, I’m amazed at how our roles have reverted without me needing to click my fingers or wave a magic wand. Maybe in learning one lesson, I’ve managed to teach one, too.

‘Mr Sullivan’ll never let me back though, Miss.’

‘Leave it with me.’

*

I walk back to the flat rather than get the bus. I’m hot in my cardigan, the September sun still strong when it’s not hiding behind the clouds. The cusp of a new season is upon us and I pass coffee shops where customers bask in the last days of summer with an iced latte. I always walk when I’m either deep in thought or happy.

In this case, it’s the latter.

I’d caught Si at the end of the rehearsal, on his knees. Split binbags of feathers, creased satin and ancient, lustreless sequins had surrounded him like a flamboyant Victorian skirt. Flustered, he’d been ticking off any items he could find from his clipboard list. I’d taken the clipboard and he’d fanned his armpits with a broken Venetian mask.

‘Roaring twenties flapper dress, purple?’ I’d read from the list.

‘Chloe, I’m really sorry—’

‘Si. Forget it. But more importantly, you need to let Layla Birch back into the show.’

‘I can’t do that. She dropped out. She’s unreliable.’

‘Trust me. She’s quite the opposite. She just needs a second chance.’

‘I’ve reassigned her part.’

‘So write her another one.’

‘I can’t—’

‘You can! It’s your creation. You can do anything you want.’

He’d been holding a bowler hat in his hands and clearly couldn’t resist the urge to put it on.