‘Yes, Will Parks. The decks!’ She’s almost jumping around with excitement.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘So when Ms Rizzo was talking about fundraising, straight away I’m thinking school disco. Get all the year sevens and eights, charge a fiver each maybe. Probably spend all evening with boys and girls at opposite ends of the hall but whatever.’

Will laughs unnaturally loudly at this. ‘Should make a few quid.’

April is skimming through his records now. Mostly early nineties dance, it’s a collection Will’s picked up from boot sales and eBay. It’s the music his mum and dad were into in what they cringily refer to as their ‘raving days’, which they were still listening to years after its time, providing the soundtrack to long car journeys when Will was a kid.

‘I was thinking about a theme,’ April says. ‘Then I remembered the tunes I’ve heard coming from this room when I’ve been … you know … round here.’

The unsettled feeling in Will’s guts worsens suddenly.

‘And I’m thinking, let’s make it a rave,’ she says. ‘Proper old school. I’m thinking glow sticks, air horns, loads of Day-Glo stuff. Cool, huh?’

‘Sounds awesome.’

She picks out his Prodigy records and sifts through them, impressed. ‘But I didn’t realize you actually DJ-ed. This is perfect.’

‘Steady on,’ Will says. ‘I don’t DJ. One of my dad’s mates was getting rid of the turntables and –’

‘But you can do that blending one record into another thing?’

‘I can mix a bit, yeah.’

‘How’s that different from DJ-ing?’

‘I don’t do it outside this room.’

‘You’re such a dick. Come on, Will. Just do a little set of old rave stuff.’ She pulls out a couple of records as she speaks, loading them on to the turntables and making comedy scratching noises.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He has no intention of taking the gig.

‘Cool,’ she says, grinning and turning dials back and forth on the mixer.

‘Have a go if you like.’

‘Awesome! Come on, show me how.’

Will talks her through the hardware, the pitch controls, the crossfader. They both laugh awkwardly as they try to give each other space, their hands bumping into each other’s all the same. Will starts The Prodigy’s ‘Out of Space’ on the right-hand deck. His rather tired speakers squelch a little with the bass, but it still sounds involving in this small room.

‘White label,’ he says over the music, lowering a record with no writing on it on to the other turntable. ‘Very rare.’

‘Let’s see how it’s done then,’ April says, grooving to the beat.

‘Record one’s playing through the speakers,’ Will says. ‘Now cue up record two, which is hooked up to these.’ He holds up one ear of the headphones. April listens in too. A loose curl of her hair sweeps against Will’s cheek.