Next thing I know she’s got me pinned up against a tree. It happens fast. Before I can react, her hand is at my throat and I can’t breathe and I’m seeing dots and Erika is staring at me, stony-faced and contemptuous.

I’m powerless. Trapped.

Then Erika’s eyes go wide as plates and she jerks backward.

It’s Bea—she’s pulling Erika off me and then she’s hitting her and hitting her and hitting her and I’m falling and, at the edges of my vision, everything bends. The light changes colour. It turns silvery and then blue, and then it vibrates.

No.

It shimmers.

3

A dream. A stupid dream. I’ll wake up and everything will go back to the way it was. But the world doesn’t work that way. Sometimes things just happen and, like that, nothing is the same. I lie on my bed and chart a pattern of sepia water stains on my ceiling, like clusters of faraway planets.

It was agreed—by the headmistress, Mrs. Tsukishima, and the board—that to protect the school’s reputation, only suspension would suffice. A month. Served to both Bea and me. Readmission hinging on one proviso: Psychological Evaluation.

One week down so far, one to go.

My phone buzzes.

Moon! You OK?

Barely.

Parental won’t let me see you.

Mine either. You’re banned.

Lol. Been to the shrink yet?

Once. You?

Same. It sucked.

“ANA!” Frankie, downstairs, yelling up at me to get moving.

“All right! All right!” I yell back. My thumbs fly over the screen.

Bea, I gotta talk to you.

Me too.

I think I’m losing it.

You’re not losing it.

She’s still in hospital.

Only been a week.

I’m switching today. Off to the Old Man’s. I can sneak out. You?

Of course. The Usual?

Done.

Downstairs, Frankie’s back is turned. She’s brewing her morning coffee with her keep-your-damn-hands-off-my-state-of-the-art-Italian-espresso-machine. It’s Sunday. She’s in her suit, despite the heat. Ziggy is at the kitchen table in his high chair, flicking mashed banana with a spoon. In the corner of the kitchen, the telly blares out a depressing news story: POLICE GIVE UP HUNT FOR MISSING TEEN. I slump into a seat opposite Zig.

Frankie swivels around, espresso cup in hand.

OK, I’ll admit it, she looks good for forty-five. I’ve seen men stop on the street to leer at her toned legs (courtesy of Seb, her Pilates trainer) and it never fails to creep me out. Francis, aka Frankie Solana—her readopted maiden name. Early in her banking career she was identified as a bona fide investment wunderkind. The move to London was a career thing—a haul up the corporate ladder.

“How’d you sleep?” she says.

“Fine.”

“No nightmares?”