I paint Sam’s fingernails alternating blue and red, with silver stripes down the centre of each nail. Superhero nails, sort of. He’s so excited he can barely sit still, and I keep smudging the stripes. I sincerely hope the kids in his class think they’re as cool as he does.

My phone beeps and I lean over to see who it is. Mum, plus three unread messages.

Mum—feeling sorry for me obviously—authorises takeout for dinner using her credit card.

Lisbeth forgot what chapters we were supposed to revise for Japanese—easy. I text her back.

Katie wants to sneak into the dodgy pub next to Meridian—definitely not.

Natalia wants to discuss ‘our next move’—hard no.

I’m caught between being hurt that Natalia didn’t confide in me about Yin, and feeling terrible that I made her pose like that. Her reaction makes more sense now. I hope I didn’t traumatise her.

I can see from my notifications that Bochen has sent me a Facebook message too. Every message makes my head hurt even more.

‘And then Louis gave me a go only the batteries were almost flat so I only got five minutes but do you think Mum would buy me one? Not the old model, the new one.’

Sam has been erupting words, an unending monologue, for at least an hour now. I’m trying, but I can only keep focus for so long before my mind wanders, going back to the same few sore scenes. Petra shunning me in the library. Ms Nouri’s office. The common room.

Petra’s right. I’ve been at Balmoral for less than a year and clearly I don’t understand anything or anyone. I could finish her sentence for her: you haven’t been here as long, and by the way—in case you haven’t figured it out yet—you still don’t belong.

‘Why don’t you put it on your list for Santa?’ I say, even though Mum has been trying to break that particular news to him for two years now. Sam’s not ready to let Santa go.

I look at his too-long hair and his grimy pyjamas and worry about whether everything lovely about him will be lost when he becomes a teenager. I’ve no intention whatsoever of leaving the house tonight when I could be home, where I belong, with one of the best people I know.

‘I could and I suppose it’s not that far away when you think about it and do you think maybe there’ll be a sale before then—’

When I slot the brush into the bottle of polish, I accidentally topple the neighbouring bottle, sending a pool of sticky red across the couch cushion.

‘No!’ I’m up in a flash, righting the bottle and dithering. I blot the puddle with my sleeve, only to realise I’ve just ruined my favourite hoodie.

‘Fuckety fuckety fuck!’