Liana immediately rushes towards them, getting the situation under control like she always does. In the kitchen window Mrs Barrie moves like an automaton, between bench and sink. She doesn’t notice the chaos outside. I realise that I can’t go back to Morrison, and I don’t want to.

It’s impossible not to be affected by the shiny, revving Balmoral girls who plan to climb confidently to the top, to be engineers and lawyers and surgeons and diplomats. They know they can be anything they want to be. Being around them has made me think differently about my own life, and what I expect from myself.

I remind myself about the outrageous levels of privilege my new classmates have, the money and opportunities thrown at them every day, not to mention that, despite their advantages, they seem overwhelmed half the time with eating disorders and anxiety and expectations, but I still feel like a traitor.

Katie couldn’t care less about Tim’s smoking foot. She rattles the empty beer can at me. ‘You little cow. You drank it all.’

Mum is surprised when I get home. She puts down the fat crime novel she’s been reading and pushes her empty chocolate wrapper between the couch cushions.

‘I thought I was going to have to wait up until at least midnight worrying about you.’

‘I’m tired.’

And hungry. I go to the kitchenette and grab a bag of rice crackers.

‘How’s everyone?’ Mum yawns.

It’s nice to see her relaxing for a change, on the couch in her sloppy tracky daks and old Nirvana t-shirt. She’s taken the next week off for annual leave and already has a stack of library books waiting for her.

‘Fine.’ I can barely talk around a massive crunchy mouthful of cracker. I check out her library haul on the bench as I chew.

Every crime novel has the same cover. Dark backgrounds with bold all-caps titles in white, blue or yellow. A surprising amount of them have dead girls or about-to-be-dead girls on the front cover. The blurbs speak of unhappy wives who drink so much they can’t tell if they’ve seen a murder or not, women whose pasts have come back to haunt them, and promising young girls who’ll never get to realise their dreams. The titles tell us how lost, how alone, how trapped all these lovely girls and women are.

Even though the photos are supposed to show something raw and horrible, they’re actually incredibly polished and posed and digitally altered. I look closely at Blood Sisters, which has the best cover. It fits right in with all the reference images I’ve been collecting for my project.

‘Are you planning to elaborate on that?’ Mum asks.

‘Not right now, no.’ I hold up Blood Sisters. ‘Can I borrow this for a few days?’