‘A boy?’ She smiles. ‘Thought I was more, kinda, androgynous. Look like a girl AND a boy. Anyway, easier to look like a boy when you loop the past. Less hassle.’

‘Are you a bisexual bissextile?’ I’ve always wanted to say that.

She throws back her head and laughs out loud this time. ‘Guess you’d call me that in ’68. But now . . .’ She looks out of the window as if the word is hidden somewhere in the woods. ‘Who knows? They don’t care WHO you love, long as you love Planet Earth.’

She didn’t answer my question properly, but at least I know she’s a girl. If she was a boy, she shouldn’t be sharing our chalet. It would be breaking the rules. If I was a boy, I wouldn’t be called Elle. I’d be called Il and it wouldn’t be a palindrome.

I sit down at the mirror and start taking out my cornrow. It still hurts and I don’t like looking different in the mirror. And I love combing my hair, its frizz, the fuzziness of it in my hands, the smell of the pomade when I rub it down the parting into my scalp. I’m using my white afro comb, combing my hair out to a halo almost as big as Ama’s.

There’s strange music playing in the background. While I was talking to GMT, Ama was talking to Noon. Music was coming from Noon’s phone and she was doing this strange dance in the middle of the room with her arms and legs flapping so she looked like Big Ben when he’s excited. I’ve never seen anything like it! Ama started copying the moves till she was in synch with Noon. Then I saw why Ama goes to Triple M School. She’s a brilliant dancer. Noon was dancing so hard she almost trod on me. She looked happy for the first time. She must be very brave leaping all on her own from 1924. Also, she’s clever because she learnt to use the Chronophone in five minutes and in the 1920s they didn’t even have mobiles. I part my hair down the middle and comb each side into a bunch. I take the white bobbles out of my pocket and secure the bunches. Now I look like me.