‘Forget it,’ Julia tells her. ‘Never mind. Go think about pink fluff some more.’

‘Going out tonight,’ Becca says. ‘I want to go, so does Hol, Jules doesn’t.’

Selena’s eyes float over to Julia. ‘Why not?’ she asks.

‘Because even if the cops don’t have surveillance on the place, it’s still a dumb idea. Have you even noticed that the Junior Cert starts this week? Have you even heard them, every single day: “Oh you have to get sleep, if you don’t get sleep you can’t concentrate and you won’t be able to study—”’

Holly’s hands fly up and out. ‘Oh my God, since when do you care what Sister Ignatius thinks you should do?’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Sister Ignatius. I care if I end up stuck in, like, needlework class next year because I fail my—’

‘Oh, yeah, right, because of one hour one night, you’re totally going to—’

‘I want to go,’ Selena says. She’s stopped walking.

The rest of them stop too. Holly catches Julia’s eye and widens hers, warning. This is the first time in weeks that Lenie has wanted anything.

Julia takes a breath like she’s got another argument ready, the heaviest of all. Then she looks at the three of them and puts it away again.

‘OK,’ she says. Her voice has dulled. ‘Whatever, I guess. Just, if it doesn’t . . .’

‘If what doesn’t what?’ Becca asks, after a moment.

Julia says, ‘Nothing. Let’s do it.’

‘Woohoo!’ Becca says, and jumps high to pull a flower off a branch. Selena starts walking and goes back to watching the leaves. Holly takes her elbow again.

They’re almost at the Court; the warm sugary smell of doughnuts reaches out to make their mouths water. Something seizes Holly, in the tender space between where her breasts are growing, and drags downwards. At first she thinks she’s hungry. It takes her a moment to understand that it’s loss.

Outside their window the moon is slim and running wild with streaks of cloud. Their movements as they dress are filled up with every other time, with the first can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this half-joke, with the magic of a bottle cap floating above a palm, of a flame turning them to gold masks. As they pull up their hoods and take their shoes in their hands, as they slow-motion like dancers down the stairs, they feel themselves slowly turn buoyant again, feel the world flower and shiver as it waits for them. A smile is tipping the corner of Lenie’s mouth; on the landing Becca turns her palms to the white-lit window like a thanksgiving prayer. Even Julia who thought she knew better is beating with it, the bubble of hope expanding inside her ribs till it hurts, What if, maybe, maybe we really could—

The key won’t turn.

They stare at each other, wiped blank.