Without thinking, I look up and see Mum focussed on me. Her eyes are full of concern and the fluttering in my stomach settles for about half a second. But then Dad reaches for the cereal and fills his bowl with an enormous serve and I realise he’s going to keep eating. I don’t want to be the last person to arrive at school.

‘I think you should start high school every day if it means we can eat this sort of breakfast,’ he says through a mouthful.

‘We should go, Dad. I don’t want to be late.’

My legs are getting ready to move. The familiar restlessness has started in my feet.

‘Your lunch is on the table, Clem,’ says Mum. ‘I hope it’s okay. I wasn’t sure what you’d like …’

I hear the hesitation in her voice and wonder if she defaulted to the old faithful: Vegemite and butter on white bread with no crusts, which I ate every day until I was ten. Mum hasn’t made me lunch in nearly two years so, of course, she’s not sure what I like anymore. I know she’s trying really hard this morning, and part of me is relieved that she’s back making my lunches, even if it is just Vegemite and butter. But, at the same time, it’s like she’s pretending she was never sick and the fire never happened and she never left. I’m still not ready for that.

I jump up, grab my lunch bag, and try to squeeze it into the top of my backpack. Of course, it won’t fit because my books are taking up all the room. I realise it’s gone quiet and my parents are watching me. I have to clench my fingers to resist hurling the lunch bag at them.

‘Here,’ says Mum quietly, getting up to help.

I thrust the bag at her and head straight for the bathroom. I’m beginning to think it was a mistake agreeing to let Dad drive me to school. It’s a sign that I’m not ready. I should be walking or riding or catching the bus, like everyone else. Not getting my dad to drop me off because I’m too little to carry my own bag.

I don’t even look like I’m ready for high school. I’m too small, too short and too young-looking. Nothing about my face or my clothes says I’m nearly a teenager. I look about six. What if I’m the littlest in my class? What if everyone is as tall as Bridge and Ellie and they can have conversations that float over my head?

I squeeze too much toothpaste on my brush. It’s all foamy in my mouth. I must lose track of time because I hear Dad knock on the door and remind me we should go.