I try to close the lid on my laptop, but she holds it open. I was watching _1mp0ssibledream_ stream – my dad’s old tae kwon do buddy. I was watching his fists punch-punch-punch into a brightly coloured bag, and the room spin as he swept his leg back to kick it.

‘Is this one of your weird streamers again? Honestly, you’ll be watching one day and they’ll suddenly just flop their wrinkly old-man penis out, and that’s something you’ll never be able to unsee, Al. Think about it.’

I laugh and push the laptop to the end of the bed. ‘They’re not like that!’

She takes another bite of her Pop-Tart. ‘Weird old men with cameras are always like that.’

‘Well,’ I say, sitting up higher, ‘they’re not all old. Roy streams and he’s our age.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Your cousin? That proves nothing. I remember him hiding all afternoon in the cupboard-under-your-stairs at your ninth birthday party, pretending to be Harry Potter, when there was a mother-fudging bouncy castle outside.’ She shakes her head so her box braids flick into my face. ‘He’s as bad as you with this hermit stuff.’

I feel myself blush and suddenly I can see the wallpaper uncurling in the corner of my room, the empty pill packets littering the desk.

‘It’s useful to watch tae kwon do streams, anyway,’ I say quickly. ‘It helps me – it helps me perfect my kicks.’

I mime a fake tae kwon do kick into her shin.

Lying about doing tae kwon do = 2 spoons

‘Jesus, yeah, you do need the practice,’ she says, nudging me.

She finishes her Pop-Tart and talks about her friends at school – how they all want to start a bouldering club, with her as president.

And these are people who used to be my friends, too. Until they got a bit bored that I wasn’t getting any better and stopped visiting. And Cecelia may say some silly things, but she’s there for me. She remembers that I’m here and brings the outside here in a whirlwind that sweeps me into another life, if only for a moment.

‘I am the best at bouldering, though. Watch,’ she says.

She pushes her feet under the side of my mattress, hanging off the bedframe like a monkey, before trying and failing to leap across to my desk. She slams into the floor and rattles the water in Manta’s tank.

I laugh so hard, my sides ache. And she rolls on the floor, clutching her sides, too, a swirl of purple highlights and chipped glitter nail polish and rainbow bangles on her arms.

‘Oh my God, I think I ruptured something. Why do they make floors so hard?’ she moans.

She reaches a hand up to me and I take it.

‘That’s a shame,’ I say. ‘You’re just going to have to stay here on my carpet forever now.’