I eye the walls, looking for hints of Wesley again, but finding only colour and sculptures and life.

‘It’s very loud in here today!’ I shout.

She’s back.

Ghost girl’s alive again.

YOU OKAY? I write in my sketchbook.

FISH TUNNEL A BAD IDEA?

Honestly,

you show a girl what you look like

and she logs off for days.

Nothing like that to get you

S T A R I N G

into the mirror.

‘No, not at all – it was wonderful. I just – I had to go. But it really was the best day.’

I should feel relieved,

but I feel something else.

Something anxious –

tight –

but also sort of amazing.

SORRY, CAN’T TALK PROPERLY.

‘That’s okay. What’s the lesson on today?’

Charlie kicks me under the table

to show me the boobs he’s carved into the desk.

NOTHING – FREE DRAWING AGAIN.

I roll my eyes at him.

‘Does that mean you’re free to do anything you want?’

I look around to see what other people are doing. Some are creating collages out of tissue paper, ribbons twirling together to create plaited rainbows. Someone at the back is building what looks like a castle from purple playdough, complete with a glitter moat.

And there’re Rowan’s friends again. Both dressed today in rainbows, almost like it’s their personal couple’s uniform. It seems like a whole world away from Rowan’s grey sweatshirt, even though they’re sitting right next to each other. Their hands are wrapped together as they bend over their desks and scribble.

‘So, Rowan, what are you going to draw?’

I shrug, but pull the pot of

black ink towards me.

‘Must be nice,’ I say quickly, ‘to have a whole hour just to be free. I suppose you could be anything you wanted to be, in whatever form you pleased. You could be on land or sea, or in between and both.’

My pen hovers above the page.

I hadn’t really thought about the

F R E E part

of free drawing.

And here’s Alice again.

Making me feel like I could

– draw

– do

– be

anything.

I watch as he drops his pen and picks up a pencil.

He sketches with scattered lines at first, like he’s unsure of what he’s drawing. But then his hand rests on the page and his lines become darker – surer. And, out from the blank page, eyes open.

The drawings seem to dance round each other, the figure at the bottom playing the maracas while the one at the top pirouettes through the air, as if gravity couldn’t possibly hold it down. And then, as his lines quicken, he drops his pencil.

He picks up a paintbrush and he dips it in blue.