So it’s all been more or less my and Seb’s secret-that’s-not-a secret … although I wasn’t counting on Susan Tenzin’s granny getting involved.

Chapter 24

We’re a couple of weeks into the new term now, and, if Susan Tenzin passes me on the way to school in her rattly old car, she always stops and offers me a lift. It’s virtually impossible to say no, even though the journey is terrifying. It involves a lot of her grandmother swerving, braking sharply and saying a word that sounds like ‘kyakpaa’ – probably ‘you idiot’ or something.

Other kids such as Mason, Callum and Kez Becker have noticed that Susan and I sometimes talk to each other and Mason once made a snide crack about me joining the school orchestra. That’s why I always ask Mola to stop the car at the bottom of the road so I can get out and walk the last bit to school instead of me and Susan getting out at the school gates together as if we were best friends. I don’t think she minds. She always smiles, anyway.

Anyway, this morning I hear the car chugging towards me from behind, and there’s no escape. It coughs to a halt at almost the same spot they first picked me up, and Mola leans over to shout out of the passenger window.

‘Hey! Hey! Dream-boy! Get in!’

Dream-boy? What the …?

Mola waves a finger at me as I approach the car. ‘No, no! You get in the front seat! Special treatment for a special boy!’

Honestly, she’s grinning so hard that her eyes have disappeared into the creases of her face. From the back seat, Susan gives me an apologetic look. ‘I told her about your waking dreams, Malcolm. She’s quite excited.’

‘Excited? Yes! You’re very special! Here, I got something for you.’ She reaches over to open the glove compartment, causing the car to swerve violently and narrowly miss a cyclist. I’m not sure how to react to all this. On the one hand, everyone likes being told they are very special. On the other hand, I don’t like Susan going around telling just anyone.

‘Mola! Be careful!’ says Susan. ‘Sorry, Malcolm!’

Mola gives me a Tupperware box. ‘Go on! Eat it!’ she says. I pop open the lid, and the smell is familiar but I can’t place it. Inside are pieces of a pale, solid-looking cake with nuts.

‘Thank you,’ I say, a bit perplexed.

Susan leans over from the back seat and says. ‘It’s butter cake. We call it tu. It’s a Tibetan thing. You’re very honoured.’

The smell is a bit like the rancid yak’s butter (which I eventually threw out after some of it melted on to an old school sweatshirt) only … not as rancid, I suppose. I take a small bite, but Mola’s not impressed.