“I needed a new notepad for school,” I said, peeling a banana for breakfast and taking a bite. An inch of that was true. I’d bought myself a posh notebook to write my potentially award-winning poetry in. I was just tweaking my favorite poem, “Hi, Bloody High”—a two-pager about my self-harm, and was wondering how you got an entry form for the Pulitzer.

Mum’s hand hesitated at the zipper to her handbag, and then she handed over a tenner. “Just because I’m giving it to you, doesn’t mean you have to spend it all.”

“I know.” I chucked my half-eaten banana in the bin and downed a glass of water on my way out. “Are you still OK picking us up later?”

She smiled wryly. “Yes, I rang Amy’s mum to chat it through. They’ll take you there, we’ll come and get you at eleven thirty.”

“Midnight? Oh thanks, Mum.”

“Eleven thirty.”

“It’s so great that I have a mum who lets me stay out ’til midnight.”

“Eleven. Thirty. And don’t drink on your medicine, you know it’s dangerous.”

“I won’t.”

“Honestly, Fern. I’ve read the leaflets, and it’s really not recommended. I still think you’re too young to be on them at all to be honest, but, still, if we’re on this path, we have to do it properly.”

“Jesus, Mum. Can you not trust me?”

What Mum didn’t know was I hadn’t taken my medication for ten days now. I’d been flushing it down the toilet, feeling very dramatic whenever I did. The guilt overwhelmed me for a second and I randomly hugged her in a sharp burst of affection. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” I said. “Jessica’s coming over to get ready, is that OK?”

“I should start charging that girl rent.”

“Whoa, your room is different,” Jessica said, as she entered my bedroom after our shopping trip and dropped her stuff to stare at my new wall.

“I’ve been making a collage this week,” I said, following her eyes and blushing to my insides. Maybe I was being a bit over-the-top? This was the first time anyone had seen it.