She says nothing. I’ve known her long enough to be able to read her mind. She’s weighing up whether to return to the subject of whether I can understand and forgive her. In the end, she decides she might get a better result if she moves on. “Lee and I spent the weekend at your parents’ house.”

“My condolences.”

I don’t want to be speaking to Melissa, so I tune out and look at Ethan’s failed test instead. There are five questions on the sheet of paper. The first four are straightforward, almost impossible to get wrong: what is your name? How old are you? Where do you live? When is your birthday? Ethan has answered all these questions correctly. The fifth question isn’t a question; it’s an order followed by a threat. It says, “Do not answer any of the above questions. If you follow this instruction, you will get ten marks. If you do not follow this instruction, you will get zero marks.” At the top of the sheet, there’s another order: “Make sure to read through all the questions before answering them.”

“Nicki? Are you listening?”

“Yep.” Not very attentively, no. Something about a reservoir and beautiful scenery. I don’t care that you went walking with my parents and my brother. I don’t care that you had a lovely time.

Ethan’s failed test I care about. Because it’s not fair that he got no marks. Even if he’d done as he was told and read through all the questions before he started, there is nothing on this sheet to indicate that question five carries more weight than the other four. Nowhere does it say, “The final question is the one you must pay the most attention to.” Faced with four questions that demand answers versus one that isn’t even a question and says, “Ignore all the other questions,” how is a child supposed to know that number five takes precedence? There’s no indication that it does, or should. If anything, the weight of evidence is strongly on the side of answering questions one to four, since they’re in the majority.

Ridiculous bloody idiot teacher.

“I . . . I found something.” Melissa sounds nervous. I’ve missed part of what she said. Good.

“Hmm?” I open a new “Compose Email” box, for the purpose of writing a letter of protest to Miss Stefanowicz. Ethan should get eight out of ten marks—two each for numbers one to four and none for number five—and I’m going to see that he gets them. And an apology. With one hand I start to type, “Dear Miss Stef . . .”

“At your parents’ house,” Melissa is saying insistently, “I found two books.”

“Yes, Mum and Dad can read. That’s one thing that can be said in their favor. They like books.”