Vienna Castanoza. November 1st. The Flat.

I had too much stupid fun.

It had started out fine, with no one paying any mind to my costume (a sparkly cowboy hat), my drink (a double rum and coke) or my mates (Louisa, Deeps and Evie, who were sporting an  appropriate assortment of wings and ears). We'd already decided that we'd stay for a few hours - three drinks at the most. 

"Seriously," we'd said, "The last thing we need is to be those fucking Year Twelves who couldn't make it through Halloween."

But then I'd run into the girls from my Year Seven form and their seemingly-forgotten twelve-pack of plastic shot glasses, and it had seemed rude not to give them a hand. One shot had become another, and another, and-

"Another one?"

I scream and clutch one of the cabinet knobs as I almost fall to my death, my socks slick against the worktop. "TRISTAN!"

My little brother blinks up at me as he all but hangs from the bathroom doorframe. "What?"

I scoff as I grapple with the duct tape that I'd been holding. "Nothing. Clearly you don't care whether or not I die, so nothing."

There's a pause as my brother watches me rip apart the carcass of an Amazon package and slot it into place in the window pane.

"Bob the Builder could never," he murmurs.

My mood lifts as if on command and I tear off a second strip of tape. "You're already in the will, Tris," I sniffle, his blatant disregard for my life still at the forefront of my mind. "Don't be a suck-up."

I glance back at the lines of duct tape running criss-cross over the cardboard and at the other, similarly patched-up panes in the living-room. As per every Halloween, all the council flats had been egged in the cover of the night - something that I'd failed to notice as I'd stumbled home at stupid o'clock in the morning, whispering the chorus of the In the Heights title track under my breath.

I sigh and drag the heel of my hand over my eyes, streaking yesterday's eyeliner over my nose in the process. When I look back at my brother, the easy grin has slipped off his face.

"You look," he says, "how I feel."

I smile, I think. It's too early to tell. "Like a raccoon?"

"Like a blank sheet of paper in a Dickens novel." His voice is low and light as he absentmindedly toes the grout between the kitchen tiles.

My fingers stumble on their way to fix his hair as my brain grinds to a halt. "Um."

Tris quirks his mouth shyly. "Sorry."

"Don't be," I frown, fussing over the strands in the front.

He slips out of my grip with a huff, squatting in front of the microwave to painstakingly fix his mop in its buffed steel surface. "It takes work," he tells me, his wrinkled nose the picture of exasperation, "To look this good."

I cock an eyebrow as I rummage in the cupboard for the stash of paracetamol. "What it takes is ninety-six thousand hours in the bathroom when your sister needs to pee."

He narrows his eyes and within seconds I'm diving behind the sofa, a Spartan war cry ringing in my ears and a Spiderman comb whizzing past my hairline.

"Tris?" I pant as I heave myself off the ground, fist raised in a silent cry for mercy.

He pokes his head up from behind the armchair with boundless energy. At least he's still too young to understand hangovers.

"Eggs, please?" I say tiredly.

His mouth quirks into a sinister smile. "Oh, eggs love me."

I grimace. "Well, that was uncomfortable."

Tris sniggers and starts catapulting things into his chequered backpack, hopefully practising exactly how not to handle the eggs. I knock the bathroom door closed with the laundry basket and sit on the closed toilet seat, my head between my legs, as I wait for the shower to heat up. 

When I finally make it back out into the kitchen, Tris is staring into the bowl of scrambled eggs with more emotional intensity than a ten-year-old should be capable of.

"D'you think your secret admirer is throwing stones at our windows?" I ask, collapsing onto the sofa like a marionette without a master. "And they're just freakishly strong?"

Tristan shakes his head almost imperceptibly and I try for a shrewder gaze. "You okay?"

He glances up at me, apprehension rolling off him in waves. I impale an eggy tendril with my fork and wait.

"Do you think it's gonna rain today?"

My eyebrow twitches of its own accord as I suppress a grin. "Somewhere in the world, yeah."

He inhales shakily. I stab some more egg and try to maintain some degree of stoicism as he curls his hands into fists behind his knees.

"So, um. I need to talk to you."

"Right."

"I was just wondering if there's any way I could, um, go to Farrah's house. Later. After school. Today."

He blinks rapidly, gaze flickering between me and the eggs, and I bite the inside of my cheek to force my laughter back down my throat.

"Why?" I ask cruelly, going in with another mouthful.

"She wants me to teach her how to play basketball," Tris says quietly, shooting me a hopeful look through his eyelashes.

I cough. "Just basketball?"

He scrunches his nose up in disgust. "Yes. Jesus, Vienna."

"Speaking of Jesus, don't you have rehearsal?"

He scowls in what I assume is meant to be disdain. In reality, he sounds like a dozing bear cub. "They start next week."

It's become a Christmas tradition for Tristan to get roped into the carol service at his school, despite his insistence that it goes against his religion. Fair enough, in my opinion, because he needs to start coming up with some believable lies.

"I'll talk to Farrah's mum," I relent. He whoops loudly and the sound circles back like a boomerang. "But this is only because you're a prisoner come Monday."

He grins in that way that makes any decision feel like the right one, and I elbow him. "Eat your fucking eggs then, LeBron," I mumble as I back away into the bedroom. He is the only thing I know about basketball.

Convinced that Tristan is suitably distracted, I fumble around in the mess by the bed for my jacket and slide my phone out of the left-hand pocket.

V: yo, u free this afternoon? I've got a job for u

V: I reckon it might cheer u up :)

*

Much to Tristan's suspicion, our bus rolls up at quarter past on the dot and we arrive at the Crossley Primary playground almost criminally early. I tug my jacket tighter around me, wishing it was socially acceptable to ditch it for my duvet.

"Got everything?" I ask, stifling a yawn.

"Yep."

"Lunch?"

"I said yes, didn't I?"

I lift an eyebrow. "Chill."

"Sorry," Tris says hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder. The lads are already writhing around under the basketball hoop and Tris is clearly much more eager to get in on the tarmac burns than stand here talking to his weird older sister.

"Go on," I mutter, swallowing a smile. "Bones to break, lives to ruin."

He grins and throws his arm around my waist. "Love you."

He bounces off like a blond Crash Bandicoot and I chew at my lip, inching closer to the rest of the parents. I stop a few feet from the verge of the crowd. It's stupid o'clock in the morning, so I'm the only present member of the Everyday Value parent substitutes. Suddenly my skirt feels too short, eyeliner too thick, thighs too wide. I scan the horde for Farrah's mother and swallow audibly.

Farrah's mum is gorgeous from every angle, in every light. The first tentative wisps of sunrise catch on the jewelled pin holding her hijab in place and I shake my head because this is not a fair fight. I dig my nails into my palms and take a shaky breath as I head towards her, every parenting book I've ever read stacking up like pancakes in my stomach.

"Mrs Rasul," I smile tightly, my fingernails self-weaponising under the cover of my jacket pockets.

The other mums begin to nudge each other and the anxiety eats its way up from my stomach to my mouth. I tell Farrah's mum that my cousin will be there to pick up Tris from the Rec Grounds at half five and that wow, it's so generous of her, I know this really means a lot to Tristan. I catch myself before I can heave literal golden syrup onto her loafers, instead scribbling my number onto the cleanest scrap of paper that I have as she daintily holds out her business card.

The moment I turn my back, the other mums begin to cluck. I catch Tristan looking my way and wink, wondering if the dampness in my pockets is blood or sweat, and then I get the hell out of there because I'm quickly losing the will to take care of anyone at all.

The walk to school gives me time to iron out the concertina that was once my stomach. The minster bell hasn't even tolled for eight o'clock so I take my time, drawing in whispered three-five breaths and kicking through the dead leaves swathing the pavement. Other than the occasional crunch from under my boots, the pathway to Cooper Avenue is silent. It feels like we're all waiting for something. I wonder if it's Godot.

I shake my head as I remember that I'm really not that funny.

My heart sinks by default when I finally duck through Crossley Grammar's side gate, pushing overgrown branches out of my face as if I'm wading through a mob of paparazzi. I manage to get to my locker without being stopped, snippets of the events from last night drifting past my ears and hammering James Diavolo's name back into my brain, as if it ever left. I force myself not to listen. It is no longer my business.

I stare at the timetable Blu-tacked to the inside of my locker door, struggling to breathe through the stench of cheese-and-onion crisps fogging up the corridor.  Eventually, I pick a folder at random and slot it into my bag, reaching for the water bottle I'd set in the freezer during breakfast and slamming it against my slick forehead.

The shriek of the bell cuts across the hallway, sending a year-above toppling to the floor. I pointedly look away as she clambers gingerly to her feet, unnoticed by the masses.

"It's mad that she's keeping it," a voice whispers behind me. "I can't even remember to get my acrylics off on time, imagine having a baby."

My fingers tighten around the straps of my bag and I lurch back into autopilot, stumbling unseeingly up the stairs until I reach the French classroom that doubles as my form room. I press my cheek against the cold plastic of a desk in the corner and close my eyes.

Twenty minutes later, I've mustered up enough energy to hold my head up without my hands and our form teacher is still a no-show. Jasmine is ploddingly composing a hate song about her to the tune of the Özil chant – "We hate Ms Watts! She gives us spots!" – Iris and Oliver have disappeared, presumably to shag in the German classroom, and someone has barricaded the door to stop us being called into assembly, so we're all gathered round the whiteboard for what was meant to be a friendly game of Hangman. 

"What the fuck is that?" Megan explodes as Jackson swiftly draws a diagonal line between the two frames of the gallows.

"It's a support beam, Megan," he sneers, capping the marker defiantly.

"It's cheating, you dickhead!"

"Oh, sorry, was there not a support beam at the last hanging you went to?" Jackson snarls.

I snort quietly into my palm.

"He's gonna die, he doesn't need a fucking support beam," Megan snaps.

"He's not gonna die because we're gonna fucking get this, okay?" he insists, slapping Tom and Tommy on the back.

The bell rings with so much self-importance that I almost mistake it for my sister. I press my fingers to my reverberating skull and wonder if the girl from earlier is still standing. Tom and Tommy glance up at Jackson pityingly as he slams the whiteboard marker onto the desk.

"This isn't over, Megan," he says sulkily.

She grins. "Good to know."

I retch and clap Jackson on the back. "That's enough, Romeo."

"Shut up," he says scornfully, casting a glance over his shoulder at her as we leave. "I wish."

I stare at him open-mouthed. "No way. Really?"

"Shut your mouth, you'll catch dicks."

There is not a single word that I can think of to say to that. Jackson smiles smugly as he falls into step beside me, twirling his juul between his fingers like an overpriced fidget spinner, and we trudge to the science labs against our better judgement.

Three periods later, I'm showing him how to stalk Megan's socials on my phone, shielded by the cover of my Biology textbook. He's finally starting to understand the use of tagged photos when the console buzzes waspishly in his hands. Jackson slides it across the desk towards me.

L: DEBREIF. NOW.

I groan quietly, about to poke it back towards him when a new notification catches my eye.

-----

FROM: <[email protected]> TO: <PHILETH SET 12A>

Dear students - unfortunately, I have come down with a mysterious illness that has rendered me temporarily bedridden. I'm sure many of you can sympathise... it appears to be making the rounds today. I have attached a refresher on Kant to prepare you for our lesson on Thursday. I'll see you then.

Sickly regards,

Dr. Webber

Sent from my iPhone

-----

Smirking slightly, I double-back to the message thread that I just closed down.

V: heading home at break... debrief tomorrow?

Louisa's reply comes in record time.

L: Dont think I dont know what ur doing...

L: Eevs told me wat happened

The smile dies on my lips. I close my eyes against the incoming flashes of memory as Jackson tactfully pretends to take notes with a compass.

V: ha... debrief tomorrow

L: Sorry :/

L: Debreif tomorrow. xxx

*

Brazen Williams. November 1st. The Williams House.

We always triple-lock the front door before we go to sleep, especially on a night like Halloween. The heavy thud of the bolts sliding into place unlocks a sense of relief like no other, one that makes it a lot easier to reason that the dull clunking outside your window is a monster of your own making and not a threat to your life.

It does make sneaking into the house one hell of an operation, though. The door is only unlocked when I set off for school in the morning, which is a good half an hour after Ma storms into my bedroom to curse me out of bed and near-impossible to work around without a man on the inside. 

I tap my phone screen to life. 7:03. I have about ten minutes before the cursing begins and the jig is up, because the Zen-shaped mound under the duvet will lose all credibility once Ma opens the curtains.

I crab-walk round to the thorny bush below the living-room window and extract the Amazon parcel that I stashed two days ago. Peeling off the clingfilm I taped on in a flimsy attempt at weatherproofing, I arrange it on the doorstep and ram the doorbell aggressively before rolling behind the car.

"Who the hell is calling this bloody early?" I can hear Ma fuming from inside the house. 

I grin in spite of myself. Her accent is much thicker in the morning. It's almost sweet, if you ignore the pure acid that lines her words.

The door creaks open slowly and I imagine her peering suspiciously through an inch-wide gap in the doorway, the chain still firmly locked in place. There is a huff and a puff as she catches sight of the package and I hear her scooping it into her arms.

"Sahana!" she calls. "The package is here! Bloody two days late, everything you hear these days is a lie-"

The door clicks shut behind her and I laugh into the crook of my elbow, darting over to the doorstep. I poke two fingers through the letterbox and peer inside. The package has been abandoned slap-bang in the middle of the stairs - naturally - but the light is on in the kitchen, which means Ma is probably making tea.

I let myself in, gripping each key firmly between my fingers to minimise the chances of a rogue jingle, and creep up the stairs with my shoes in my hand. Both the bathroom door and the door to my sisters' bedroom is shut, meaning they're both awake and could appear at any moment to drop me the fuck in it. I leap into my room, kicking the door just shy of closed, and wrestle out of last night's clothes, shoving them mercilessly under my bed.

"Zen!" Ma bellows from the foot of the stairs. "You can't be late this half term, I won't allow it!"

I smother my face with my pillow for maximum accuracy. "I'm up!" I holler, fishing my wallet out of the pocket of my jeans.

I stick my head out onto the landing and narrow my eyes at the bathroom door. After a moment of strained silence, I catch the tail end of one of Sumi's characteristic mutters and smile. "Sumi's in the bathroom!"

"Sumi, get out of the bathroom!" Ma yells.

"Yeah, Sumi," I whisper, ducking back into my room with a grin.

Sahana's face appears in my open doorway, framed by two wild fireworks of hair that I'm assuming started out as plaits. "Why, so you can shower off the smell of a hundred sweaty teenagers?"

I scowl, nudging my wallet out of sight. "Whatever."

"Ooh, good one," she jeers, widening her eyes mockingly as she disappears down the stairs.

I glance over at my bedside table, where she's left me a Costco water bottle and a packet of ibuprofen, and smile. 

Two hours later, after hurling nearly an hour's wage down the shameless drain that is TfL to get to registration and back, I am tucked up in bed with a steaming bowl of rice and the last half hour of Howl's Moving Castle open on my laptop.

The immersion is finally starting to kick in when my phone emits a needy beep-beep!, lighting up excitedly. I scowl, keying in my password, and freeze when the screen opens directly onto a new message:

N: Everything alright with you?

I groan, burying my face into my pillow and recoiling almost immediately at the thick smell of sweat. I flop onto my back and stare up at the mottled ceiling.

"Dickhead," I murmur, letting my eyelids flicker closed. "Absolute dickhead."

I hadn't seen Naman since the back-to-school party, back in September. We'd meant to hang out over the summer, but he'd landed a job at a chicken shop and the rest of his time was wrapped up in band practice (he plays keys). It hadn't fazed me at all. I knew we'd run into each other sooner or later and that things would revert back to how they'd always been, or at least how they'd been since Naman got hot.

What I couldn't have predicted was that we'd run into each other in a third-floor box room while I was mid-sob and he was mid-fumbling-for-the-button-on-his-jeans. What I definitely couldn't have predicted was that the second pair of hands on that button would belong to our desk partner from GCSE Music Tech.

I scroll up to his last message, dated April 29th, and stare bitterly at the screen. It's a photo of Naman, Vienna and I crowded around Mrs Gupta on her last day at school. Out of all the idiots in Music Tech, she'd liked us the most. She'd waited until we'd gone on study leave to take maternity leave, and with Grams axing Music Tech from the curriculum altogether, she'd confessed that she wasn't coming back. We hadn't realised that her departure would mark the beginning of the end. Up until then, Naman had been one of my best mates and Vienna had been an imperceptible influence, as well as the only reason the three of us had dropped a bouquet of tulips at our old classroom door.

I can just about make out their heads, splodges of plum and ochre in the very edge of the frame. I turn up the brightness with a frown. I guess they were always that close, I consider, resignation settling in my chest. I am no longer talking about the tulips.

The focus of the photo is undoubtedly Naman, who has an arm slung around Vienna's shoulder as if this is his day job and the camera just happens to be there. Vienna's mouth is twisted, little more than a gash of orange across tawny skin, but Naman's smile is wide and winning, every bit as charming as the rest of him. And then there's me, peering attentively into the lens as I poke my head around Naman's shoulder, not at all sure whether I belong in the shot and certainly not at ease enough to smile about it. 

Out of all the brown boys in that class, I'd had to sit next to Naman - Naman with his long hair and his habitual snicker and his stupid band that was actually good. It was a wonder Vienna had spoken to me at all. We'd both been cuffed at the time, her to Diavolo, the prettiest boy to ever carry a football to every lesson, and me to Savannah, a year-above from Crossley High, the uptight private school on the other side of town. Needless to say, Naman had had us hooked on his heartbreak chronicles, showing up to class each week with another sordid story and a sheepish grin. 

It wasn't surprising that now, when my friendship with Vienna lay trampled underfoot, the two of them were likely closer than ever. I click back onto the message thread, my thumb hovering over the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen.

Z: yh fine. sorry abt monday

His reply comes whooshing in almost instantly.

N: No worries. Apparently it was for the best

My mouth quirks up of its own accord and I shake away the smugness cresting in my chest. Poor Naman, I think solemnly, maximising Netflix on my laptop. Such a shame.

It's not convincing, but I don't care. I nestle deeper into the duvet and turn my attention back to my rice.