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to Earth when I realize why.
    “Are you Ava’s sister?”
    “I heard she got some bad news, right?”
    “Is she in today? I haven’t seen her. I’m kind of freaked out, to be honest.”
    “Tell her I said hi, OK? Here’s my number, in case she doesn’t have it.”
    Daisy sits with her eyes on stalks, watching them all troop by.
    “I can’t believe that Shane Matthews is trying to hit on Ava at a time like this,” she mutters, disgusted. “Doesn’t he know she has a boyfriend? What did the consultant say, by the way? She is coming back to school, isn’t she?”
    I nod. “She’s just taking a few days out to get used to it and have some tests. He said to keep living as normally as possible.”
    “Like you feel so normal right now,” Daisy says, oozing with sarcasm.
    She’s right. I can’t even remember what normal’s supposed to feel like. All I feel now is empty, as we wait for the next piece of information, so we can figure out what to do.
    In class this morning our homeroom teacher, Mr. Willis, told everyone what had happened while I was taken to the guidance counselor for a chat about my feelings, which was a bit of a waste of time for us both, because emptiness is a difficult feeling to describe. However, it added a new one — which was guilt about feeling empty, instead of whatever feelings I’m supposed to have. I could have talked about that, but I didn’t, because by then it was time to go back to class, where everyone stared at me with their mouths literally hanging open. It wasn’t the best start to the day.
    Meanwhile, more cute boys pass by the grassy knoll to pay their respects. Thank goodness I’m sitting here in Ava’s borrowed skirt and not my micro-mini. I feel like a walking condolence-book-cum-dating-site. I suppose I could try and describe that to the guidance counselor next time, but I don’t think it’s the kind of feeling she was looking for.
    The bell rings. Daisy and I get up. We have a math exam any minute. Why they take the month of June, the most glorious inthe whole English calendar, and fill it with exams every year of your school life, I can’t begin to imagine.
    “How’s Ava coping, by the way?” she asks.
    I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s pretty quiet. She seems so calm but she must be feeling so … It’s like she’s avoiding it. I heard her telling Jesse how much she’ll miss the beach this summer, but that’s all. Mum’s in tears every five minutes, though. And Dad accidentally broke his watch.”
    “And you?”
    I use the fact that we’ve arrived at our math room as an excuse not to answer. Because when we got back from the hospital on Saturday, I was distracted. Perhaps I just didn’t want to think about the bad news conversation, but I couldn’t help remembering that logo in Marie Claire , and Simon the not-a-scammer-after-all, and what he said to me on Carnaby Street.
    I keep trying to make sense of the whole “have you thought about being a model” thing, and I still can’t do it. Mum caught me staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, and wondered if I was getting a zit. I said I was, because it was easier than explaining that I was trying to find any passing resemblance between me and Kate Moss. Or the girl on the cover of Marie Claire . Or indeed anyone in a magazine who’s not there as the “before” picture in a cosmetic surgery ad.
    I know it’s selfish and irrelevant, but I just wish I knew what Simon meant, and why he picked me of all people to say it to.

    At night, Ava can’t sleep. Neither can I. I hear her constantly changing position in bed on the other side of the room. Her skin itches and makes her uncomfortable. One of the symptoms wedidn’t pay enough attention to, like the fevers and night sweats. Her body has been trying to tell her something for a long time.
    “Are you hot?” I whisper.
    “A little.”
    There’s silence for a while.
    “Ava?”
    Nothing.
    “Are you OK?”
    Long sigh. “What do you