SHE IGNORED the doorbell at first when it woke her. It rang again. And again. Fucking salespeople. She opened her eyes. There was an untouched sandwich and a glass of water on the bedside table. Christos must have come home at lunchtime — she thought she’d dreamt that. Growling, she got up, pulled on gloves, and went to answer the door.

The natural light hit like a brain freeze, but she was surprised by the lack of chemical haze in her head. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms must be over, senses reawakening. She squinted and shielded her eyes. Aubrey, in a shell-pink sweater and denim shorts, a big sticking plaster on her left knee. She was holding an exercise book and a pencil case. One earphone was stuck in an ear, the other dangling by her side.

‘Hey, Sidney. Why are you wearing pyjamas?’

Sidney glanced down at her Supergirl T-shirt and shorts. ‘I like them.’

Aubrey raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m not feeling well. I was resting.’

‘Hangover?’

‘No.’ She crossed her arms over the red S-shield on her chest. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

‘It’s four thirty. Would it be OK if I come in and do my homework till Mum gets home?’

‘Not today, Aubrey.’ A small electric zap in her head.

‘OK.’ Aubrey sighed and looked at her sneakers.

‘Oh, all right. But only if you’re very quiet.’ The room clouded with apple green as Aubrey followed her inside.

‘What are you listening to?’ Sidney slumped on the sofa.

‘Taylor Swift.’

Sidney screwed up her face.

‘My mum hates her too. She only listens to classical music.’ Aubrey pocketed her earphones and sat next to her.

Sidney remembered her mother’s record collection. Some rock’n’roll, but mostly truck-drivin’ albums. Faye’s favourite country tear-jerker to blubber over was ‘Mama Hated Diesels’: some Australian guy singing about the suicide of a single mother jilted by a trucker; she’d been flaggin’ diesels down on the highway. It must have reminded her of Sidney’s dad, Billy. Faye had his name tattooed above a rose on her ankle. Billy had been a truck driver. Faye had met him at the truck stop where she’d had an after-school waitressing job. He hadn’t done anything romantic like dying with the lights on the hill blinding him; he’d just knocked her up and never come back.

‘What music do you like?’ Aubrey said.

Sidney shrugged — she didn’t really know. The music catalogue in her head ran out in the early nineties, with the tears down Sinead O’Connor’s cheeks. Christos had programmed a soft-rock playlist on her phone: songs about glory days and boys of summer, but those songs left her cold. ‘What happened to your knee?’

‘Fell over at school.’ Aubrey opened her exercise book and pencil case.

Sidney closed her eyes. Another head zap. And a wave of nausea, but only a small one — more neap tide than tsunami.

‘How do you spell “watch”?’ Aubrey said.

Sidney opened her eyes. ‘What do you mean, how do you spell “watch”?’

‘Is it W–O–T–C–H?’

‘No. W–A–T–C–H.’

‘Thanks.’ She wrote in her book. ‘How about “rollercoaster”?’

‘You should know how to spell those words.’

‘I can’t spell. I’m stupid.’

‘Don’t be silly. Just sound it out.’

‘Doesn’t make any difference. I have dyslexia.’

‘What are you working on?’

‘A narrative. A memoir about my dad taking me to Disneyland.’

‘When did you go there?’

‘Never. I’m making it up.’

‘But it’s meant to be a memoir. Maybe you could change it to Luna Park?’

‘Haven’t been there either.’

‘And I thought I was the only one.’

‘You and I should go there, then.’

Sidney raised her eyebrows.

‘Deal.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, deal.’

She sighed. ‘Maybe, but only if you let me help you with your spelling.’