The week since the march has gone so fast. In lessons I’ve been replaying things in my mind, trying to make sense of how I came to be on that march. What made me go? I thought I would tell Pari about it, but somehow the time never feels right. I like the feeling of having all these thoughts, sounds and pictures whirring through my mind that just belong to me and all those strangers. It makes me feel like I’m part of something much bigger than me, like Bubbe said Kez doing her bat mitzvah makes her feel. Every time I think of myself on the Women’s March holding up Nana Josie’s banner with Jackie and Fliss, I feel a bit stronger.

I can’t even explain to myself the feeling it’s left me with . . . like something’s building inside me.

‘Laila, have you seen my laptop?’ Dad calls up the stairs.

‘Sorry! I borrowed it last night,’ I say, bringing it down to him.

‘Then it’s no wonder you couldn’t sleep. You know the rules about screens after eight o’clock.’

I ignore him and open the fridge door to find a half-mangled chicken sitting on a plate. I want to heave.

‘What should I make you and your friend to eat tonight? What’s her name again? Are you still veggie?’ Mum asks.

‘Her name’s Pari. Why wouldn’t I be? Are you still vegetarian?’ I point to the slogan on the fridge door. ‘And Pari’s vegetarian too.’

‘Ah . . . that explains it!’ Dad chips in.

‘What? I do have a mind of my own, you know, Dad!’

‘Yep, receiving loud and clear! I seem to remember Krish going vegetarian except for bacon sandwiches and chicken . . .’

‘Well, Mira’s a proper vegetarian, and she’s stuck to it,’ I argue.

‘That’s true,’ Dad admits. ‘I blame you, Uma, for indoctrinating the girls!’

Mum pulls a face at Dad.

‘It’s got nothing to do with Mum!’ I scowl.

I actually really do miss bacon and chicken, but there’s no way I’m going to tell Mum or Dad that. It’s so annoying that they think I can’t make up my mind to do something and then stick to it.

Mum starts chopping onions and garlic. She’s been doing this nearly every morning since she started work. She’s got this new pot that she plugs in at breakfast time and it cooks slowly all day. She loves it because she’s discovered a way of cooking that doesn’t set the fire alarm off! I like it too, because when I come in from school really hungry, the smell hits you as you walk in, and even if no one’s in, it smells like home – especially now it’s getting dark and cold. Mum’s not really the best cook in the world, but the things she makes in this slow cooker are always delicious. But right now, the smell of dinner cooking is putting me off eating anything. It’s like setting the day off in the wrong order. Garlic and onions for breakfast. Puke!

‘You and Pari can help yourselves when you come in. I’ll be back after my meeting. Vegetable casserole tonight, and you can warm some pitta breads, grate a bit of cheese if you want. There’s some yogurts for afters. Will that be OK?’

‘Can’t we just have pizza or something easy? She might not like casserole.’

Mum ignores me and carries on chopping.

Dad turns on the laptop, shakes his head and taps the recorded time that I turned the computer off. I wish he wasn’t so on top of all this stuff. I know he’s always checking my browsing history.

‘2.56 a.m!’

I can’t believe it! I only started reading after that. No wonder I feel so tired. I can’t have slept for more than two hours.

‘Nearly 3 a.m! No wonder you’re so bad-tempered, Laila. Take a look at this, Uma . . .’ Dad presses a link to the video I was watching last night about Simon’s last march against climate change.

‘How are you going to get to sleep with all that whirring through your brain? You can’t function like this, Laila. And being on a screen watching anything before you go to bed is not going to help. From now on you’re not allowed the laptop in your room at all.’

‘My eczema’s keeping me awake,’ I say.

Mum turns my arms over. They’re all red. In the bit of time I did sleep I must have been scratching away.

‘Why aren’t you wearing those gloves I gave you? We’ll have to go to the doctor.’

Mum switches off the clip of the march and leans in to whisper in Dad’s ear. Maybe I have got supersonic hearing like Krish always says, because I can hear every word she says.

‘We’ve been here before, Sam.’

Mum sits down next to me at the table. There’s no escaping now.

‘Where did you say your friend was from?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? Her mum’s from Iraq, I think.’

Dad taps the top of the computer. ‘And what about her dad?’ he asks.

‘How would I know? I’m not bringing Pari back if you’re going to get all up in her face.’

‘We’re looking forward to meeting her,’ Mum says, placing what I think is supposed to be a calming hand on my shoulder.

I just wish they wouldn’t ask me so many questions.

‘I’ll be back by five. Help yourself to the casserole. Now try to eat some toast, Laila.’

‘Not hungry!’ I get up from the table and stomp up the stairs.

‘Get up in her face?! Oh hell. Second’s out; round three . . . !’ I hear Dad say.

I wait on the top step to see if there’s anything else . . .

‘She’s reminding me of Mum more and more every day . . . and it’s not just a passing resemblance.’

I turn and look at the black-and-white photo of Nana Josie smiling out at me.

‘Ever since she found that chime!’

‘Don’t let her hear you saying that, Uma! She’ll never sleep!’