‘Hope! Are you coming to eat your tea or not? Scout’s eyeing it up!’ Mum shouts over my music. I hear the oven door slamming, the clattering of cutlery and an impatient bark from Scout, always on the lookout for food. I switch my music off, reply to another text from Callie, reassuring her that I’m fine. No one who says ‘I’m fine!’ really means it and Callie and I both know this. I shove my phone in my back pocket and go downstairs.

I sit at the table while Mum remains standing. I forgot she was out tonight. I look down at my plate. Jacket potato and beans is cop-out cooking. There’s a cup of tea going cold next to my plate. I can’t stand cold tea but I sip it so as not to hurt her feelings. She didn’t have to cook for me tonight, not when it’s book-club night. ‘Thanks, Mum, this looks great.’ I try to sound like I mean it.

‘It’s pay day tomorrow. We could get some nice food for the weekend, maybe even a meal deal? And we could go into town. I’d like to get you some new clothes for starting work, until we can get your top ordered in. I’m sure there’s a few sales on. New start next month, once you’ve finished your exams,’ she chatters, gathering up her car keys with a smile as she heads to the back door.

‘Don’t remind me,’ I mutter.

She stops near the door. I watch her shoulders rise with tension and then drop with an effort. I know she’s trying, but I can’t meet her halfway, not tonight.

‘Hope, we’ve talked about this. You agreed. I know you don’t want to spend the summer with me at work but we made a deal.’

I don’t want to work with her. I want to stay here in the house on my own and just…

‘You are not going to waste the summer hanging around the house! Moping about won’t make anything better.’ She comes back to the table and pulls out a chair. ‘It’ll just make you feel worse, trust me.’

I want her to go and take her well-meant assumptions about my feelings with her. She’s doing her ‘I’m your parent not your best friend’ thing and tonight it’s making my skin crawl. She thinks I can just work through the summer and go to Shrewsbury Sixth-Form College, as if that’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.

‘You’re not the only one, are you? Callie and Aisha didn’t get in either. I guess the timing doesn’t help?’ She pauses. ‘You’re probably feeling worse about it all because you’re hormonal at the moment.’

Hormonal is the understatement of the year. I’m getting angrier each month, more aggressive and less in control. And it’s scaring me, really scaring me. Sometimes I’ve not been able to keep it in, even at school. I can hear what I’m saying, can imagine my face contorting as the spiteful words come out of my mouth and I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be constantly apologising for whatever’s just come out of my mouth.

I tried managing myself with fake days off each month, but Mum cottoned on and forced me out of bed. It isn’t that my periods are that painful. Then I’d take some tablets, grab a hot water bottle and eat some chocolate, just like the other girls do. But my mood swings are not like everyone else’s.

‘We can talk about things when I get back from the Bird’s Nest book club. Or come with me, if you want?’ She puts her copy of the new Kate Atkinson on the table as an offering.

‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got loads of stuff to do. You go!’ I pull up the corners of my mouth with force, even though I know my eyes won’t match. ‘Have a good time!’

She nods at my fake smile, kisses the top of my head and rushes out. Her long hair smells of coconut and I just manage to stop myself grabbing hold of it and wrapping it around my neck like a noose so that she can’t leave me.

I don’t want to scare her with this, I’m not ready. Neither of us are.

I listen to the house once she’s gone. Scout barks at someone daring to walk past, something clangs in the washing machine, there’s a whirring or a pulse coming from the walls as if the house is alive, breathing, waiting for my next move.

I don’t know what to do once I’ve eaten. I can’t even think about revising, there’s no way any of it would go in. I stupidly presumed we’d be out celebrating. I slump over to the sofa. I don’t reach for the TV remote. I don’t glance at the shiny magazines Mum’s brought home from work. I just sit and feel blank. Scout gives me the eye but I don’t feel like taking her for a walk right now. She’s far too happy and bouncy. I close my eyes and fall into a sleep that’s filled with falling off cliffs and tripping over curbs.

The text makes me jump. It vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, insistent. It’s probably Callie, she’s not going to give up tonight. It might be easier to go out with her.

It vibrates again. I shove my glasses up my nose as the third text announces its arrival. I swipe the screen to unlock it. It’s not Callie. It’s him – him from the ferry, him – Riley Santiago.

How r y? Grand?

Come on now, you know the deal, you’re supposed to tell me you’re alright so I don’t have to alert the guards!

Checked your email lately? Got your attention now haven’t I! ;)

What does he mean check my email? He hasn’t got my email address.

I fling my phone onto the sofa. Scout barks at me in excitement as I run upstairs. My laptop hums into life when I open it. The screen says it is starting 1 of 3 updates and not to shut it down. I run back downstairs to read his texts again, trying to decode them. Scout paces back and forth, looking hopefully at the back door. Has Riley sent me an email? Has he hacked my email? Does he know something I don’t?

Maybe… Maybe I’ve got a second chance, another audition? But how could he know that, unless he was at Dublin, too? He looked like an actor; his name is definitely showy enough, unlike mine, Hope Baldi.

‘Riley Santiago.’ I try the sound of his name out loud. Definitely an actor. I bet he has an Equity card. He could be a talent scout! Maybe he saw something in me? Maybe he was at the audition and disagreed with the others? It happens, you hear about it all the time. All the time.

I run back up the stairs. My homepage is loading. I click on the envelope icon and wait. I have one new mail. I hit the key and it opens.

Just checking in to make sure you aren’t scaring any more gulls with your screeching, banshee girl. Car’s got a flat battery. Telly’s shite. What r u doing?

So no. He isn’t anyone. He doesn’t have anything to tell me. He’s talking about telly and cars and he can’t even type. He’s doing text talk on his email as if these are interchangeable. How did he get my email? I fire back frustration and disappointment:

Stalker! How did you get my email?

There’s no reply. I click the refresh button. Nothing. I thought he said he was bored.

I put some music on to drown out my own voice. I go to the bathroom and check the spots on my forehead as a distraction – it doesn’t work. I come back and there’s an email sat there waiting. I ought to delete it but I can’t.

Sent myself an email from yr phone on the ferry. Insurance policy in case you ignored my texts. And guess what… you did. Want to skype?

He’s clearly a flake. He thinks we have some kind of connection. He thinks we’re what… friends? Skype? He sounds at least three beers into his evening. I’m not skyping him. I’ve got to shut this down before it gets out of hand. I need to get rid of him.

No, I don’t want to Skype – don’t even know you. Delete me from your phone.

I wait for his reply but there’s no response.