Kieran turns up at my school on Wednesday, fifteen minutes before we leave for the pool.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m here for the swimming?’

Wendy’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. ‘Oh. So you’re Kieran!’

Kieran explains that yes, he’s my carer and that he’s studying occupational therapy, so he’s more than happy to help out. Wendy looks him up and down, her eyes narrow, like she’s deciding whether to believe him, which makes him fiddle awkwardly with his keys.

‘Great. Very good,’ says Wendy. ‘Lovely to have you along.’

I’m already in my bathers and swimming nappy, with my school uniform over the top, so all Kieran has to do is help Wendy load me and the others onto the bus. Wendy is full of smiles now Kieran is here, but I wait for her true colours to come through.

The aqua aerobics class is finished when we arrive at the aquatic centre, and instead of ladies jigging and jogging to 80s music, the students from Nic’s school are sitting on the benches at the far end of the pool. Their first-aid instructor is arranging plastic resuscitation dummies on a mat.

I won’t embarrass you, Nic.

But I don’t have time to worry about Nic. Kieran has me out of my wheelchair and down the ramp faster than you can say ‘bomb dive’. He’s swishing me around in the water and throwing me up and down so that I twist and splish and splash. We’re laughing so hard Kieran doesn’t notice the looks we’re getting from the other swimmers. For once, they’re not staring. They’re looking at me with envy! Kieran’s chest and arms are strong, and his smile is warm and wide. Everyone in the pool wants to be me today.

Kieran finds a pool noodle, and while I tiptoe my feet on the bottom, he slides it behind my back and under my arms so that I can lean back against the foam, like I’m reclining in an armchair. When he’s checked I’m comfy, he holds the two ends and uses it to pull me along after him. He tows me up and down the pool. The water whooshes past my legs, like I’m really swimming. I feel like an Olympic champion, racing up and down the lanes.

We’re at the far end of the pool, for the third time, and Kieran is slowing down so he can swing me around and take me back. Each time, he makes sure my legs don’t bump the edge.

‘Oh, sorry, excuse us,’ he says. Two girls in Nic’s class have taken off their shoes and are sitting on the edge, dangling their feet in the water. They’re both chewing gum, and their long hair is dead straight, like uncooked spaghetti.

‘You’re good at that,’ says one. ‘Want to give me a turn?’

Kieran’s face turns red. Without answering, he zooms me back to the shallow end, where we stay with the rest of my class. I wish he would pull me along again, but the girls are still at the far end of the pool, dangling their feet and flicking their spaghetti hair.

Nic has her hands firmly braced against a dummy’s chest. If you didn’t know her better, you’d think she was concentrating on saving the rubber man from dying; but the truth is, she’s watching me and Kieran like a beady magpie.

It’s okay, Nic. Kieran’s got me! I’m having a really good time.

My cheeks are sore from smiling when Wendy tells us it’s time to get out of the water. I’m still smiling as Kieran helps me up the ramp and, after wrapping me in my towel, sits me in my chair. And then, even though I’m shivering and my fingernails are blue, I don’t make a peep while Wendy takes me to the change room and dresses me.

I take a deep breath. I’ve actually done it. I haven’t screamed once or even thought about pinching.

I’ve had the most amazing time.

I’m in my wheelchair, loaded on the bus, when Kieran sidles up to Wendy. ‘I was wondering,’ he says, ‘at school, what communication system does Ava use?’

Wendy hesitates. She’s standing at the sliding door, her hand resting on the handle as she waits for Freya to get settled in her seat. ‘Ava? We’ve been training her with PECS,’ she says. ‘The Picture Exchange System? We offer the students a series of cards with choices and they pick out which one they want.’

Kieran nods. ‘Yeah, I know PECS. But since Ava can’t really use her hands, how do you, you know, get her to show you which picture she’s chosen?’

Wendy snorts. ‘Look, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but not everyone has the capacity to communicate. Let’s just say we do our best, but sometimes, well … Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think everyone’s good to go.’

She nods for Kieran to climb in before pulling the door shut with a little more force than necessary. A scream pushes hard against my chest. My water-wrinkled hands clasp and squish as I try to hold it together. Luckily Kieran sees and gives me a wink. ‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ he whispers. ‘We’ll get you talking. You’ll see.’

The next time Mum takes Nic to her maths tute, they encourage Dad to come for the drive. Kieran stays home with me while I have my morning tea, his iPad on the table while I eat. The ‘yes’ and ‘no’ squares stare at me from the screen.

They didn’t work last time, remember?

I eat my biscuits while Kieran asks me questions, but my hands won’t press a thing.

‘What’s this?’ asks Nic, when she, Mum and Dad get home.

‘Oh, nothing,’ says Kieran. ‘Just something I’m trying to help Ava talk.’

Nic glances over to where Mum’s supporting Dad as he struggles through the door. ‘What does it do?’ she asks, pressing the iPad screen with her finger so that ‘YES!’ booms out.

She frowns. ‘What, like, Ava’s supposed to press that little button so you’ll know if she means yes or no?’

Kieran shakes his head. ‘Well, theoretically. I ask questions, she answers. Only, it’s not going so well.’

‘Seriously? You know Ava can’t point, right?’

We’ll find a way, Kieran. Don’t worry.

Kieran looks down at his hands. ‘We saw this girl at the disco with a special speech machine,’ he explains. ‘She moved her cheek against a controller, and I’m thinking … I know Ava can’t control her muscles like that, but there has to be a way to help her talk. I just don’t know how.’

‘What if Ava didn’t have to use her hands or her cheek?’ Nic spreads my biscuits out on the table, just out of my reach. Chocolate wafers on the right, vanilla on the left, strawberry in the middle. ‘Hey, Ava, where’s the vanilla?’ she asks.

Clap, squish, clench.

I can’t point to the vanilla, Nic. Don’t make me fail again.

Nic keeps motioning to the wafer biscuits, insisting I make a choice. ‘Come on, Ava. Vanilla? Where’s the vanilla?’

My ears ring. The fridge hums, and my clasping hands ache.

‘Is she okay?’ asks Kieran, spying my screwed-up face.

‘Ava!’ Nic insists. ‘Where’s the vanilla?’

And, despite my wobbly head, I look left.

Kieran’s eyebrows rise.

‘And the strawberry?’

I look to the middle.

Kieran leans forwards, his eyes shining. He’s checking my face to confirm where I’m looking, so I keep my gaze steadily on the strawberry biscuit.

‘That’s awesome!’ he marvels, leaning back again and slapping his hands excitedly against his thighs. ‘So, she’s using her eyes to make choices?’

Nic shrugs. ‘Yeah. She does it all the time. But if you don’t look carefully, you don’t see it. Right, Ava? She moves her eyes pretty quick.’

‘What’s this?’ asks Mum. She and Dad have finally joined us in the kitchen.

‘Ava. Using her eyes to say yes or no,’ explains Kieran.

Mum glances doubtfully at Nic. After the Dynavox didn’t work, one of my therapists made up pictures on a board, but no-one could tell where I was looking.

‘But technology is better now,’ Kieran claims after Mum explains this. ‘Take Ava’s friend Aimee. She works her device with her cheek. There must be something for people’s eyes?’

My heart skips. Pointing fingers? Shifting cheeks? He’s right. There has to be something for moving eyes. There must be something.

Mustn’t there?

Kieran mentions a Disability Expo he’s seen advertised at the hospital. ‘You guys should check it out.’

Nic bounces around excitedly. ‘Yeah, Mum. We have to go.’

Mum’s murmuring something about it not being a good time, when Dad slowly lifts his arm. It’s the first time Dad’s moved his right hand since his stroke, and we stare, holding our breaths, as he places it over Mum’s. ‘Ava,’ he drawls, nodding towards me. ‘Talk.’

My heart swells.

Dad knows how it is to be me. To be locked in.

Dad understands.

Mum, Nic, Kieran and I watch as Dad’s mouth twists into a smile. His whole face beams as he strings the words together. ‘Ava talk.’