1

Sometimes, your life can change in a moment and you might not even know it.

You could be sitting on a beach at sunset with a bunch of friends, playing guitar and singing while people laugh and chat and toast marshmallows, a party going on all around you. You might not notice the tall bearded guy listening intently, or know that he has the power to turn everything upside down for you. Doors could open, opportunities could unfold. Fame and fortune could hook you in, and nothing would ever be the same again.

My friend Finch jabbed me in the ribs, grinning.

‘See that guy with the beard, over there?’ he asked. ‘He’s a friend of Mum’s, from back home in London. She told him about your playing, and he said he’d come down one weekend and listen. He’s called Curtis Rawlins. You should say hello.’

‘Yeah?’ I echoed, peering into the twilight. ‘You think?’

Things had been crazy lately – a TV company was making a film in the village, and Finch’s mum Nikki was the producer. She and Finch had been staying with my girlfriend’s family for the summer, but the film was all wrapped up now. Nikki and Finch were ready to head back to London – the beach party was a kind of goodbye get-together.

Nikki had heard me play a few times over the holidays, though I’d never thought anything of it. The guy with Nikki looked like your typical film-crew type, youngish and London-cool with a goatee beard and a red trilby hat. I lifted a hand to wave at the two of them, and they grinned back.

‘Curtis is a talent scout for a record company,’ Finch said into my ear. ‘Wrecked Rekords … you’ve heard of them, right?’

I blinked. Everyone has heard of Wrecked Rekords – some of my favourite bands are signed to them.

‘Hang on, Finch,’ I frowned. ‘Did you just say …’

‘Curtis is a talent scout, yeah,’ he repeated.

‘Wow. But no, the other bit …’

‘Right. The bit about Mum telling him about your playing?’ Finch checked. ‘Yeah. She sent him a copy of that CD you made for me, and a link to your online stuff, and he liked it and decided to come down and meet you. He’s been listening to you for the last hour. So … are you going to say hi?’

He nudged me forward.

‘Hey, Nikki, Curtis,’ I said politely.

The beardy guy grinned and shook my hand, and up close I could see he had about a dozen piercings in one ear. ‘Shay, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Nice playing. And they’re all your own songs?’

I said that they were, and Curtis asked if I’d ever recorded anything or if I might like to. Wrecked Rekords were always on the lookout for new talent. According to Curtis, I was just the kind of thing they were looking for.

‘Seriously?’ I remember saying. ‘Me?’

Curtis was serious.

It could have been that easy, I swear. I could have had a recording contract right there and then, with a cool London label. Curtis said he thought I had something special – raw talent, awesome songs, an offbeat kind of charm. Plus, I was young and keen and had the right look.

Me. Really. He said I could have a career, a future. They’d put down a few tracks, arrange some showcase gigs, get media coverage.

‘You could be big,’ Curtis told me. ‘That indie-ballad vibe, the bittersweet songs, the surf-boy looks … it’s unique. They’re going to love you!’

My life could have changed in that moment, but …

Well, it didn’t. Just my luck.

Thing is, I am fifteen. I am still at school, and Curtis said that was no problem at all, but that obviously my parents would have to be on board with the whole thing.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told me. ‘I’ll talk to them, explain it all. Trust me!’

That’s when I knew I was doomed. My parents were never going to listen to a bloke with a goatee beard and piercings and a red trilby hat, talking about bittersweet songs with a surf-boy twist. It just wouldn’t happen.

‘I’m heading back to London tomorrow, but I’ll call in before I go,’ Curtis said. ‘When would be a good time?’

‘We work Sundays,’ I told him. ‘My dad runs the sailing centre in the village, and Sunday is one of our busiest days …’

‘I’ll definitely need to speak to him,’ Curtis said.

I sighed. ‘Well … our bookings don’t start until eleven on weekends, so if you called in around ten Dad should still be home …’

‘Cool,’ Curtis grinned.

But it wasn’t cool at all, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

‘D’you think you’d better tell your dad first?’ my girlfriend Cherry said. ‘Just mention it, set the scene a bit. So it doesn’t come as too much of a shock?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘I think you should,’ she persisted. ‘You know what he’s like. A bit cynical? You have to give him time to get used to the idea, prepare him a bit, or else he’ll never even let Curtis over the doorstep!’

I looked up at the moon, a crescent of silver in the dark September sky. I was looking for inspiration, ideas, but the moon just blinked back at me, impassive.

‘I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow,’ I promised Cherry.

Let’s just say it didn’t go too well.

I spilled the beans over breakfast – Dad’s favourite scrambled-egg feast. I even made him a banana smoothie with cinnamon sprinkles, but it was no use. He said no – actually, he yelled it, and there was a lot of swearing mixed in there too, so I knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. I texted Cherry to tell her, and she rang back right away, telling me not to give up.

‘Give him time to mull it over,’ she insisted. ‘You might be surprised.’

‘Doubt it,’ I huffed. ‘He won’t listen … He hates the whole idea. Hopeless.’

‘Nikki and Curtis can explain things better, though,’ Cherry pointed out. ‘The whole thing will have more weight, more gravity, coming from them. You’ve done the groundwork … relax, Shay. They’ll soon talk your dad round.’

Ha. Pigs might fly.

Now, half an hour later, I’m sitting on my bedroom window sill wishing I had never heard of Curtis Rawlins. I don’t think Dad has calmed down and started to accept the idea of me getting a record deal, not from the dark, brooding look on his face or the way he is stomping around the kitchen. Mum and Ben have made themselves scarce and headed down to the sailing centre to set up.

‘Not looking good, little brother,’ Ben said as he left. ‘Sorry.’

I’m sorry too. I press my face against the bedroom window, watching the path, hoping to spot Curtis coming and head him off before Dad gets hold of him. Things could get messy. In the end, I am not fast enough – Dad whips the door open just as Curtis and Nikki are striding up the path, their faces bright with opportunity and hope.

‘Whatever you want from us, it’s not happening,’ Dad is roaring even before I can get down into the hallway. ‘I know your sort. Whatever kind of deal you are offering, forget it – my son wants nothing to do with you!’

‘Please, Mr Fletcher,’ Finch’s mum says. ‘Hear us out. I can assure you that Curtis is making a very genuine offer here –’

‘Not interested,’ Dad snaps, and my heart sinks. He is not going to budge, not even for a film producer and a London record company talent scout. Especially not for them.

‘I’m not sure if you realize,’ Curtis says, ‘but Shay here could really make his mark in the music business. Wrecked Rekords would nurture him, develop him, perfect the product and polish up his performance skills …’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dad says.

‘But, Mr Fletcher – Shay’s got it all. Looks, skill, a unique style …’

Dad’s eyes skim over Curtis with his goatee beard and piercings and red trilby hat. He grits his teeth, struggling not to share his opinion of the talent scout’s own unique style.

‘Nothing doing,’ Dad repeats firmly. ‘The music business is all drink and drugs and debauchery. It’s corrupt, that’s what it is. No son of mine is going in for all that malarky!’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ Nikki argues. ‘You could manage him, make sure he was looked after. Shay has a talent. You wouldn’t want him to waste that, Mr Fletcher, would you?’

‘Talent?’ Dad snorts. ‘When has talent ever been enough? You’ve been watching too much X-Factor. Listen, because I don’t think you heard me the first time. Over. My. Dead. Body. Clear enough for you?’

I cringe. How can he be so rude, so aggressive? I bite my lip and roll my eyes, and hope that Nikki and Curtis know how mortified I am feeling.

‘All that showbiz nonsense,’ Dad rants on. ‘Ridiculous! Shay is fifteen years old. He’s still at school, and I need him here at the sailing centre too. This is a family business, in case you haven’t noticed. And it’s real work, proper physical work, not your airy-fairy music rubbish!’

‘Dad!’ I cut in. ‘Please? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! If you’d just give Nikki and Curtis a fair hearing –’

‘I’ve listened,’ he huffs. ‘And I didn’t like what I heard. It’s a con, Shay, can’t you see that? So, thanks, but … no thanks.’

He smiles icily and tries to shut the door, but Curtis turns back at the last minute, sticks his foot against the door frame and hands Dad his card and a sheaf of forms and leaflets.

‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘No pressure. You know where to reach me if you change your mind.’

He steps back just in time to avoid a bunch of broken toes as Dad slams the door. The forms and leaflets go straight in the bin, of course. Much later, when the worst day of my life is finally over and Dad has gone to bed, I fish the papers out and stuff them into my rucksack, even though they are slightly crumpled and have a nasty brown stain from where a tea bag has landed on them.

I am not about to give up that easily.

2

It’s not that my dad doesn’t believe in talent – I think he believes in it too much. He knows that fame and fortune can be very fickle things. It’s just that as far as Dad is concerned, all of the talent in our family belongs to my big brother.

Ben is a bit of a legend around here. He’s brilliant at sport, football especially … he was playing for Bristol City FC Youth Squad by the time he was fourteen, and Southampton FC scouted him when he was sixteen, but he had an injury and things didn’t work out. It wasn’t majorly serious, but it was enough to wipe out Ben’s chances of a premier-league football career.

Dad didn’t cope too well when it all went pear-shaped. He couldn’t believe you could play so well and work so hard and have it all end in nothing, and I suppose that has made him suspicious of chances and opportunities and promises of fame and fortune.

Anyhow, Ben went off to uni to study sports science and said it was the best thing he ever did. He went out every night and partied hard, doing all the stuff he hadn’t done when he was younger because of training so hard, and this summer he graduated with a 2:1 degree and started working full time at the sailing centre. He works hard, but he parties hard too.

‘You’re only young once, Shay,’ he likes to tell me. ‘Take my advice – loosen up, little brother. Live a little!’

I don’t take Ben’s advice, though.

I haven’t done that since I was five years old. Ben had made a go-cart and he told me I could be the first person to test it out. I felt like the most important boy in the world as I followed him up the hill behind our cottage.

‘You have total control,’ he told me. ‘Just yank on the steering rope to turn left or right, or to slow down. You’re so lucky I chose you to be the test driver, Shay! It’s going to be epic!’

It was epic all right. I wedged myself into the driver’s seat and Ben pushed me off down the hill at about a million miles an hour. Three seconds into the ride, the steering rope came off in my hands and, of course, there were no brakes. By the time I got to the bottom of the hill I was yelling like crazy. A wheel came off as I sped across the yard and crashed into the cottage wall, and I fell out of the go-cart and squashed Mum’s flowers and broke my arm in two different places.

Ben was the first to reach me.

‘Don’t tell,’ he hissed into my ear as I lay in a mangled heap beneath the lupins. ‘I’ll get into terrible trouble, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

So I didn’t tell, not even when Dad shouted at me for taking Ben’s go-cart without permission, not even when Mum grumbled about the squashed flower beds, not even when the doctors at A & E prodded about at my broken arm and put a plaster cast on it. I cried a bit because I was only five, remember, and it hurt a LOT. But Ben told me not to make a fuss, so after a while I just bit my lip and tried to be brave.

‘How did you manage to get yourself into such a mess, Shay?’ Dad huffed. ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’

That’s the question they’ve all been asking, my whole life pretty much. I wish I knew the answer, but the truth is I am not like Ben. We are chalk and cheese, day and night, sunshine and shadow.

I sigh, prising the lid off a fresh tin of paint, dipping my brush neatly and stroking the foul-smelling stuff across the upturned hull of yet another dinghy.

It’s Monday evening, almost two whole days after the legendary moment that didn’t change my life. Things have continued to go downhill. Finch and Nikki headed back to London along with Curtis, and with them leaving it felt like summer was well and truly over, all the fun squeezed out of it. I will miss Finch, miss the freedom of long hot days that blur into lazy nights of music and laughter.

It’s like Dad has slammed the door on all of that too.

To top it all, today school started up again. I managed to survive it, but only just – my mind switched off as the teachers began to talk about how important Year Eleven is, how hard we’ll need to study to pass our GCSEs and get that golden ticket to a shining future – it is hard to get worked up about exams right now. What’s the point? I will probably flunk my GCSEs and drop out of school to face a life of slavery at the sailing centre, scraping barnacles off boats and teaching little kids how to kayak.

I kept my head down and hoped that nobody was talking about what happened with Curtis, but word had definitely leaked out because at break a few kids asked if it was true I was going to be recording with Wrecked Rekords. I pretended not to know what they were talking about, but that just fuelled the rumour.

Wait till they get the whole story – the boy who was offered a record deal from Wrecked and turned it down? Yup, that’s me.

I’ll look like the biggest loser in the universe.

It is a relief to be back here, away from the gossip, away from the sad glances Cherry keeps shooting me when she thinks I’m not looking. Nobody likes to be pitied, right?

I dip my brush again and focus on painting.

So, yeah … my brother, the legend.

When I was seven, Ben scored three goals in the final match of the Under Thirteens’ Somerset football league and got his picture in the paper holding a shiny silver cup up in the air. Dad put up a shelf in the bedroom we shared to display the trophy, and when that shelf got crowded he put up another. When that one was full, Dad cleared my shelves so that Ben could use them too. It’s not like I was going to win any trophies – that sporty, competitive gene must have skipped me completely.

‘Shay Fletcher?’ a whole bunch of teachers have said over the years, usually out on the sports field. ‘Ben’s little brother? Goodness, you don’t take after him, do you?’

Ben is popular with the girls, of course. They look at his blond hair and his athletic build and his skin tanned golden from working outside at the sailing centre, and they swoon. There are always little gangs of them cheering him on from the sidelines at any given football match. All he has to do is smile and reel them in. He has a girlfriend from uni, but she lives miles away in Sheffield, and that’s probably a good thing. At least she’s not around to watch my brother flirting with every female within a fifty-mile radius.

I do not have an athletic build or a budding career in football, but I have the wheat-blond hair and the sea-green eyes and the tan. It took me a while to suss that not every girl who asked me if I was Ben Fletcher’s little brother was angling for his mobile number. Some of them were actually interested in ME.

‘Way to go, little brother,’ Ben laughed, when I started dating Honey Tanberry back in Year Nine. I had my brother’s approval at last.

I probably wouldn’t have dated Honey for half as long as I did if it hadn’t been for that. She was hard work – behind the party-girl facade, she was all anger and hurt and hopelessness. Neither of us got along with our families, and for a while that kept us together. I thought I could make her happy, but it turns out I was wrong about that, and after a while her drama-queen stuff started to get to me a bit.

I couldn’t see why Honey lashed out against her mum, why she hated her new stepdad. They both seemed pretty cool to me, but when I said that she called me a traitor. After a while I started to feel like I was just some kind of cool accessory she liked to have in tow, a boy with a guitar who was good for her image.

The two of us were just marking time, hanging out together until something better came along … at least, that’s what I thought.

It ended badly, of course.

I met Cherry, and that was it – ka-boom, it blew everything I’d felt for Honey right out of the water. Honey would never have forgiven me anyhow for ditching her for someone new, but I guess I didn’t make it easy for her. As far as she was concerned, I’d chosen the worst possible girl to fall for. I might as well have stabbed her through the heart, she raged at me – that was how cruel, how callous I’d been. It was bad, I admit – about as bad as it was possible to get.

Cherry was her new stepsister.

The whole thing was a nightmare, a mess, a massacre.

Honey screamed and yelled and threw stuff at me, and even now, more than a year on, she looks at me with such coldness I can feel icicles form in my hair, frost chilling my skin. Like I said, it’s a nightmare.

I finish painting the last dinghy, press the lid down on the paint and walk across to the storeroom to clean the brush. Over the last few years, I have turned the storeroom into a kind of den – there’s an ancient, paint-spattered sofa and a kettle to boil water for a pot noodle or a hot chocolate. It’s a good place to curl up with my guitar, a place to think and dream and write songs in the evening without Dad breathing down my neck.

There are plenty of pot noodles on the shelf and half a bar of Dairy Milk left over from the weekend. I reckon I’ve missed supper already, and it’s not like I’ll be missing much if I stay out another hour or two. Just the odd cutting remark from Dad, a few frosty silences, the occasional pitying glance from Mum or Ben.

It’s almost sunset, and the September sky is streaked with pink and gold, but the storeroom is dark and shadowy as I step inside. I don’t notice her at first, and when I do I just about jump out of my skin.

Honey is perched on the worktop in the corner, half hidden in the shadows, her long legs swinging, her jaw-length blonde hair rumpled. Her eyeliner is smudged and the lashes that fringe her wide blue eyes are damp, as if she’s been crying.

‘Shay?’ she says, her voice small, uncertain. ‘I need your help. I’m in trouble – big trouble.’

3

Honey is no stranger to trouble, of course. It’s her talent, her skill. If there was an exam in it she would get an A* without even trying … she’s a natural.

I got used to mopping up the fallout, back when we were together; Honey messing up, me sorting things out – it was just what we did. Still, I cannot for the life of me figure out what Honey is doing here now.

‘OK,’ I prompt, one eyebrow raised. ‘What is it this time? Fire, flood, plague of frogs? Or have you just broken a fingernail?’

Harsh, I know, but you have to remember that Honey and I are not exactly friends these days. Her lips begin to quiver and her eyes blur with tears, and right away I wish I could take the words back. What if something really serious has happened?

Honey is crying harder now, her shoulders shaking, mascara running down her cheeks in ugly black streaks. I hate it when girls cry. I never know what to do.

‘Hey, hey,’ I say, patting her arm awkwardly. ‘It can’t be that bad!’

Honey burrows her head against my neck and I panic because this clearly means that things are that bad, or possibly worse. Me and my big mouth. What if Honey’s mum has been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness or her no-good dad has finally gone bankrupt and topped himself by jumping off the Sydney Harbour Bridge? And here’s me making jokes about broken fingernails. Nice one, Shay.

Meanwhile, Honey is clutching on to my T-shirt and making a wet patch on my shoulder. I can smell her favourite vanilla and almond shampoo, the scent of peppermint from the gum she likes to chew. I put an arm round her, then withdraw it again because it all feels a bit too close for comfort. This is not good.

‘Shhh, Honey,’ I say gently. ‘Don’t cry. Why don’t you tell me about it?’

We sit down side by side on the beat-up sofa, the way we used to back when we were dating, and Honey dries her eyes with a corner of my T-shirt, leaving smudges of eyeliner and glittery shadow.

‘They hate me,’ she announces finally, her voice a whisper. ‘They really do. Just because I was a little bit late home last night …’

Back when I used to date Honey, her curfew was 11 p.m., earlier on a school night, but Cherry tells me that those days are gone. These days, Honey is either ‘grounded’ or ‘ungrounded’, and right now I am pretty sure it’s ‘grounded’. Just a few weeks ago she accidentally set fire to a stable while sharing a forbidden ciggy with one of the boys from the film crew, and her sister Summer fainted while trying to fight the flames and ended up in hospital. How did Honey handle it? By taking a handful of cash from a kitchen drawer and running away. They found her at Heathrow airport trying to buy a ticket to fly out to her dad in Australia, and the last I heard she was grounded until Christmas.

Unless I am mistaken, it is not Christmas yet.

‘I stayed over with a friend, obviously,’ Honey is saying. ‘No big deal, right? I’ve done it before. And it was the last night of the school holidays – you’d think they’d give me a little bit of leeway!’

But Honey is the kind of girl who takes a little bit of leeway and turns it into a wagonload of chaos, as far as I can remember.

‘So I bent the rules a little,’ she goes on. ‘So what? I stayed with a friend and I would have gone straight to school from there, but I accidentally slept in. It was unlucky, sure, but it’s not a crime, is it? Only Mum had to go and call the school, then the police … you name it. Talk about overreacting!’

I frown.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ I say. ‘You stayed out all night and didn’t come home in the morning, and then you skipped school too. Plus, three weeks ago you ran away from home … Honey, don’t you think your mum had reason to panic?’

‘No!’ she argues. ‘I didn’t skip school, I just slept in! And I was perfectly fine all the time, just staying with a friend, I told you! They practically had a search party out looking for me, I swear … crazy. So now I am in trouble at school and if that’s not bad enough, the police have been on my case, telling me I am treading a very fine line … what does that even mean?’

‘Dunno,’ I shrug.

‘I’ll tell you exactly what it means,’ Honey says, and her eyes brim with tears again. ‘It means they’ll get social services involved if I land up in trouble again. Can you believe that? SOCIAL SERVICES! Like I’m some kind of problem teen or something! It’s just TOTALLY unfair – I wasn’t even trying to run away! It’s all Mum and Paddy’s fault – they want rid of me! They’d be GLAD if I was taken into care!’

Honey is sobbing again now, and I am praying for rescue because I so do not want to be here right now. I spot a clean paint rag on the arm of the sofa and hand it to Honey to wipe her eyes, but she ignores it and burrows in against my shoulder again. Loads of boys I know would love to get up close and personal with Honey Tanberry, but I am not one of them.

Not any more.

My mobile rings, and Cherry’s name and picture flash up on the screen. This is not the kind of rescue I was hoping for – I jump back from Honey as if I’ve been stung.

‘I don’t bite, you know,’ she says, looking hurt.

‘No. I know. It’s just – well – it’s Cherry.’

‘Don’t answer,’ Honey begs. ‘Not right now. Just give me five minutes, please? I know you don’t think much of me, Shay, but surely I’m worth that much? For old time’s sake?’

I hesitate, frowning.

‘Call her back later,’ Honey prompts. ‘Please?’

I let my mobile ring out. I feel bad, but I am not sure how I would explain to Cherry that I am holed up in the storeroom den with my ex-girlfriend, mopping up her tears with my T-shirt. It would sound a whole lot worse than it actually is.

‘Thanks, Shay,’ she says in a tiny voice. ‘I can talk to you – I always could. Nobody else understands. And … well, you don’t judge me.’

I’m not sure about that.

‘Look,’ I tell her, exasperated. ‘I can see why you’re upset, Honey, but you need to calm down, get a bit of perspective. This isn’t Charlotte and Paddy’s fault – they must have been worried sick when you went missing!’

‘I wasn’t missing!’ Honey sulks.

‘So they knew where you were?’

‘Well, no … but …’

‘Honey, you were grounded,’ I remind her. ‘You vanished without telling anyone where you were going, and you were out all night and most of the next day. You didn’t turn up at school. What were they meant to think?’

Honey hugs her knees, suddenly looking about ten years old instead of fifteen.

‘How come you’re always so smart?’ she whispers. ‘OK. So I messed up … but the point is, I’m in trouble. I have some sort of weird police record now for running away, and the threat of social services hanging over my head. That’s really not fair. And Mum and Paddy hate me, Shay, they really do! I may as well be taken into care because they’re threatening me with some kind of boarding-school boot camp anyhow. I mean, just shoot me now. Really. My life sucks.’

I shrug. ‘You think you’re the only one who’s had a bad day?’

Honey gives me a sideways look. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Cherry mentioned about that whole Wrecked Rekords thing. Not to me, of course … your little girlfriend doesn’t chat to me much, funnily enough. But … yeah, I heard. Bummer. Your dad’s still being his usual charming self then?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Basically, we’ve both been dumped on,’ Honey declares. ‘You just got offered the chance of a lifetime, the chance to make your dream happen – and your dad shot the whole thing down in flames. Nice.’

The anger I have been trying to keep buried all day comes bubbling up to the surface, seeping through my veins like bitter poison. It hurts, like an ache inside, a sickness. No matter how hard I work, I know I will never be able to please my dad or make him proud; Ben seems to do all of that without even trying.

Somehow, I am always second best. The things I want, the things I am good at, never count for anything.

‘My family want rid of me,’ Honey is saying. ‘Whether it’s social services or boarding school, they don’t especially care which. I might as well just run away … it’s like they expect me to anyway.’

‘They were just worried,’ I echo, but Honey’s eyes darken and gleam.

‘We could, you know,’ she whispers. ‘Run away, I mean. You and me. We could jump a train up to London and lie about our age and find a flat. You could record your songs with Wrecked after all, and play gigs … maybe you’d be famous. And I could be a designer or something, I could make really cool dresses and have a stall in Camden, and perhaps I’d get spotted too …’

The tiniest spark of excitement, of possibility, runs through me before the cold water of reality extinguishes it. Running away is not about finding flats and getting famous, it’s about sleeping rough and going hungry night after night, and being dragged into a scary, predatory underworld. It would not be fun or cool or daring, it would be crazy, dangerous, totally disastrous.

Besides … Honey and me? I don’t think so. Where has that even come from?

‘Forget it, Honey,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t work out like that.’

‘It might!’ she argues. ‘We could show them – our families, everyone – prove we can make it without their help. They’d be sorry then! And what have we got to lose?’

‘Plenty,’ I tell her. ‘Better to stay and grab some GCSE passes and maybe some A levels … that could be our passport out of here. I want to go to uni and study music. London or Leeds or Liverpool, somewhere miles from here. And you could go to art college, Honey. That used to be what you wanted, not so long ago.’

‘My grades aren’t so good lately,’ she admits sulkily. ‘And uni is still years away … we’re only fifteen. I don’t know if I can survive that long!’

‘If I can, you can,’ I point out. ‘Besides, if you run away the police will track you down. And what then? Social services will wade in, just like you said. That’s just what you don’t want.’

‘I guess …’

Her shoulders slump and she looks suddenly vulnerable. I’ve always known that underneath the stroppy, rebel-girl surface Honey Tanberry is just a kid, hurt and lost and angry because her dad went away and left her just when she needed him most.

‘What is it about us that’s so awful, Shay?’ she asks in a small, sad voice. ‘What makes us so difficult to love?’

‘I don’t know,’ I sigh.

This time, when she leans against me and drops her head against my shoulder, I don’t pull away.

4

When I get on the school bus next morning, Cherry waves me over and I flop into the seat beside her. My eyes slide to the back of the bus where Honey usually holds court, but there is no sign of her. Last night I talked her out of running away to London and into sticking things out at school. I talked her into going home and at midnight I walked her along the lane to her gate. What if she didn’t go home after all? What if she waited in the trees until I’d gone, then headed off into the darkness along the lane, hitching a lift to London?

Were the late night heart-to-hearts and pep talks all for nothing?