Hours later, a groan from the bed announces Diwa awake. I tug my attention from my phone screen for the first time since I opened it. Either she's too groggy to realise where she is or too hungover to care; Diwa pulls the duvet over her head like armour to protect her sleep a while longer.

When it clearly don't work, she shoves an arm from within the covers and searches blindly for her phone. She finds it on top of my dresser which doubles as a nightstand. Diwa types summat—a text, I assume—which takes much longer than it would if she were sober.

Honestly, with the way she were last night, I'm surprised she's conscious before noon.

Me, on the other hand? I didn't smoke or drink owt; I shouldn't feel like this. But there's an itch in my eye sockets, joined by a headache and nausea that already declare today is going to be spent in vague discomfort with no cure.

Once her message is sent, Diwa's eyes meet mine and flee instantly, darting to the sketches taped to my walls to cover up the sky-blue paint. They sweep across the clothes scattered around the room and land on the clutter of spray paint cans in the corner. Diwa scowls.

Well, maybe I would've tidied if I knew she were coming over!

...No, I wouldn't have.

Her focus finally lands on the locks on my door: a bolt, a door chain, and a latch guard. I've squeezed silicone into every gap so no one can slip an under-the-door tool in.

Diwa screws her eyes shut. From her expression, I assume she's begging God not to be murdered.

When she opens them again, they reluctantly find mine, corners creased in a grimace with crumbles of mascara. She opens her mouth, starts to speak, then jerks to the edge of the bed to scan the rug below me and changes track.

'You didn't sleep on the floor, did ya?'

'I've slept in worse places.'

Diwa's lips flatten. She peers through the dark to x-ray me, as though searching for bruises or broken bones.

'It's fine. Swear down.' I sit up and shuffle back to lean against the dresser, slipping my phone under my thigh to focus fully on her. 'How shit are ya feeling?'

She drops onto the bed with a groan.

I snicker and Diwa slams the pillow at me. 'Do one!'

'No need for the strop. I've earned a bit of smugness after I practically saved your ungrateful arse.'

She casts me a genuine smile. 'Thank you.'

I look away. I ingest appreciation as well as bleach.

'Did you draw these?'

I snap around. Her phone is already in hand and she lights the torch to better see the sketch she peels from the wall. The page contains nowt but butterflies shredded in sharp teeth.

'Don't look at that!'

I snatch it from her and stuff it into my pocket.

Though her brows twitch, Diwa's attention has already shifted to the bed, also illuminated by her torch. 'Didn't take you for a floral sheets type of person,' she says.

'What am I supposed to have on em, bones?'

Diwa rolls her shoulders, stretches her neck, and changes the subject. 'I texted my parents I woke up early to get to the library.'

A laugh is halfway up my throat when I realise she's serious. I swallow it with great effort. She's Diwa Atangan: she must spend at least half of her school-free mornings at the library so her parents have no reason to doubt it. Is that pathetic or impressive?

A pang in my gut answers for me.

As subtly as I manage, I bend my knees and hug them to my chest. A cold flush races up my arms, chases my skin to goosebumps. Let's pretend it's just the temperature and not the thought that she's the same age as I am and goes to the same school as I do, so there's no reason for me to be so far behind, other than the fact that I'm a waste of time like everyone keeps telling me.

An awkward silence triumphs. Though it might not be an awkward silence at all, objectively speaking, and only such on my side due to my squirming insides. Diwa don't seem uncomfortable beyond the obvious hangover as she stretches her neck again, no doubt attempting to relieve the head–stuck–inside–a–fishbowl sensation that welcomes us to the morning after.

'You can have a shower if you want,' I say, unsure if that's summat normal to offer in a situation like this. The most social interaction I've had with anyone other than Nicolás or Sakda or my social worker were Elliot, and his insistence to be my mate didn't last long.

'You wouldn't mind?'

'Why would I mind?'

I get up, leave the bedroom, and return with a towel. I doomscroll a little more while I wait for Diwa. She returns from the shower trying to smooth down her skirt but it's so crumpled from her sleeping in it that it'll take several irons to get the pleats back.

I tell her that before I guide her downstairs. She halts on the threshold to the kitchen.

'That's my brother.' I gesture at Nicolás, who looks up from his late breakfast. 'This is Diwa... From school.'

Without further decorum, I turn to our fruit basket but Nicolás stands to shake her hand and properly introduce himself, an interaction Diwa returns with total intuitiveness.

I watch with a scowl as I snap off a branch of ginger. What is this? The House of Lords?

'Could've told me you were planning to bring a mate around instead of just showing up at midnight.' He casts me a look that tells me that while he's joking now, it don't mean he will be next time.

I drop into my chair and scratch off the ginger skin with the edge of a spoon. The bitter aroma it releases filters into my voice. 'I didn't plan to. And we're not mates.'

'Acquaintance then.'

'Qué funny.'

Nicolás resist the urge to roll his eyes. Then jerks as he realises Diwa is still teetering on the threshold with her heels stuck in the hall. Leaping to the table, he clears it up: crams his phone and earbuds into his trouser pockets, then picks up his coffee and plate of calentado.

Once the space is empty, he nods to his chair. 'Sit.'

Diwa hesitates. Our table only has two chairs.

I scrub off the last bits of ginger skin. 'Quit being polite. It's so unlike you.'

A blush tinges her cheeks, much brighter in the lighting of the kitchen, or maybe it's her hungover face that's paler than I realised.

She scuttles to the offered seat just as I vacate my own to slice the ginger. I drop the rings into a mug which I fill with hot water. I finalise the brew with a spoonful of honey.

I unceremoniously shove the mug in front of her. 'It'll help with the nausea.'

Diwa pulls the mug closer and a smile tugs at her mouth. It's plain white on one side but the other has a beak and duck feet. Before she can thank me, I pick up my phone and superglue my focus onto a Tumblr post by metaphorical.homocide.

Nicolás speaks from the workbench he leans against, shovelling beans and rice into his mouth. 'So you're the lead in maths olympiad, Diwa?'

The rose on Diwa's cheeks bursts into a scarlet that spreads across her face. She sinks in her chair.

My attention is torn entirely from my phone screen. I expected her to beam in delight, maybe even flash her usual self-important grin. But there's no misreading the embarrassment that seeps from her like damp from basement walls.

'My best mate was too, back when we were at school. I didn't join, obviously. I've never been as quick as this one.' He nods at me. 'You know, they pretend it's torture but I'd say they might be enjoying themselves a little.'

'¿Por qué no te callas?'

Giving in, Nicolás pours the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, making up for lost time to get to Spectrum in time to open, and rinses his plate. He steps out of the kitchen though leaves the door open as he puts on his shoes and jacket.

'My shift ends at eight. Try not to commit any crimes before then, yeah?'

I fake a laugh.

He pokes his head through the doorway as he zips up his coat. 'And Diwa, make yourself at home. Stay, eat, take a nap, whatever ya like.' His eyes slant with accusation when they revert to me. 'Be welcoming, would ya?'

Does he have to be so annoying about everything all the time?

'She ain't homeless. She don't have to make herself at home here. ¡Ella tiene su propia casa!'

Nicolás leaves without warranting a response.

His presence was a bridge to our common ground and now the wood rots, chisels into the current. The silence which follows is thick and gelatinous. When I ask if Diwa wants owt to eat and she says she's too nauseous, both our voices are strained.

After eleven years in the foster system, I've had plenty of experience being left alone with adults I can't remember the name of. Why do I feel the same awkwardness now?

Why was it so much easier last night?

The memory burns behind my cheeks. It was too easy last night; I shouldn't've told her all that. Why would I tell her owt of that? Hopefully, she won't remember a word.

Doing my best to appear as though I certainly don't, I hand her a banana. 'Trust me, you'll feel worse if you don't eat owt.'

She peels it reluctantly, looking seasick as I find a Monster from the fridge.

'He's nice,' Diwa says. Then, as if she could be talking about anyone else, clarifies, 'Your bother.'

'He's annoying,' I correct.

'He must be happy to have you around.'

I make a sceptical noise.

'You don't think so?' she asks, her attempt at kind-hearted dispute somewhat let down by the scrape of disagreement in her voice.

'I've moved thirty-one times. At this point, it's just basic maths.'

'That is not how maths works,' Diwa snaps, then, clearly remorseful, whispers, 'You don't really think that, do ya?'

I shrug. 'My own parents couldn't hack it. Doubt anyone else will.'

A fresh silence vacuums oxygen from the room.

Diwa eats her banana with the smallest bites possible while I take gulps of my energy drink. Neither of us do owt else, neither of us speaks. Until I twist the tab off the Monster can and Diwa starts to tap her feet.

'I should get to the library.' She tells this to her rainbow socks.

'What?' Laughter weaves into my tone and Diwa scowls. 'The world's not gonna end if you take one day off.'

With the flick of a switch, she's back to the Diwa Atangan I know and hate. Even with her hungover, her expression becomes taut, eyebrows creased and lips pursed.

'I can't fall behind on my study plan. We've got mocks coming up.'

'Next term. Also, they're mocks. Who cares?'

I should. If I don't want to get expelled and end up in Somerset.

'You ain't gonna get owt done either way,' I add. 'Trust me, you're better off in the long run taking the day to rest so you'll be clear-headed tomorrow.'

'Cheers, but I don't reckon I'll trust you.'

Fair enough.

'Do what you want, innit.' I start another sudoku. 'Your problem if you've been brainwashed into toxic productivity.'

Vulture eyes narrow on me. 'You're free to tell yourself all this shit about rebellion but you're just lazy.'

'Or maybe, unlike you, I'm not a swot and I don't base my self-esteem on my grades.'

'Yeah, you base it on your eyeliner.'

We stare at each other, dogs too cowardly for the final strike even when we're covered in each other's blood. I'll bite your arms and I'll bite your legs, but I won't bite your neck. Is that a foible or a fortitude?

Unbelievably, Diwa backs down. 'Sorry.'

Her apology drowns under a high-pitched ringing that sneaks up on me. Letters swim to the forefront like corpses resurfacing from the depths of a river: it's your fault. Beewolf whispers in my ear, voice grating and syrupy simultaneously. Are you tough yet?

Sweat makes my skin easy for termites to stick to. They nip at the knobs of my spine. What if my skeleton ain't strong this time?

'Forget it,' I say. 'We don't like each other, remember? Let's just pretend this didn't happen.'

Notes

Strop: Tantrum.

Torch: Flashlight.

Calentado: (Lit. "heated") Warmed-up leftovers eaten for breakfast in Colombia.

¿Por qué no te callas?: Why don't you shut up?

¡Ellatiene su propia casa!: She has her own house!

Mocks: Mock exams. Practiceexams that don't impact your final grades but are meant to help pupils preparefor their GCSEs and A-levels. The results from mock exams can be used for thecreation of preliminary grades that are used to apply to universities and receiveconditional acceptances (meaning that if you get grades lower than your preliminaryones, you may not be accepted).