game of football with an old tin can. I drag my eyes back to Dan’s mum.

‘So, how was the school trip?’ she asks.

‘Trip?’

‘You remember,’ Dan prompts. ‘Alton Towers.’

‘Ah,’ Frankie grins. ‘Unforgettable, I’d say. Shame Dan couldn’t make it!’

‘It’s nice to see that Dan has such good friends,’ Karen Carney smiles. ‘There are some real scallies at that school. Ringo was telling me that someone tried to set fire to the place the other week! Probably while you were off with the flu, Dan. Can you believe it?’

‘I did hear something,’ Kurt says. ‘Terrible!’

‘Who would do a thing like that?’ Frankie wonders out loud.

Dan, who has turned a kind of dark crimson colour, looks like he wants to slip through a crack in the lino.

‘There are some bad boys at school,’ I blurt, trying to rescue him. ‘But Dan is a good boy. Like… angel.’

Frankie chokes on her cream meringue, but Karen Carney doesn’t seem to notice. She grins at me and her tired brown eyes are warm and sparkly. ‘Well… I’m very lucky with my boys, I know,’ she says. ‘It was lovely to meet you all again! Call in any time!’

She heads back to the kitchen while Dan sinks down on to the window sill, hiding his face in his hands.

‘The flu?’ Frankie sniggers. ‘And Alton Towers, and scallies who set fire to the school… very interesting!’

‘She doesn’t know you were excluded, does she?’ Kurt says.

‘How about I say the cakes are on me, if you forget everything you just heard?’ Dan pleads. ‘Free cakes for life? As a symbol of our lasting friendship?’

‘It’s a deal,’ Frankie grins.

I put down my cupcake, half-eaten. Frankie and Kurt are laughing with Dan, but as I watch him bribe his way out of the tangle of lies, there’s a bad taste in my mouth that even the sweet sugar frosting can’t hide.

Dan told me himself, he’s complicated. Right now he’s cute and kind, but at school he’s a bad boy… about as bad as it’s possible to be.

Which version is the real Dan?

I haven’t a clue…

Two days later, Kurt comes into school wearing skinny black cords and a silver studded belt, and Frankie just about faints with shock.

‘Anya!’ she hisses, grabbing on to my arm. ‘Look at that!’

‘New trousers!’ I breathe. ‘It’s a miracle!’

‘He looks so… different!’ Frankie says. ‘I mean… not so geeky. Not so lame.’

Some of the Year Seven girls must think so too, because they give Kurt a double take as he swaggers past, then fall into a huddle, giggling and pink-cheeked.

‘So,’ says Kurt, ditching his rucksack at our feet and giving us a little twirl. ‘New kecks. What d’you think?’

‘Just call me a genius,’ Frankie says. ‘Seriously, I should be a stylist or something. Good to see you’re taking my advice at last!’

‘It’s cool,’ I tell Kurt. ‘Already you have some admirers, I think!’

Kurt looks back at the group of Year Sevens and shrugs. ‘Maybe,’ he says carelessly, then spoils the cool act by pulling a terrified face. ‘They’re not laughing at me, are they?’

‘Laughing?’ Frankie huffs. ‘They’re smitten. Their little hearts are racing. They think you’re cute… so shut up and don’t spoil the illusion! What is this moth-eaten jumper you’re wearing?’

Kurt has topped his spindly-legged look with a huge, black, drooping handknitted jumper. It really is moth-eaten too… there are several darns in the wool, and one of the sleeves seems to be unravelling slightly.

‘My gran knitted it,’ Kurt says.

‘She’s a bit short-sighted, isn’t she?’ Frankie says. ‘You could fit all three of us in there. It’s practically down to your knees.’

‘She didn’t make it for me,’ Kurt says. ‘It was my dad’s.’

Frankie’s mouth opens, then closes again. How can you criticize a jumper that looks like a potato sack when you know it belonged to someone who died when he was barely out of his teens?

‘I like it,’ I tell Kurt gently. ‘It’s… different.’

‘Well,’ Frankie says carefully. ‘It’s that, all right. I suppose it has a certain quirky style of its own. Like, retro goth, maybe. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Robert Smith of The Cure?’

‘The Cure were my dad’s favourite band,’ Kurt says.

Frankie’s eyes open wide. ‘Seriously?’ she asks. ‘Your dad liked cool music?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Kurt shrugs. ‘He named me after Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, after all.’

‘He… what?’ Frankie stutters. ‘Why… what… how come you never mentioned this before?’

‘Does it matter?’ he frowns.

I think it does matter, to Frankie. I can see her changing her picture of Kurt’s long-gone parents even as