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however, know better.

      I am literally never opening my bedroom curtains again.

      “Focus, Pilgrim,” Nat says crossly, leaning to the side and poking his arm. “What kind of rubbish stalker are you, anyway? You don’t even know where Harriet is.”

      “In fairness, my concentration has been a little distracted with an exorbitant level of homework, and also the TARDIS I’ve been building in my garden.”

      Toby holds out bright blue fingers as evidence.

      Nat stares at him for a few seconds in disgust. “What is your problem?”

      “I’m glad you asked,” Toby says happily. “I’m struggling to make it look as if it has truly travelled through time and space. Any suggestions?”

      There’s a silence, then my best friend sighs and turns back to Annabel. “I haven’t seen or heard from Harriet all weekend. She’s not picking up calls, she’s not answering texts and she didn’t remind me seven times about the parrot documentary on telly. I really need to talk to her.”

      “She’s just jet-lagged, sweetheart. It takes a little while to settle back into a new time zone, that’s all.”

      “And you don’t know where I can find her?”

      There’s a tiny pause. “I don’t, I’m sorry.”

      “Right.” Nat’s shoulders slump slightly. “Well.” She looks sharply up at my bedroom window, and then kicks the front doorstep a couple of times. We’ve been home six days and my best friend is not an idiot: we’re five hours ahead of New York, not in a different solar system. “I have to go to college. Will you tell her I called again?”

      “Of course.” Annabel nods and looks at Toby. “And I’ll tell her you popped by too.”

      “You don’t need to,” he says proudly. “She’ll know. I’ve left one of my new calling cards.” He points to the wall and there’s a little round, bright green dot stuck there. “It says TPWH™, which stands for Toby Pilgrim Was Here, Trademarked.”

      “I’m impressed,” Annabel smiles. “Very organised and efficient.”

      Literally nothing fazes her. She’s like Gandalf but less beardy.

      Nat glances at my bedroom window again.

      She kicks the doorstep a few more times.

      Then, with an audible exhalation, my best friend swirls round and stomps back down the garden path in bright silver shoes.

      With my stalker trailing after her.

      

       watch Nat leave with a guilty twist of my stomach.

      Then I wait as long as I can.

      I am invisible. I am undetectable. I am a ninja of imperceptibility, as hidden as a leafy sea dragon, elaborately constructed to blend into my surroundings, and—

      “You can come out now, Harriet.”

      Oh. So – maybe not.

      Slowly, I creep out from inside the bush and brush dried mud and dead leaves off my pyjama bottoms.

      “You know,” Annabel says, gently removing a small spider from my eyebrow. Apparently I’m even more camouflaged than I intended to be. “I’m not enjoying all this subterfuge very much, Harriet. It’s much more your father’s style.”

      “I know,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for lying again.”

      In Greek and Roman mythology there’s a three-headed dog called Cerberus who guards the entrance of the underworld to prevent the dead from escaping and the living from entering.

      For the last few days, that’s exactly what my stepmother has been doing for me.

      On cue, my phone beeps three times in quick succession:

       When one door of happiness closes, another one opens! :) xx

       A break-up is like a broken mirror. It is better to leave it broken than to hurt yourself trying to fix it! :) xx

       If you walk away and they don’t follow, keep walking. :) xx

      And this is exactly why I’m avoiding Nat.

      Ever since I returned from America, it’s been like having my own personal therapist crossed with a woodpecker. What exactly happened? Peck. What did Nick say? Peck. Do I miss him? Peck. Was it definitely the right decision? Peck peck. Can’t we make it work? Has he been in contact? How do I feel?

      Peck peck peck peck until the tree falls over.

      And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to talk about it, Nat has decided that we are heartbroken and she’s committed to working through it.

      Together.

      Incessantly, over and over and over again.

      Without a single moment’s peace, and with the help of quite a lot of fridge magnets, motivational T-shirts and quotes off the internet.

      Never mind picking the lock: my best friend is trying to smash me open with a sledgehammer.

      I take a deep breath and type:

       Very wise! Speak soon! :) x

      Then I put my phone back in my pocket and glance desperately over Annabel’s shoulder at the house. I’ve got the works of Terry Pratchett waiting on my bedside table. If I take two stairs at a time, I can be balanced on the back of four elephants and a giant turtle within thirty-five seconds.

      I love Nat.

      She’s my best friend: the person who knows me inside and out, who can finish my sentences when I don’t even know what it is I want to say yet. But – as a magnet might tell me – I can’t start the next chapter of my life if I keep re-reading the old ones.

      I just want a new story, that’s all.

      “Harriet?” Annabel says as I start racing desperately towards my next escape.

      I turn round blankly. “Hmm?”

      “You don’t need to shut us all out, sweetheart. Me, your dad. Natalie. You can talk to us about it.”

      “Sure,” I say, and then start heading back to my bedroom.

      Because for the first time ever, that’s exactly the problem.

      Maybe I don’t want to.

      

      o, my plan for the next morning is as follows:

      Admittedly, the last point on the list is a bit vague, but I’m leaving it up to the teachers.

      That is what they’re paid for, after all.

      The way I see it, yesterday was just a dress rehearsal: one that went spectacularly badly. Statistically, a first impression is usually cemented in seven seconds

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