Skandar stared down at his plate. How could he even begin to explain that he didn’t have any friends to invite? And, worse, that it was sort of Dad’s fault? The trouble was that looking after Dad when he wasn’t well—not so happy—meant that Skandar missed out on a lot of the “normal” stuff you were supposed to do to make friends. He could never stay after school to mess about in the park; he didn’t have pocket money to go to the amusement arcade or sneak off for fish and chips on Margate beach. Skandar hadn’t realized to begin with, but those were the times people actually made friends, not in English class or over a stale custard cream at morning break. And looking after Dad meant that Skandar sometimes didn’t have clean clothes or hadn’t had time to brush his teeth. And people noticed. They always noticed—and remembered. Somehow for Kenna it hadn’t been as bad. Skandar thought it helped that she was more confident than him. Whenever Skandar tried to think of something clever or funny to say, his brain jammed. It’d come to him a few minutes later, but face-to-face with a classmate, there’d just be a weird buzzing in his head, a blankness. Kenna didn’t have that problem; he’d once heard her confront a group of girls whispering about how weird Dad was. “My dad, my business,” she’d said very calmly. “Stay out of it or you’ll be sorry.”
