Come November nineteenth, I ring the bell of Diwa's house in the Red Bricks estate at eight a.m. as ordered. The first round of the secondary school-level Maths Olympiad of Greater Manchester starts at ten and Diwa, the Type A control freak she is, insisted I come round hers so she can ensure I look "professional". Which I have no intention of ever looking.

She huffs the moment she opens the door. Her eyes fling from my eyeliner to the rings on my nose and my snakebites. By the time they find my usual array of mismatched earrings, she's scowling like I've set out to offend her. I don't even wear odd pairs intentionally, but I always manage to lose one earring and don't consider that a reason to stop wearing the other.

'Can't you take some of that off?'

'We're not meeting the fucking prime minister. And even if we were, no.' I glance at her shirt and past-the-knee pleated skirt. 'Just cause you dress like a narc, don't expect the rest of us...'

My bite slackens when my line of sight reaches her socks. They're turquoise with... ducks on them. Five seconds ago, I would've bet all my belongings and Nicolás's car that she exclusively wears grey ones.

Diwa steps aside to invite me in. The first to greet me is a reproduction of The Last Supper and, on the console table below it, three Santo Niño statues in gold-embroidered capes.

'Why the fuck've you got creepy church dolls?'

'We're Filipino. Everyone has them.'

Must be nice to have parents who bother to teach you your culture.

On that topic, I pry my focus from the dolls to find Diwa. 'Your parents aren't home, are they? Cause I don't do parents.'

'No.'

Her voice is even more clipped than it normally is which is to say Guinness World Record levels of unfriendliness—not that she'll ever defeat me on that front. She swivels on her heels and marches up the stairs.

'They're at my brother's basketball game.'

Uncertain what to do, I follow. 'They're not coming to watch you?'

'No.'

Nicolás can't make it because he had already promised Sasha to help with a day workshop at Spectrum by the time I told him about it (which were twenty minutes ago) and he probably would've cried up a lake with his apologies if I had stuck around long enough. Considering Diwa might be the only person in our year who'll actually graduate with decent grades, I would've assumed her parents want to show her off more.

She leads me to her bedroom and snaps the door shut, assumedly out of instinct considering she's home alone.

'D'you want a brew?'

'Nah. Shit's disgusting.'

'Coffee?'

'Even worse. Sides, I've already had three Monsters on the way here.'

'Three?' she repeats, horrified. 'The last thing I need is you having a fucking heart attack in the middle of our competition!'

'Love how you're more concerned about losing than my potential heart attack.'

'I'm not your babysitter.'

'Sure act like it,' I mumble, pretending I don't intend for her to hear. My eyes circle the room before I pin them to hers, impatiently waiting for me, as critical as they always are. 'Relax. That's not even my record. My heart is fine.'

Unless it's about to explode.

A scene of Diwa's pastel pink room splattered with blood and shreds of sinew staples itself to my eyelids. I stare at her as an anchor of reality because the resting bitch face she's got on is certainly not how she'd be looking if my organs had actually exploded all over her room.

...Or maybe it would.

'You got any juice?' I ask. Clearly, her parents have taught her to treat any guest with enough hospitality to ensure they have summat to drink.

Relieved, she nods. 'Gimme a second.'

Left alone, I study the bedroom. It's all cute colours and fuzzy textures and I scowl. Maybe this is a Saw-esque torture trap designed just for me. Unsurprisingly, her desk is overloaded with textbooks.

The room is also stacked with scented candles. Every surface has at least one crammed on it, the overall effect creating a mosaic of glass jars. What the actual fuck?

Dropping my things beside her bed, I move to her bookcase to pry the lid off one. It's unused. I check another, then another. None of the six at immediate arm's length have been lit once. Why keep candles around if you won't even use them?

Very odd weirdo behaviour. Complete headcase, she is.

You're the headcase.

On one shelf, four vinyl LPs are held in place by a framed childhood photo of who I assume is Diwa and her dad. They have the same nose and honey-brown skin. Their grins are identical too though Diwa is missing a tooth. I don't reckon I've ever seen Diwa smile. Wouldn't've thought her capable. At least this confirms she's not an android built to get on my nerves.

I shift my focus to the albums. The First Two Records by Bikini Kill, The Dresden Dolls by The Dresden Dolls, Live Through This by Hole, and Brand New Eyes by Paramore. Dare I say I'm impressed.

Diwa shoves a highball glass of mango juice into my hand and moves on before I have time for even a performative thank you. 'Okay–'

'These yours?' I gesture at the records.

'No, they're just in my room for no reason.' She rolls her eyes.

'Didn't think you had taste. I always reckoned you listen to Ed Sheeran and Ellie Goulding, innit. Your favourite–' My body spasms before I can finish, yanking my neck to the left several times until my spine settles.

Diwa's scowl turns to panic, terrified that I'm about to die from an energy-drink-induced heart attack. 'You alright?'

'Yeah, just get those sometimes. Don't worry, I ain't possessed.' Stepping away from the shelf, I shrug at the records. 'Didn't know you collect.'

'I've only four, don't reckon that counts. You need, like, five of owt for it to be a collection.'

'Quite the candle collection you've got then.'

I cut her without clocking the knife in my hand. The tension in her face splinters and her glower melts, though not to suggest she's capable of a hint of joy but rather the opposite. I catch only a flash of her misery before she turns to the bed.

Two white shirts lay on top of the fuzzy lavender spread. 'I weren't sure what your size is, so I got one from Alon and one from Ramil for you to try.' These are two of her brothers, I assume. She has four, all older than her.

I sip my juice to ease the maggots waking in my stomach. To my relief, my voice comes out normal. 'You do realise I've got my own brother to nick clothes from, right? If I have to live with him, I could at least steal his clothes.'

Though to be fair, all of Nicolás's clothes might be colourful.

A sceptical laugh trills in her ribcage. She half-heartedly masks it as a cough, and when she turns back to me with the smaller of the shirts in hand, her perennial scowl has hardened back into place. Diwa probably thinks he's like me and all his old school uniforms have torn-off buttons or violent doodles sketched into the sleeves with permanent marker.

Ironically, she'd love Nicolás. They're the same brand of annoying.

Decidedly keeping my mouth shut, I take the shirt from her, return it to the bed, and pick up the larger one. I pull my hoodie off, leaving my white tee underneath, and shrug the shirt on.

She drops onto her desk chair which groans at the sudden pressure. 'How come you do live with him?'

It's obvious Diwa hadn't planned on asking this aloud because the last syllable is tailgated by a swear.

'I mean, I know your parents–'

'They ain't dead.'

Thankfully, I stand with my back to her and can roll my eyes without restraint.

Diwa's breath tangles in her throat. She don't say nowt. Silence stretches like a piece of cellophane: thins constantly, but don't break.

I poke a hole in it. 'Just fucked off.'

My voice is hollow. It leaves an echo in my chest. Or is it the thirty candle containers around the room that ricochet noise? In the way anyone's voice sounds better when they sing in the shower, could the acoustics make this melodic too, so it won't enter the ears as shards of glass?

'Oh...' Her voice is equally empty, though it's carved out by guilt.

Then again, maybe it's guilt in mine too.

The chair squeals again as she swivels away. This she didn't know. Nobody at Isaac Evans is in the position to make fun of anyone's family or financial situations and therefore they're rare content for gossip.

'Sor–'

'I mean they could be dead.' I mangle the silence to slivers. 'Fuck would I know, innit.'

My fingers return to the shirt buttons, attempt to seal them at super-speed only to fumble and take more time than if I'd've been patient in the first place.

'They work to protect the Amazon. What's left, anyway. We're Ticuna, that's where we're from.'

'That's cool.'

'If you reckon being murdered by the government's cool, then, yeah, dead cool, that—pun intended. But anyway, they're busy. Or like I said, could be dead. Not like they kept in touch.'

It's not like I remember much from it considering I were four, but one day they just weren't there anymore. Our parents knew that it's kinder, really, to scythe the roots off clean.

Nicolás took care of me. But then again, it was always Nicolás who took care of me.

Not that the unavoidable reality stopped me from clawing onto hope even when the boys at Brookes used it for ammunition. Hope is a dangerous thing to have when everyone else's bones have been gnawed clean.

No one wants me. No one has ever wanted me.

I grapple with the shirt buttons. 'I've moved thirty-one times. My risk assessment is too difficult and there's no one left, and since he's old enough now, my brother got burdened with me. If he didn't take me in, they'd've sent me to West Country. Though now he wants to send me there anyway...'

He's had enough of you.

Everything bad in his life is your fault.

No one is ever going to want me.

The quiet that wraps around us this time pokes me non-stop in the ribs until I turn to face Diwa. She's toying with the ribbon in her hair and for once it's not an "I wish you would drop dead" look in her eyes but the same misery I caught haunting them when we talked about the candles.

'Well... that's nice of your bother.'

'Nice–?' I start hysterically only to cut myself off.

He got a whole house only so I could live with him. He was happy sharing a flat with Caleb. He was happy when he had time to spend with his mates and his foster parents (who he actually likes, imagine that). Nicolás lives in some fantasy version of Moss Side that's held up by love in place of mortar.

He's not happy now. So much is obvious given the number of times he cries in his car where he thinks I won't see and the ache that echoes from him, like a bruise I know is there but can't see. And it's my fault. Everything bad in his life is my fault.

Maybe it's a trap, Beewolf suggests. He wants you to live with him so he can–

–lock you in. He's going to lock you in. He's with them.

No.

They're trying to kill you.

They're going to drown you.

No, Nicolás wouldn't do that. Because Diwa is right: he is nice.

And you're evil.

Yeah. I was born evil and I hurt people. It's better if he hates me.

I finish knotting the tie Diwa gave me (thankfully full black) and spread out my arms. 'So how do I look?'

'Shit,' Diwa says. 'Can't you at least wear the shirt that's your size?'

'Not a chance. I'm already wearing a button-up shirt and trousers without any chains or studs on em. That's as good as you'll get me.'

Diwa drops her head back and groans through gritted teeth. 'Fine.'

Notes

The Red Bricks estate: Bentley House estate. Among the most deprived in England, suffering from severe air pollution as well, but Red Bricks is also famous for the activism of the residents.

Santo Niño: Child Jesus. Believed to protect and answer prayers. Images and statues of the Santo Niño are commonly found in Filipino Catholic households. The original The Santo Niño de Cebú was gifted by Spanish colonizers to Rajah Humabon, the chief of the Cebú province, after his baptism.

Brew: Cup of tea.