'Rule one,' I tell Diwa as we turn onto Market Street, 'don't steal from independent stores. That's unethical. Shoplifting from Primark is actually more ethical than supporting them financially.'

She casts me a sceptical glance. 'I'm not sure that's true.'

I shrug.

'What're the other rules?'

'Well, I dunno. I didn't think that far ahead when I started listing. Avoid shopping centres, I guess. More guards.'

I guide her into Primark and almost immediately faint. I wouldn't be surprised if it were revealed that they put anti-inhibitory sedatives in the air conditioning to trap people in here forever. You can't find air like Primark air nowhere else. Maybe TK Maxx...

Diwa sticks to my heels, looking unavoidably like a criminal. We're several sections into the store before I turn around.

'What clothes do you like?'

Very uncharacteristically, Diwa cowers at my impatience. For the first time in her life, she don't have an answer to the question. After a beat of silence, she shrugs—only with one shoulder which makes it look well fucking weird.

I drop my head back to pray to the fluorescent lights. 'Okay, when you scroll on Tumblr or Pinterest or whatever, what sort of things d'you like?' When she still don't say owt, I prompt, 'What colours? Are they wearing skirts, dresses, trousers? Tight or loose fitting?'

'I like skirts,' Diwa finally mutters but gains more confidence the more she speaks. 'I like it when they're wearing a short skirt and cool tights under with boots or knee socks. And I like pink. I like Melanie Martinez, just adjusted for Manchester weather.'

'Brilliant,' I say and I might actually not be totally lying.

I guide her past the beige business casual display that her current clothes camouflage into, past the assortment of Christmas clothes, to the first rack with owt remotely wearable. Apparently, I have to do everything for this idiot cause a moment later, I'm carding through the clothes on her behalf.

'I like this.' Diwa gestures at a pink babydoll dress with straps that tie into ribbons. 'I could wear it with a collared shirt under.'

I shift through for what I imagine is her size and shove it at her.

Her eyes widen and she starts to say summat but the words curl back into her throat as she registers all the other shoppers nearby.

I continue carding through the rack until we come to a black skater skirt with the phases of the moon strung on the hem. I show it to Diwa and she eagerly finds her size.

She finally evolves to the stage of humanity where she can shop for herself. While Diwa looks through a rack of jumpers, I bounce between the things that are black. I end up with a torn mesh long sleeve and a black and white acid wash tee.

'I don't get it,' Diwa says, distracted from her own shopping. 'Are you like goth or punk or a skater?'

'Yeah, it's almost like human beings are more complex than arbitrary categories. But I'm sure you wouldn't get that.'

Her cheeks flush and my insides twist. I've gone too far, again. Git.

I bite my tongue as hard as my survival instinct allows. Would it be so hard to be a halfway decent person for one day?

Mrs Harland was right; you were born evil.

I scrunch my shirts in a fist so that the mesh sleeves drag on the ground as I step over to Diwa to look through the jumpers with her.

I pull out a lime green one with a graphic of the Grinch. 'I think this screams you.'

'Shut up.'

Soon, we find her a pastel jumper with bats on it and I pull her away from the clothes cause we can't steal a whole wardrobe in one go. 'You'll have to get shoes another time,' I say, dragging her across the store again. 'But you definitely need accessories.'

We're right back to helpless baby. All she does is blink at me.

'Accessories make the outfit. Take away the accessories and I'm just wearing black trousers and a black jacket.'

Diwa looks me over. 'But that is what you're wearing.'

Fuck me to tears. This is unreal.

'No, it isn't.'

This time, I'm too impatient to play nursery teacher with her and instead select a pair of fishnet tights with Hello Kitty faces in the weave and another pair with a snake wrapped around the thigh. I drop them in her mesh shopping basket. By the time I find her a belt, Diwa gets the memo and picks out a set of velvet chokers.

But she freezes before she manages to add them to the basket. 'Cece.'

I ignore her as I look through earrings. She whisper-yells my name three more times before I turn to her.

'I think–' Her eyes flee to summat behind me. 'I think the cashiers are watching us.'

'Of course they're watching us, I look like this.' I've still got my hood up and my eyeliner might look like a fucking batman mask. The baggy clothes probably don't help and definitely not all the spikes and chains attached to them.

Diwa's face twists into familiar vexation. 'I thought you knew how to steal.'

'I do. The trick is to run. Really fast.'

Before Diwa can respond, I've bolted for the exit into Fountain Street which is always busy enough at this time of day to immediately get lost in.

            Diwa smacks me the moment she manages to muster enough energy to do it with somewhat authoritative force. 'Can't believe you did that, you wanker!'

I shield myself with my arms, crouching away from her though the laughter that tumbles from me don't go very far in terms of remorse.

'You asked me to!'

Diwa shoves me one more time but by now she's laughing too. It makes her walk unsteady and she half stumbles into me as we fall into step towards home.

She stuffs the "shopping" into her school bag, tossing away the mesh basket. 'What if they come after us? I mean they've got cameras.'

'Trust me, I've done this enough times to know they don't give a fuck. They lose more money wasting time on investigations than these child labour clothes are worth.'

All our law-breaking has made her hungry so we pop into the next Greggs we pass. I even pay—for the both of us, too—and we face the Manchester wind with pastries to keep us warm.

It's almost not awkward! At least for the forty seconds before Diwa covers her mouth to talk through her bite of cheese bake.

'How's your brother?'

My glare scythes to her. 'What?'

'Well... um, dunno, thought I'd ask.'

'He's fine,' I seethe, unfairly frustrated by the question. 'He works and then he annoys me the rest of the time.'

Works to support me. I'm being ungrateful.

Because you were born evil.

That's why he has to keep you under surveillance.

He's always watching me though he reckons I don't notice. How couldn't I? He's not exactly subtle. Nicolás rushes home after work every day. He barely even goes to the gym these days and he's got an obsession with looking, I assume, attractive, whatever the fuck that means.

Though Diwa is the last person who cares about this, I unchain the words that've been clumped under my tongue since March. 'I don't get what his deal is. We saw each other once a year when he'd visit for my birthday and not even that lately. Then suddenly, he wants me to live with him? Fuck for?'

I stuff the rest of my vegan bake into my mouth. Why the fuck have I told that to Diwa?

She don't mock me for it, though. Much worse: her response is scathingly sincere.

'At least he tries to spend time with you. Couldn't say that for my family.'

I stoop, scowling at my Vans as they peek from beneath my trousers with each step. I avoid stepping on the grout between paving stones and count my steps in threes. Three. One. Two.

Three.

Three things you'll never have: home, sanity, safety.

'He's got mates to spend time with.' I yank my focus from the ground and shackle it to Diwa instead. 'He's well good at all that socialising stuff. Everyone loves him. He don't even try and everyone loves him.'

And why wouldn't they?

'How'd you know he don't try?' Diwa asks, not with the usual combativeness, but gently. 'Maybe he's just well good at trying.'

My attention (two, three) tries to bleed back to the grouts (one, two, three). I screw my eyes shut for a few steps, make sure I've lost count before I open them.

'He don't need me around. I just get in his away. He had to drop out of his postgraduate and everything.'

'I don't reckon he minds,' Diwa says, based on zero evidence whatsoever. Still, she keeps her nose in the air until we reach the fork in the road where she's due to turn. 'I'll see you tomorrow then.'

What if you don't? What if she dies? It's dark. Someone could–

–kill her. What if someone kills her? What if you kill her? What if the police catch her for shoplifting and kill her? It would be–

–my fault.

'I'll walk ya.'

The words slip past my teeth without plan and my face heats, cheeks prickling as they gain sensation again.

She crinkles her nose. 'Why?'

'If you trip and die, maths olympiad is over and I'm getting expelled.'

Diwa scoffs but don't stop me from following on her heels into the Red Bricks estate.

She looks at me over her shoulder. 'Can I ask you summat?' When I shrug, she continues. 'How are you so good at it, maths? You don't even practice and you're so quick. I'd've reckoned all the smoking would've made your brain slower.'

I shrug again as I fall into step beside her. 'I've got a vivid imagination.'

I grin and Diwa rolls her eyes.

'I'm serious,' I say, letting go of the comedic shield. 'I can visualise the equations and then I can visualise myself solving them. No need to write owt down.'

It's the same thing that helps me in art. I can imagine myself drawing summat and then I know the exact steps I need to take to draw it.

'So it's a natural gift,' Diwa declares.

'Wouldn't know about "gift",' I mutter as my vision flashes into a post-The Purge variation of the street, human organs gathered along the curb that in reality are only leaves.

We reach her home and I drag my feet up the garden as though I need to signal to her that I'm aware our time is ending. In case she reckons I expect to be invited in for tea just because we tolerated a few hours together. We'll be back to loathing each other's company by tomorrow morning.

Maybe that's why I don't feel the need to bite.

Tucking my hands into my pockets, I turn to Diwa. 'I, uh... I had fun today.'

She raises her eyebrows. 'Yeah?'

'Swear down,' I insist. 'I didn't think it could be nice talking to you but, clearly, you're full of surprises.'

Huffing a laugh, Diwa shoves me again but this time it's so gentle that it's almost a hug. 'I–'

The door opens.

We jolt away from each other. Mrs Atangan can't be much taller than five feet but she towers above us. In her presence, we shrink to the size of Santo Niño statues.

I did not agree to meet her mother. At no point in our deal did I agree to meet her mother.

Diwa is no more pleased with her appearance. In the yellow light thrown from the doorway, her blush becomes a sickly mauve. 'Nanay? I thought you were with Alon.'

She adjusts her backpack. The stolen clothes inside might start to smoke from her anxiety.

'I have been,' Mrs Atangan says. 'And where exactly have you been?'

Diwa's mum's anger exposes itself with accentuated vowels. Her skin is lighter than her daughter's and her hair straighter, but her stare is identically sharp—it's obvious where Diwa learnt the mien of vultures.

Silence lingers, suffocating even to me.

Summat about Diwa's hesitance gnaws the back of my neck and I instinctively hold my breath. When she finally speaks, it's with a shiver, as though the foundations of her larynx are cracking.

'This is Cece.' She gestures at me only to realise I've stepped back from the doorstep. 'From school.'

Mrs Atangan's eyes glint with yellow lights as they switch to me. She looks me over and smiles. And not in a sweet or comforting way either, but proper horror film suburban crazy woman way.

'Is this your boyfriend?'

My grillz flash. 'I don't reckon lesbians frequently have boyfriends.'

As if she suddenly isn't the snarkiest pain I've ever met, Diwa tugs at her plait and she stares at the ground. I might like this even less.

I step back to her side. 'We're in math's olympiad together,' I say. 'I needed extra coaching for the semifinals next month and we lost track of time. Sorry.'

Then, for some unknown reason, I add, 'Diwa's a mint tutor.'

Her eyes ping to me. Out of reach from the light, they soften. 

Notes

Postgraduate: Higher-levelstudy qualifications, including master's degrees, postgraduate certificate(PGCert) or postgraduate diploma (PGDip). These typically require you to havecompleted an undergraduate (bachelor's) degree.

The Purge: Reference to the film franchise of that name where the Purge is an annual event during which crime is legal and emergency services are unavailable for 12 hours.

Nanay: (Tagalog) Mum.