‘Maybe next time. Or I’ll record myself. I’ve nearly finished a second piece, too.’

  We chat about lessons and what Chloe has done in live-learning. No one mentions whether she’s had any more serious episodes. I notice that when Dad smiles it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, even when a chicken decides to wander in front of the screen.

  When we say goodbye, a familiar empty feeling creeps over me. I wonder if Finn is around. I sent him a message too.

  I lean back in my chair and listen to the gentle buzz of conversation around me. I wish the common room always felt like this.

  ‘Helloooo!’ My eyes flick back to the screen. Finn is waving frantically. I lean forwards so that I can hear him above the chatter, then I realize the voices are at his end.

  ‘Is there some kind of party going on? I can hear lots of giggling.’

  ‘If only,’ he says. ‘We didn’t have any homework for the first week, but now we have loads. That’s the sound of panic. How are you doing?’

  ‘Not too bad. I’ve got extra music. The teacher—’

  Finn has turned away from the screen. A few seconds later he turns back.

  ‘Jess, I’m really sorry. It’s break time and if I don’t get to the common room fast enough there’ll be nothing left.’ He waves and gives me a big grin.

  I wave back, just after the screen goes dark.

  Puzzle

  I know that Mae is avoiding me. After a few days I realize it’s not just the mystery of her mother’s school that I’m desperate to talk about. I want to tell Mae about Chloe, too. How the price of her medication goes up every few months. Ask whether she thinks that’s normal, the same for everyone who uses medicines regularly, whether it would be weird to ask Jack—because he has the same type of medication. I need to hear what someone else thinks.

  I don’t know anyone who lives like my family does, surviving on what they produce. Perhaps other families can simply afford to pay whatever it costs.

  That night, I stare at the ceiling, tracing the shadowy edge where it meets the wall. My thoughts whirr in the background, deciphering what I should do. If my parents don’t sell enough produce, or something breaks and needs fixing, then maybe there won’t be enough money to buy more medicine for Chloe. What will happen if we run out? I can’t just wait and see. That might be too late.

  The idea which began to form a few nights ago has taken shape. I reach down and slide open the drawer beneath my mattress.

  I settle into my corner next to the wardrobe, resting my port-com on my knees.

  The first part of my plan is simple. The information I require is straightforward too. I need to know Jack’s surname, and the names of his parents. I can easily hack the school database via my messaging account.

  My fingers fly across the keys.

  The student database is divided into year groups. Pupils are listed alphabetically by surname. As Jack’s surname is what I need to find, I’ll just have to start at the top. Ten names down, I spot Jack Merril. His parents are Tom and Claudia. I continue scanning to the bottom of the list, in case there is another Jack. But he is the only one.

  I leave the database, checking at every stage that I’ve left no clues, no markers to show that I was ever there. Then I rub my fingertips across my forehead and close my eyes. My hands hover above the keyboard. I need to concentrate. I’m going to access the system for the company which makes Chloe’s medicine, using the back door JP created. The database will be huge, and it could take time to find the area I need. The area which stores customers’ medical bills. But now that I know Chloe and Jack use the same medicine, at least I have something to compare. It feels like a start.

  I jump from one part of the system to another, hoping that JP’s back door will give me access to the right section. My legs are beginning to feel stiff. I stretch out one, then the other. I have no idea how much time has passed. I glance down at my port-watch. It’s 2.30 a.m. Three hours have passed. My eyes feel dry, like they have grit in them. When I’m tired like this, I’m more likely to make mistakes.

  I change tack and search for key words. Surely that will produce fewer options to explore. I’m right. I try my dad’s name, which is only linked to a few areas. In one of them his name is tagged with the name of Chloe’s medicine, but rather than a price, it says simply ‘R8’. Frustrated, I find myself typing ‘Tom Merril’. My heart thumps in my chest as his name appears, tagged with the same medicine, but rather then R8, it says Q7. I stare at the screen. What do R8 and Q7 mean? There must be a way of finding out. Something which reveals what they mean. I search, but after thirty minutes of trying, I can’t find it. In desperation, I enter ‘Q7’ after Dad’s name, to see if that produces any results.

  A new interface appears. One I haven’t seen before. There is a long list of two-digit codes including R8 and Q7, but no prices anywhere. Instead, at the top, are the words data treaty.

  A noise startles me. It’s probably one of the girls turning over in their sleep. Then someone clears their throat.

  I lower my screen, seconds before I hear the gentle padding of footsteps across the floor. I can’t tell which direction they’re heading in. A soft light glows somewhere nearby. My heart is pounding. I try not to move, but my port-com rises and falls with each breath.

  The soft light drifts away. If it shines on my bed, it will be obvious that I’m not there. But whoever is awake seems to be trying hard not to disturb anyone. The bedroom door slides open, then there is silence.

  I sit still for a few seconds, then as fast as I can, exit the system, leaving no trace that I was ever there.

  I pad towards my bed, lift the covers and climb in, clutching my port-com to my chest, just as a pale light illuminates the doorway. I’m desperate to know who is there, but squeeze my eyes shut, as if that will somehow make me invisible. There is a rustle of fabric, then silence again. I daren’t move. I will just have to sleep with my port-com on my chest. Not that I expect to sleep. Not until I work out what data treaty means.

  Music

  ‘Jessica, what do you think?’

  My eyes flick open. I realize with horror that I was falling asleep.

  ‘We were talking about why our eyes see things upside down,’ says Miss Fischer, pointing to the screen, where a 3D diagram of an eyeball is slowly rotating.

  My head spins a little, like the eyeball.

  ‘Something to do with the curved surface?’ I say, hopefully.

  ‘Why would that make a difference?’ she asks.

  My mouth feels dry, as I cast about for the answer in my sleepy brain. I sense everyone watching me.

  ‘Because it’s convex. No, wait, concave. Because our eyeballs are concave, which bends light so that it’s upside down.’

  ‘I sincerely hope they are not concave,’ says Miss Fischer, with an edge to her voice. ‘Perhaps you could write a few lines explaining why they need to be convex, in time for our next lesson?’

  I blink a few times, feeling a strangely unpleasant mix of tiredness and adrenaline.

  The semi-circle seating means that there is nowhere to hide, which after two hours sleep, is exactly what I need.

  I will have to try and pace myself. I wish that my extra music tuition was on Monday instead. That this afternoon was free for me to try and decipher what I saw last night.

  ‘Jessica! Come in!’ Miss Singer welcomes me warmly.

  She is standing opposite two chairs in the centre of the room. Jack looks up from one of them, and smiles. It’s hard to believe the same person lay pale and breathless in the corridor a few days earlier.

  The room feels even bigger than usual as I cross the floor towards them. My footsteps louder.

  ‘I’ve written a new piece for Jack,’ I say, as I sit down.

  Miss Singer beams and claps her hands together like I’ve just performed a brilliant trick.

  My face begins to flush as I realize what I’ve said. ‘I mean, I’ve written a new piece for today, I—’

  ‘I’m sure Jack would love to play it,’ Miss Singer interrupts, ‘and I would love to hear it.’

  Jack is already reaching for his violin case. He taps the top, and his bow and violin rise from within as if propelled by some magical force.

  He holds out his hand towards me, eyes twinkling. I pass him a square of paper, crumpled like the last one. He unfolds it carefully, his eyes flicking back and forth across the lines of music. My music. He tucks the violin beneath his chin, raises the bow, and begins to play.

  Even though he’s never seen the piece before, the melody Jack plays is smooth and fluent. He adds lightness, and darker, louder notes in the way that I intended. Better than I’d intended.

  After the final bar, he remains still for a few seconds, then lowers his bow. He turns to look at me, not Miss Singer. I stare back. What I want to say is how perfect it was. How brilliant. But I can’t seem to get the words in the right order. Miss Singer comes to my rescue.

  ‘Well,’ her voice rings through the silence, ‘that was beautifully played, Jack, thank you.’ He nods, and sits back down, laying the violin gently across his lap. ‘Jessica, a composition more intriguing than the last. The final two bars brought everything together in a way I hadn’t expected.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I finally find some words.

  ‘Before we continue with the lesson today, I have some news,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘Twice a year, there is a competition to showcase the brightest and most promising new musical talent. Many hundreds of students enter, and a fraction of those are selected to perform live.’ She pauses, looking from me to Jack. ‘The performance has global reach. Our school is allowed to enter two students.’ She pauses again, taking a deep breath. ‘Until now, without exception, the nominated students have been from S3 or above. If you agree, I will speak to the principal to see if, for the first time ever, I can nominate students from S1.’

  A spark of excitement fizzes in my chest. I glance at Jack. A small smile plays across his lips; his eyes are shining.

  ‘Won’t the other students mind?’ he asks. ‘The ones in the older years?’

  ‘Our policy has been to nominate from older year groups, but the submission brief states “most promising musical talent”. This year, Jack and Jessica, that is you.’

  ‘Has anyone from our school been chosen to perform live?’ I ask, my heart thumping.

  ‘No,’ Miss Singer says. ‘But those who do, secure many options for future appearances and potentially a musical career. They also receive free instruments and equipment,’ she adds, being careful not to look at my violin and case as she says this.

  ‘So—how do we enter?’ I ask.

  ‘Simple. We choose a piece to play and submit a recording.’

  ‘But,’ I frown. ‘Jack is better than me. Shouldn’t you enter Jack and someone from another year group?’

  ‘You are a gifted musician,’ Miss Singer says. ‘What makes you even more exceptional is your ability to create original scores. To write fantastic music that showcases what you and Jack can do. I would like you to play, Jessica, and I would also like you to write the music.’

  I begin to understand what Miss Singer is asking. She wants me to compose a duet.

  I nod slowly. My mind starting to whirr. ‘That would be—I mean, that sounds—yes please. Thank you.’

  I feel my cheeks glow. Miss Singer and Jack are both smiling.

  ‘Well, let’s hope that the principal agrees. In the meantime, Jessica, can I listen to you play?’

  As Jack leans back in his chair, I glimpse the top of his violin case. I hadn’t noticed before but on the top, in silvery script, are the letters JM. Jack Merril.

  Truth

  I barely remember getting into bed last night. For the first time ever, I was asleep before Ana. JP was going to send a new challenge, but I’ll have to wait until later to see what it is. I try to concentrate during morning lessons, but tiredness makes it harder to block out the questions swirling round my head. data treaty, Charlie Scott, Mae’s school. I’m used to finding patterns, solutions, without even trying. But these fragments take me nowhere, the pieces of the puzzle are too incomplete to see any pattern or picture.

  Just before lunch, my port-watch buzzes. As I leave the classroom, I glance down to see a message from Mae.

  Meet during Kin Space. Under the oak.

  She is sitting in the same place as before. She watches as I walk across the grass towards her. This time she isn’t waving.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply, joining her on the damp grass. I want to fix things.

  I wait for her to speak.

  She is watching me. She doesn’t look cross, but she doesn’t say anything either. Instead she picks at a blade of grass. It occurs to me that she might be feeling bad too. That for the first time since I met her, she isn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Does your mum—’ I pause and look around to check that no one is nearby, even though no one else ever comes this far across the field apart from when we are doing sport. ‘Does your mum still have her own school?’

  My words sound strange. The idea so unlikely that as soon as I’ve asked the question, I begin to doubt whether that’s what Mae said the first time.

  ‘She does.’ Mae hesitates. ‘Jess, I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you. I was wrong. You were right. I should have given you a chance. I’ve never talked to anyone about home before—apart from people who already know about it.’ Mae seems to be choosing her words carefully. ‘And I want you to know about it too.’

  I smile.

  ‘Mum’s been running her school for nine years. Since I was old enough to start live-learning. She didn’t want me learning from a screen.’ She pauses. ‘Even if the lessons were “live”. At first there was just me and her, in the shed at the bottom of the garden. Then another kid joined. Mum tried to keep it quiet, but word seemed to spread. More kids arrived. We ran out of space, and when someone offered us an old barn, we moved the school there. Mum didn’t actually call it a school. She called it The Barn, and we were the Barn Kids. When I left, she had about forty. Dad was starting to get seriously worried that she might be arrested, but Mum said people wouldn’t send their kids if they didn’t feel the same way about live-learning. And anyway, they’d get themselves into trouble too.’

  I gasp. ‘Forty kids, all under the age of fourteen?’

  Mae nods.

  Now I try to choose my words carefully, too. ‘After the antibiotics stopped working, I thought they made all kinds of laws to protect us.’

  ‘They did,’ says Mae. ‘But that was twenty years ago, during the Scarlet Fever epidemic. It’s safe to meet people now. But live-learning seems better—especially with holograms. You can sit with your class, without having to leave home. It’s easier.’

  ‘So,’ I try to get my thoughts in order, ‘why not change the law anyway and give people a choice? Why is it still illegal?’

  ‘Think about it,’ says Mae. ‘There’s a lot of money to be made from keeping people in one place, with only their screens. Think of all the shopping for a start. Why change things if most people are happy? Give them more incentives like new hologram sets, or VR kits instead. Mum says that money makes the world go round. Not truth. The ones making all the money are smart. They’re very generous to the people who made the laws, so they won’t rush to change them. She says people are more likely to believe lots of half-truths, if that fits what they want to believe, than the actual truth itself. She—’

  Mae’s eyes dart upwards to something behind me.

  I spin round. Students are spilling onto the field, clutching hockey sticks and footballs.

  ‘Oh no!’ I jump to my feet. ‘We’re so late for hockey.’

  Before I can run back towards the changing rooms, Mae grabs my arm.

  ‘Now that you know my secret, Jess, maybe you should tell me yours.’ When I look at her, confused, she adds, ‘What is it you do on your port-com every night?’ The corners of her mouth lift in a small smile, but there is an intensity to the way she’s looking at me, which makes it clear she won’t be happy with anything less than the whole truth.

  Friend

  As the glow from the solar magnifier fades, the light above my desk clicks on. It must be dusk. I’ve been in the quiet study zone for several hours. Like Finn, I suddenly have a lot of homework. I also need to work on my new composition, and JP has sent me a challenge. I checked last night. But as I sat by the wardrobe, in the blueish glow of my port-com screen, I couldn’t stop wondering whether Mae was awake too, and if Mae was awake, who else might be watching. I didn’t want to linger. There was no time to start. No time to hack back into the pharma system, either.

  I rest my chin on my hand as Mae’s question echoes round my head. What is it you do? Mae shared her secret with me. If I tell her nothing about mine, then how can we be proper friends? But my secret feels bigger. The laws I’ve broken more serious.

  I tap the side of my desk. The screen and keyboard vanish inside.

  I need a change of scene, so I wander slowly over to the music room.

  Halfway there, I hear the sound of footsteps behind me.

  A quiet voice says, ‘Jess.’

  I spin round. Jack is walking down the corridor towards me.

  ‘I saw you in the study room,’ he says. Which is funny because I didn’t see him. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For helping me the other day when I was—unwell. I would have felt a lot worse if you hadn’t acted so quickly.’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK, I’m used to it.’

  He tilts his head, confused.

  ‘I mean, I’ve seen one of those masks before. I knew what to do.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He hesitates for a second. ‘Would you like to work on the new piece together—before our next Friday session with Miss Singer?’