I hide out in that toilet like an idiot for a good ten minutes before finally venturing out and fetching my chair. And I don’t go “straight to my next lesson,” as Miss Turner instructed; instead I go to the general office, make up some excuse about pain, and leave for home.

I guess I do skive, after all, but at least I have a good excuse: there is no way I can face Marko or Mia, again today. I Usually handle confrontations well – if aggressively – but today’s talk with Marko has left me tense in a way no argument has managed before, and I don’t think my muscles properly uncoil until I’m back in the safety of my room.

I made the right choice, right? I couldn’t go to town with Marko, let alone duet with him. But the day’s events play over and over in my mind, and that evening, as Dad and I sit watching TV, I can’t help asking if he’ll switch to the local news.

Dad looks at me strange, but he does as he’s told, flicking through the channels till he finds the right one. We both know I don’t watch serious programmes; I like to keep things light and breezy: sitcoms and kids cartoons, mainly. My life is hard enough, without adding a daily dose of corrupt politicians, terrorism and world hunger.

The news programme settles in on the screen; a piece about the new surfing reef they built off the coast, and then an interview with some surfer dude, trying to look cool while clearly freezing his giblets off in a short-sleeved wetsuit. Seriously, even if I could, I wouldn’t be out there, stood on an icy Cornish beach in early spring.

The programme returns to the studio, and then back out to a live report, and I stiffen as I recognise the glass front of the Royal theatre. There are crowds to either side of the entrance, held back by barriers; there’s music blaring from speakers; and above the entrance hangs a huge banner, reading, “Welcome Home the Happy Jacks.”

The camera pans and my heartbeat skips as, just for an instant, I spy Marko pressed against the barriers, cheering and whooping along with the crowds at his back. There are others from our school there, including the trio of friends that make up Marko’s band, but I’m not great with names, and my mind glosses over them.

Is Tabatha there? I don’t see her. Did she seriously not go? Could I have had Marko to myself? I think a part of me really does wish I was there, but I concentrate on the crowd – that jostling mass of arms and legs – and the sight is enough to put any such urges to bed. I hate manoeuvring my chair through crowds: it leads to, for example, idiots falling into my lap.

As I watch, my lips pursed and a frown forming on my brow, the Happy Jacks finally arrive and there’s a meet and greet with the fans by the steps. I catch another glimpse of Marko, and that’s almost more exciting to me than seeing one of my heroes back in our town – Ajax is there, the female lead of the band and a highly skilled musician to boot.

The reporter moves to intercept the woman who was not much older than I am now when she became famous. ‘We were just like our fans, once,’ Ajax says, answering a question my brain didn’t register, ‘we grew up in this beautiful little town; playing in our garage and dreaming big.’ I can’t look away from the girl’s perfectly-formed face.

‘This is also a reminder that this year’s Great British Talent Contest will be starting in a few months,’ the girl adds, looking into the camera as if she’s staring right through and directly into my eyes. ‘We’ll be throwing our support behind anyone from Plymouth that makes it through the preliminaries, so all you talented folks out there, go for it!’

There are more words; some sweeping shots of the crowds – I peer intently, but don’t see Marko again – and then the programme runs a clip of the group during the talent contest preliminary, the five members now looking insanely young.

I watched this show, live; sat on this very couch between Mum and Dad. We cheered every time the Happy Jacks made it through a round, and I sobbed inconsolably into Mum’s shoulder when they finally got the boot. They were our band; we’d known their stories – their struggles; it was because of them that I settled down and concentrated on my music; because of them that I entered the contest myself a few years later...

After the news has ended I retreat from the front room without a word, and drift listlessly through the house until I find myself back in my bedroom.

Without really knowing what I’m doing I tug open the wardrobe, and dig in amongst the discarded clothes that are piled high in its base. My hand touches something hard and I pull free the case of my violin. The battered leather feels alive to my touch; pulsing with a unmistakable energy; every scratch and dent a story I know well.

I lift it up under my chin as if I’m going to play – as if that’s really something I might be able to do – but even this small action proves one step too far. The rich smell of polished wood and beeswax leaks out from the case, bringing those long denied memories flooding back: an image filling my head, a memory of the last time I played.

I scrunch my eyes closed as if trying to block the memory, but it’s waiting for me in the darkness; projected on the back of my eyelids. I see smiling crowds, their rapt attention centred on me; I see my violin stretching out from my chin; I see the red dress hugging my supple eleven year old body as it sways to the music. A girl in her moment of triumph; a girl doing what she loves... And then... And then... And then her world collapsed.

This is what I’ve been running from all these years: this memory, and the crushing weight of all it signifies. Once upon a time, music meant everything to me; something that bonded me and my mum; something that marked me as exceptional. Now it’s just one more item on a very long list of things taken from me by my condition.

My eyes snap open, and I suck down a ragged breath. Why did Marko do this to me? Was he deliberately trying to hurt me? No, he just doesn’t realise the Pandora’s Box he was opening; he couldn’t imagine the pain and torment he would unleash.

Throwing my violin unceremoniously back into the wardrobe, I slam the door on it: perhaps in some vain hope that the flimsy wood will protect me from the memories that have already been let loose in my head... the wheels that have started to turn.

Suffice to say, I don’t sleep well: not that night, or the next, or even Sunday. I’m plagued by nightmares of being back on stage as I fail and fall apart. Only now it’s not just a figurative collapse, I see my body disintegrating, a piece at a time: a finger drops off; an arm; a leg; all while I try to play on. I’ve not had nightmares like this in years, not since I was first diagnosed and hadn’t yet figured out how to give up on caring.

Tiredness makes me pricklier than usual, and when Monday rolls around I of course take it out on the one person who might actually want to help.

Taking the quieter back routes through the school, I reach the nurse’s office, and barge in without knocking. I don’t come here very often, despite – or maybe, because of – my condition: the room has that sanitised look and smell I’ve come to associate with hospitals, and I’ve seen one too many of those places in my short life.

It’s laid out like a miniature ward, with a desk near the door, and then four beds beyond, each with its own dividing curtain. Three of the beds are empty, but on the one nearest the window there’s a girl, staring up and out into the sky beyond.

Hearing me enter, the girl rolls over, slipping a pair of thick glasses onto her face, and trying to pat flat her afro frizz of bed-hair. I think she’s surprised to see me, though that’s hard to tell when her magnified lenses give her face a look of perpetual shock.

‘Hey Pen,’ she says. ‘How did you know I was here?’

Mia is one of the few constants in my life; the closest thing I have to a friend. She’s a leftover from when I was considered a part of the “in” crowd, and while I have successfully alienated most of that old crew, Mia somehow remains.

What makes Mia special? I suppose there’s that slim possibility that I keep her around simply because I like her as a person... but I’d much rather think it’s because she’s one of the few people in this world for whom I can actually feel sorry.

No offense to Mia, but she’s a pretty feeble specimen of a human, and amongst her many ailments – including asthma, migraines, extreme short-sightedness, and permanent stomach-ache – she also believes herself to be allergic to pretty much all foods: gluten, dairy, nuts, seeds, shellfish, citric fruits, tomatoes, onions and peppers, to name a few.

Today, however, I have no patience for my friend or her ridiculous question – it’s a pretty good bet that she’ll be in this room given she’s spent half her school life in here. ‘Why the hell did you tell Marko about my violin playing?’ I demand, rolling into the room.

Instantly on alert, Mia’s eyes dart around the room as if she’s looking for escape. ‘It’s not a secret...’ she ventures, though from the way she’s nervously licking her lips she must know that excuse won’t be nearly enough to placate me.

‘It was to him,’ I snap back, as I stop by Mia’s bed.

The poor girl clearly wasn’t expecting an argument this early in the morning, and she flounders for a response. ‘It’s not a big deal,’ she mutters, ‘we were talking about our music lessons and the conversation just kind of... turned to you.’

‘It is a big deal when the idiot decides he wants to duet with me.’ I’m not sure why I let this piece of information out, except that it’s been burning a hole in my mind all weekend.

‘He did?’ Mia asks, her nervousness gone and replaced with excitement. She leans in as if eager for gossip, pressing her glasses to her nose. ‘What did you say?’

This is not the apology I’m wanting from the girl. ‘What do you think I said? “No”, of course, and then we almost got in an argument over it.’

‘Oh Pen...’ she says, letting out a deep sigh that somehow makes me feel like this is all, somehow, my fault. ‘It might have been good for you.’

Why does everyone seem to think they know what’s best for me? ‘People nosing into my life and tossing me pity offers isn’t going to make me happy.’

Shaking her frizzy hair, Mia exclaims, ‘that’s not what he was doing! He told me he was serious about finding someone talented to help him out. He said he had heard rumours about this violin prodigy that went to our school – what was I supposed to say?’

He wanted talent and he turned to me? I grumble and turn away, annoyed at myself and subsequently Mia. I didn’t plan on laying into my only friend when I got up this morning: it just happened; and now I’ve started I can’t exactly back down.

‘I think everyone needs to butt out of my life!’ I state, turning my chair as if to leave.

‘I was just trying to help...’ Mia mumbles behind me.

‘Well don’t!’ I snap, but still I don’t move.

I think I want her to try and stop me; if I leave I’m afraid she’ll chose not to bother tracking me down again; our friendship has been waning for years, to a point where we only ever see each other at school. Mia is the last non-relative on this planet that actually cares that I exist, and while I like to play the ice queen, the thought of being truly alone, scares me.

‘I’m sorry, okay,’ Mia finally says, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief because now I can stay without losing face. ‘I just thought... Marko’s was so into the idea... I thought you might enjoy his company: getting to hear him play... maybe play with him...’

As she speaks she starts to trail off, as if realising that none of this sounds like stuff I would be interested in. That’s not strictly true, in fact it’s precisely how much the idea of playing with Marko appeals to me, that makes it hurt so much.

‘I really thought you might be pleased, and... Marko wouldn’t... hurt you,’ Mia adds, when I still don’t turn around – she means the boy won’t abandon me, I think. ‘He’s super nice, we talk all the time and he’s always very considerate of my... problems.’

Of her many health issues, I think, this time she’s referring to her shyness, which isn’t nearly as bad as it used to be. At one point Mia was practically a shut-in, but now she’s pretty well liked around school – although still quiet, and far from a typical teenage party-animal.

‘You think anyone who talks to you is nice,’ I grumble, but not harshly.

‘It’s not just me,’ Mia says, glad to hear my voice. ‘Everyone in the school likes him.’

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed...’ I say drolly. ‘At this point we might as well rename the school: The Almighty Saint Marko’s.’ I turn around but don’t meet the girl’s gaze. I can feel my foul mood seeping away, responding to Mia’s calm, good-nature.

The girl does this every time, winning our arguments through simple discussion and a refusal to sink to my level. Just once I’d like to see Mia lose her chill and let out all the pent up emotions I’ve no doubt are bubbling beneath her surface. Or maybe I don’t; I hear the longer the fuse the bigger the explosion, so Mia would be like a nuke going off.

‘You’ve got to admit he’s Bae AF,’ Mia says, unexpectedly, and I glance her way, just in time to see her dark skin take on a burnished glow that I’m sure means she’s blushing.

My eyes widen at her words and a grin spreads involuntarily across my lips before I can clamp down on it. ‘Don’t use terms like “bae”,’ I say, forcing my face back into its more comfortable frown – Mia can’t pull off slang without coming across as a try-hard.

To be fair, neither can I, but that’s precisely why I don’t try. And somehow it feels more desperate coming from Mia. Seriously, she’s the least cool black person I know... Actually, she’s the only black person I know, but movies and TV have taught me to expect a certain level of coolness to which Mia never comes close.

Mia rolls her large brown eyes. ‘Fine, he’s fit, okay?’

‘He’s not my type,’ I state, but that just makes Mia chuckle.

‘Don’t give me that,’ she responds; more forthright now the argument is behind us. ‘I remember you ogling Marko when he first came to the school.’

She’s right... There were a good few weeks in which I mooned over the new boy and drew hearts containing his name on my schoolbooks – before realising how pointless it was to even dream. ‘Fine, I might have fancied him... a little bit,’ I admit, and then I can’t help but laugh at myself. ‘But I was fourteen. I was barely over my Horrid Henry phase.’

Reminded of my cartoon crush, Mia half coughs, half laughs. It feels good to make my friend laugh – I should try it more often.

I wish we could be like this all the time; I wish we could talk about things like normal people. I feel like we used to, long, long ago, but while my condition took a lot from me – the ability to play video games, to play sports, to play my violin; to live a normal, independent life – perhaps the most unexpected was my ability to communicate with people my own age.

It’s hard to chat about boys or sport or video games, or any of those other fun things, when I can’t participate in any of them. Worse still, such interests seem trivial when you’re dealing with a serious amount of pain each and every day.

For a few seconds we grin at one another, and then the smiles wane, and we find ourselves looking around the room as if for conversational stimuli. Our moment has passed, and when first bell rings I make my hasty excuses and leave the girl to her rest.

Still, I leave happy; and I know most of it was Mia’s doing, but I feel way better about myself than if I’d stormed out, still angry. I can be a real bitch, sometimes – I know it; I admit it. But I think I’m still trying to push Mia away for the same reason I pushed everyone else out of my life: because it’s so much easier not having other people expecting things from you.

I think I’m also nervous about seeing Marko again, and I took it out on my friend; which is a real shame because, as it turns out, my fears are unfounded. I see the boy almost as soon as I reach our classroom, talking with his usual three cronies. I catch his eye and open my mouth to speak, but he only nods and looks deliberately away.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from the boy, but that was not it; surely there should be some sort of follow-up to our meeting? “I’m real sorry about that?” would be a start... I think I’d even settle for a, “have you reconsidered my offer?”

Maybe to someone as popular as Marko our talk has already been forgotten, or maybe since I turned down his offer he simply assumes our dealings are done. And, yes, I know I was worried things were going to get awkward, and this is so much easier, but now I’m disappointed – what can I say, I’m a teenage girl: I am contradictions personified.

So that’s it then: it’s over. This little interlude in my life has ended, and it’s back to the humdrum world that existed before; the endless drone. Nothing has changed – I’ve not changed – it should be easy to continue on as I have for the last six years.

Only... only it’s not. The whole of that week I’m fidgety at home – restless in a way I’ve not been for years; I can’t settle to any task for more than five minutes, and I wish, more than ever, that I could go for a jog to burn off some energy. At school I’m no better: either staring confusedly at the back of Marko’s head, or gazing out through the window, lost in thoughts that I can’t recall once I snap back to the present.

And while I pretend not to know what’s happening, the truth is I know, all too well what’s wrong with me: whether it was Marko request – triggering something in my brain – or seeing the Happy Jacks on TV, music has made its return to my life.

I had thought the dream dead; but it’s been like a weed lying dormant in my brain, clinging to some small spark of life. One glimpse of daylight, a dash of water, and it’s back to full bloom; its roots worming their way through my consciousness.

I can’t let this happen; there’s no purpose to thinking about things that can never be. I won’t let music take over my better judgement, again – I refuse. That route leads only to pain and humiliation; so I will suppress the instinct, same as before; I will crush the dream, deep down inside me, until there’s nothing left... This is the plan, anyway.

‘Are you humming?’ It’s Friday morning when I’m made aware that my resolve is failing, and that the music is still there, running rampant through my subconscious mind.

I turn hurriedly from my bedside table and in the door to my room stands Dad. I make to deny his claims – of course I wasn’t humming – but then I sense the tingle in my throat; the tail end of the sound still lingering in the air, and instead I look away from the man’s broad grin, cursing my weak will, and telling myself I’ll do better in future.

But Dad distracts me from my inward-turned attention by taking another step into the room, leaning down to peer at my face. ‘And... are you wearing makeup?’

‘Of course not!’ I exclaim, hitting the joystick on my chair and spinning hurriedly away from the man. It’s a stupid thing to deny, particularly when my lips are undeniably glossy, and when I’ve managed to drop the eyeliner in my haste.

We both watch the pen roll slowly across the wood floor to bump against Dad’s shoe. ‘Fine, I just woke up early and thought I’d make an effort, happy?’

‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Dad laughs, coming closer.

It didn’t take long, after getting stuck in my chair, for me to stop caring about my appearance. First I stopped buying new clothes, then I stopped styling my hair, and finally I gave up on makeup. There seemed little point in making an effort when I would never look good – not unless wheelchairs became the season’s must-have accessory.

Crouching to pick up the eyeliner, Dad’s legs are so long that his knees touch his ears. He’s wearing a pale pink shirt and darker tie, that make him appear the perfect example of corporate respectability – at least until he turns his head and you spot his ratty ponytail.

I’ve tried to get him to cut it off – many times – but I think it’s symbolic to Dad; a last visual clue to his anarchic past, travelling the world and righting perceived wrongs; and if I’m being honest, the ponytail does suit Dad way more than his insurance salesman day job.

Staring across at Dad, I sigh and decide that since he’s here he might as well make himself useful. ‘Does it... does it look okay?’ I ask, motioning vaguely at my face.

Shuffling closer, Dad sucks in through his teeth; the same noise our car mechanic makes when he looks over our broken-down heap of a people carrier. ‘It’s... certainly “okay,”’ he says. A big thing with my parents is that they never lie – even when you wish they would.

I glance back at my reflection and give another heartfelt sigh; there’s no point in lying when the evidence is plain to see. I’ve done the best I can, but it’s a little like putting lipstick on a horse: doesn’t matter how well it’s done, you’ll never make someone want to kiss it...

‘May I?’ Dad asks, scotching up to my chair and examining my face.

‘Knock yourself out...’ It’s not like he can make it worse. I don’t even know why I was bothering in the first place; I think there was some vague notion of Marko in my mind, while I was getting ready, but I’d rather not examine that reasoning too hard.

Bending in, Dad begins carefully running the pen along the edge of my eyelid, one hand on my cheek, stretching my skin back. He’s gentle and caring, and when I squint at him, I see a touch of sadness behind his smile that I’m pretty sure means he’s having the same thoughts as me: that this is something a mother should be doing.

‘How do you know how to do this?’ I ask, trying to break the silence.

Dad’s mouth quirks into that whimsical smile he gets when he’s remembering the past. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time we stayed with this woman in Saudi Arabia?’

Dad tells me so many tales that they all form into one unbelievable blur. ‘No...’ I say, tentatively – Dad’s stories aren’t always things a child should hear about their parents.

‘Fascinating woman,’ Dad says around his tongue as he continues to apply my liner. ‘But she only ever had her eyes showing so she really had to make them pop.’

That story wasn’t so bad, after all...

‘Then we got thrown in jail for public indecency,’ Dad adds, laughing like it’s nothing.

‘They are pretty strict, over there...’ I venture, hoping it was nothing special.

‘Exactly!’ Dad exclaims. ‘Downright medieval if you ask me. That’s why we were staging a nude protest, and why we’d tied your mum spread-eagled to a-’ And with that little detail I’ve had enough of story time.

Grimacing, I throw up a hand to stop him. ‘TMI, Dad. For God’s sake, TMI.’

Rocking back onto his heels, Dad admires his handiwork, and I take the opportunity to glance again at the mirror. He’s done about as well as can be expected, but I’m no Mum: the pictures of when she was my age make her look like a movie star, always laughing and smiling – I don’t know where those good genes went, but it certainly wasn’t into me.

Aside from the dark skin and hair, I am the exact opposite of Mum. Instead of her delicate features I’ve got my dad’s long-face and hook-nose; instead of her wide mouth and winning smile, there’s my thin lips that seem permanently downturned; and as for my stocky build and back-breaking boobs, I’ve no idea where they came from.

Dad smiles faintly, but still enough to crease the well-worn skin around his eyes. ‘My little girl’s all grown up,’ he says, as if this is some cheesy coming of age movie.

‘What do you mean?’ I laugh. ‘I’m still only three foot, ten.’ I nod towards the door frame, where pencil marks show my height over the years, the last line dated six years ago.

Dad chuckles, dutifully, but the sound quickly dies; we both know there’s a sombre truth behind my words: it feels like it’s not just my height that stopped growing when I was confined to my chair, and I wonder if I’ll ever move beyond where I am now.

I blame Marko for these thoughts – I was quite content in my little rut before he showed up. ‘Remind me again of what Mum used to say,’ I say quietly, barely knowing I’ll speak until the words have left my mouth. ‘What’s the point of it all?’

Dad’s instantly serious. ‘You’re not having those thoughts again, are you?’

‘Woah, no, it’s not that,’ I say, hastily, the last thing I need is Dad worrying about me hurting myself. ‘I just... I just want to hear your view of the world.’

The man visibly relaxes, and his eyes regain that far off look as he remembers my mum. ‘We’re all just specks in an infinite blackness,’ he says. ‘We either come to terms with our place and live our lives as best we can, or we strive to become like stars, disrupting the natural order, and making our presence felt across time and space.’

Yeah, I know it’s new-agey and kind of soppy, but I’ve always liked this way of thinking. Mum used to say it differently, laying out the choice we all face as sit back and enjoy the show or get up on stage and lead the performance. I guess that’s why I’ve been thinking about her message, recently: its Marko’s fault for bringing the music back into my life.

‘Thanks Dad,’ I whisper, leaning against his shoulder.

‘Always, Pea,’ he responds, and moves in for an awkward hug, his long arms going all the way around the back of my chair. He smells of home – he is my home.

I know Dad would much rather be off gallivanting around the world with Mum, or even back in the traveller community where I was raised before we settled in Plymouth. He stayed because of me; I owe him everything and, not for the first time, I feel I need to try harder, for his sake. I can’t take all he’s done for me and waste this life.

Watching Dad straighten and leave, I grit my teeth and make a vow to myself. I can’t let this situation continue any longer. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I need to speak with Marko and put a proper cap on our discussion: I can’t just let things end the way they did.

And while I’m at it, I need to talk with Mia, give her a proper apology rather than the implied words I left her with yet again; she’s been a good friend to me – better than I deserve – it’s about time I let her know her efforts are appreciated.

‘I’ll do it!’ I say to empty room, as I start getting ready for school, only partially aware of the fact that I’m, again, humming. I must enjoy being proactive – or maybe it’s thoughts of Marko – for my tune has turned into a joyful little piece Mum taught to me.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three