Marie has come to take me for a case conference review. This is a reminder, in case I ever dare forget it, that, much as I want it, my life isn’t yet my own. The Department will put me under its microscope like I’m an insect as its team of arrogant fools poke and prod me with questions, to check my ‘progress’, or lack of it. The aim of the exercise is for them to decide if I should be allowed to continue living independently. What I want doesn’t matter. Marie raps on the door, short, crisp and businesslike. That sums her up in every way. If she has any warmth in her, she leaves it at home when she goes to work. ‘Oh.’ It’s obvious from the moment she sees me that she doesn’t approve of what I’m wearing. ‘I thought you’d be in your school clothes.’ She pats her hands on either side of her suit jacket, as though she needs to brush something sticky from them. ‘No,’ I say brightly. ‘This is how I usually dress for school.’ Amy has lent me a long Indian skirt that swishes when I walk and almost touches my sandals.
