We got fish and chips on the beach and Camilla was there because she didn’t want me to be the only one having fish and chips with the boy she cheated on her boyfriend with. Freddy. That was the boy’s name. Every night she would come home and lie on the fish-scale mess of our floor, wave her arms around like she was making mold angels, and cry. Because she did something so wrong and couldn’t forgive herself. Because she wasn’t sorry. It’s like that, when you’re north with lust. She wanted to hold his hand. I wanted to hold his hand, too, but I knew that in the queue for his hand I was further towards the back. Except she was a terrible artist. And he shouldn’t have …