Yan Harris is VERY EXCITED. Well, of course she is. It’s summer, she’s got over her depression and she’s in London for a week with her BFF Chelsea. After seventeen years in a sleepy village where everybody just knows them as The Chinese One and The Brainy One… life is calling. It’s a pretty cool prospect… if Chel can stop worrying about discourse in the Nordhelm fandom long enough to enjoy it. Chelsea’s worried about Yan, too, to Yan’s annoyance. Barely sleeping, barely eating, getting increasingly gobby, having an – ahem – close encounter in a toilet, giving a Tory MP a good kick in the shins, and running around kind of literally screaming… well, it’s all just good summer fun, isn’t it? Isn’t it? In the desperate battle of Yan vs. bipolar disorder, does the poor disease really stand a chance? Written by an author who lives with bipolar herself, this is a hilarious yet edge-of-your-seat ride, with friendship at its heart. Perfect for fans of Holly Bourne and Alice Oseman. “This book nails it—not just the vertiginous flights of bipolar, but also the pure joy of youth.” – Marya Hornbacher, author of Wasted and Madness: a Bipolar Life “Cleverly written, fast-paced and engaging. I rattled through it, desperate to know what happened.” – Nicola Morgan, author of Blame My Brain   “You don't want to miss this story, it will hit you like a tidal wave.” – Lucas Maxwell, UK School Librarian of the Year 2017  

PROLOGUE   August   The London Eye is turning very slowly – I wish it would spin like a Catherine wheel. Behind me, Big Ben strikes eight times, sinking into me and rippling out to the tips of my fingers and toes. I’m here; I’m a part of here. I spin round, laughing, to see the Houses of Parliament. Tourists are milling about – between them I catch a glimpse of Chelsea, plodding along the road near the Tube station. I don’t want her to be upset, so I wave at her, Back in a moment! and run again, jumping into the road to dodge a huge group of tourists but skipping back up onto the pavement before the big red bus can catch me. It’s like being inside a TV show. London! I’ve only been here for a couple of hours, travelling round the Tube and popping up in the places I just couldn’t wait to see, and already I never want to leave. I wonder if I could do Year 13 here? I want to hop into a black cab, go anywhere! My heart is beating in time with London: I am Yan. The sun will always shine. I am rushing through light. All summer I’ve been feeling more and more alive. There’s a smooth, swift river running through my soul. Sometimes I think I could melt into it, burn up in the joy. Forget the Blip, this is my pure bright beginning. ‘Yan, have you gone mental?’ Chelsea demands. But she’s not really angry – she’s glancing all around, excited too. She’s sweating her face powder off in the heat, and she’s got her green nerd-chic-cardigan wrapped awkwardly around her arm. ‘Aw, I know you’re tired, but we’re in London!’ Chel can’t help smiling. ‘I ain’t… There’s just a lot of people.’ ‘It’s OK. You’ll get used to it. This is where we’re meant to be.’ I grab her arms and do a little dance. She’s been my best friend since forever, so she’s used to my moods. It’s always been the two of us, whether we’re bike racing down Hen Hill, jumping cowpats, bingeing Nordhelm at sleepovers or trying to figure out how I can get an online hat shop going. Chel is the one who got Mum to see the unfortunate obvious a few months ago, during the Blip. This trip is our reward for surviving that, ahem, interesting time. Although, officially, the reward is for passing our AS levels (A*s for Chel of course; Cs and a B for me because of said unfortunate obvious), and a chance for us to inspect universities we might favour with applications. For I am a genius milliner: mistress of lace, wireframes and creative vision. And Chelsea is a genius writer – though she can’t exactly show her best stuff at school. She will get a scholarship to University College, and I’ll find a famous milliner to make me their apprentice. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’ll message my aunt, case she’s home by now.’ ‘I wanna stay here,’ I say, pointing at both sides of the river. Though I’m also curious to meet Aunt Julie, who’s putting us up. A tourist bashes into my left hand and apologises in Mandarin. I should shove him right back… No. I beam at him instead. I could learn to speak Mandarin properly in my spare time at uni. I could do anything here. ‘There’s the bit that’s paved with gold!’ I point to sunlight on the river. Chelsea’s not listening. She’s consulting maps on her phone, even though she already checked the route a million times in Brockford. ‘Right. We should really get to Swiss Cottage now.’ I have a vision of a little house made of Swiss cheese, with women in red pinafores and mice running in and out of the yellow holes. ‘All right,’ I concede, and I head off back to the Tube station, trying not to make Chelsea run. I just want to pack as much as possible into this week. Design studios and Chinatown and the London Eye and exploring little old shops, and nightclubbing and kissing boys and girls, all with my best friend. And finding my dad, obviously. Mum won’t tell me where he lives (lived?) except ‘London’, so I ‘borrowed’ her credit card and hired a PI online. The report’s due tomorrow. I really should tell Chelsea about that.