a raspberry and then checks her phone. âI got to go. Schoolâs almost starting. If I get another detention for being late, Mum will flip. Nepal. Walk me?â
We run up the steps, two at a time.
âIâm not really allowed near the school.â
âSo wear a hessian bag over your head. People already think youâre in a cult that only wears hessian. Itâs karma. No, I mean fortuitous. Do I mean fortuitous?â
My phone vibrates. âWait up.â I hang back a couple of steps from the top. The screen is cold against my ear. âYeah?â
âThat shit turned up?â
Ugh. Bill Green.
Cara waits at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. Her dress is so short Iâve got a good view of her pink knickers from here. She motions for me to hang up.
âHow much does he owe you, Bill?â
âHeâs my son. Iâm concerned about his welfare.â
âOh yeah, you sound all broken up.â
âYouâd be all broken up if someone stole your credit card and maxed it out at some bloody record store youâd never heard of.â
And there it is. A hot, niggling sensation deep in my chest. The same feeling I got when I hid beneath the cubby house eating Gregory Vuâs lunch because heâd laughed at me for being relegated to the stupid table in Maths. He deserved it, but those spring rolls sure tasted bitter.
I grip the railing. âRecord store? You mean Vinyl Underground?â
âHowâd you know that?â
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Cara is giving me big eyes and even bigger hang-up-the-phone charades. I wave at her in a way I hope approximates âIâm coming â take a chill pillâ. She gives me the finger.
I hold a hand over my mouth and the phone, and turn away. âI just . . . I mean, when you say âmaxed outâ you mean . . . ?â
âFour and a half.â
Shit. âHundred?â
âTry thousand, little girl. So you can tell that shit-for-brains kid of mine Iâm going to wring his bloody neck when I see him. And heâll be paying me back every cent.â
Beep.
I stare at my phone, chest and throat burning.
I think thereâs another c-word I might be about to use.
âWho was â?â
âLatvia.â I wonder if my face is as flushed as it feels. I hurry up the last couple of steps.
I mean, holy shit just doesnât cover it.
Cara wiggles her eyebrows at me. âLatvia? Thatâs an expensive call.â
I give her a weak smile.
FOUR AND A HALF THOUSAND? Did he mean Australian dollars or some foreign currency where four and a half thousand is equivalent to five cents? Now I want to take a sledge hammer to my brain and punish it for being stupid enough to think Xavier was an innocent kid whoâd been led astray by mean old Shia LaBeouf.
Four and a half thousand.
Thatâs an overseas holiday.
Thatâs two MacBook Pros.
Thatâs a whole wardrobe of fancy clothes with change left over for about a hundred churros.
Thatâs Juliet Vega.
âAre you listening?â Cara tugs on my arm. âIâm going to be late. Do you want me to get a detention? Oh, and Algeria.â
I let her pull me along but I canât even fake a smile right now.
Iâve got four and a half thousand reasons why not.
Iâm
not
talking to Xavier. If I was, Iâd tell him what a dickhead he is. Stealing his dadâs credit card to buy me a gift I donât need, then shoving me against a dumpster and walking away with that smug bastard Nate instead of dropping to his knees and begging me for forgiveness.
I am
not
speaking to the thieving little bastard, but if I was Iâd tell him he can forget about his free kebab. He can forget about me, about dumplings, about a total musical overhaul. He can rot in musical purgatory for all I care.
I slam the door to my room; it rattles in the frame as I collapse onto the bed.
I am not
Maggie Brendan
Barbara O'Connor
Jan Washburn
Terri Blackstock
Norah Simone
Barry Kemp
G.P. Taylor
Alan Cumyn
Linda Barnes
Lisa Jackson