Once school’s out for the year, opportunities are a hell of a lot easier to find. Mum’s at work most days, and though I’m not supposed to have visitors, it’s not like we have nosey old women neighbours who’ll spy and tell Mum that I had a boy over. So Mark comes over after breakfast and lets himself in the back door. I stop the DVD I’m watching and stand up to kiss him.

“Ooh, movies and snuggling?” he asks suggestively.

“Not on your life, boyo – if Mum comes home unexpectedly I want more warning than ‘click, shove, MAISYYOU’REGROUNDED!’ … thanks!”

He laughs.

“Oh, easy for you to laugh!”

He pretends to sober up.

“Come with me…”

“Awww, but it looks comfy… and you have Twisties!”

“Huh – fine, stay here. I’ll be in my room.”

He follows meekly down the hall, snickering.

I close the bedroom door and he grabs me around the waist, pulls me to him and kisses me. Man, this boy can kiss. When I can be bothered coming up for air, I break away and grab his hand.

“Come lie down with me – you wanted comfy, remember?”

He pulls back a little.

“You sure?”

I shrug.

“I want comfy and close, that’s all,” I say, and grin.

We lie down, side by side, and kiss again. Then his breathing gets heavier and faster, and he puts a hand on my waist, slides it up under my tshirt and over one breast. I freeze for a moment, but he slips a finger under the bra and it grazes my nipple and OHMYGOD my skin goes tingly and it feels GOOD. Then we’re kissing again and that feels even better, and he stops kissing my mouth and starts to kiss my neck and my ribs and my breasts and then he’s sucking on a nipple.

“OW!”

“Sorry,” he says, and stops, looking kinda silly.

“I didn’t say stop.”

“Maybe we should, though.”

“Mmm… you’re probably right.”

I pout. I know he’s right, but I want more. Now.

****

The next day he sneaks over, I do to him what he did to me – lie him on his back, pull his tshirt up, slide my fingers lightly over his muscled belly and chest, kiss his neck and throat and his chest. His breathing speeds up whenever I kiss his neck, and I smile. Got him.

****

We don’t just spend our time snogging and feeling each other up. We watch movies, go swimming, go to church and parties and youth group. We do the friends thing, and sometimes we go somewhere quiet and do the other stuff.

One evening, liberally smeared with mozzie repellant, we lie in our place near the beach on the river. We eat another picnic, then push it aside to make room to lie down. We kiss and nuzzle at each other’s neck and, feeling daring, I move a hand slowly downwards instead, over the hip of his boardies, down the outside of his thigh. Again his breath gets faster and heavier, then he pulls my hips against his and kisses me hard, shoving his tongue into my mouth. At first it’s just uncomfortable, then I realise that the hard bulk pressing against me is his erection, and he’s really turned on, and it’s like hearing I’ve won the lottery, except the feeling’s all in my groin. Suddenly I see how this whole thing can get dangerously addictive, and I don’t care. He stops, moves away a bit. I frown and start to close the distance, but he puts a hand on my stomach and pushes gently so I roll onto my back. Then his hand worms downwards til it’s between my legs, and only thin boardshort fabric between it and my skin. He presses, feeling out the curves, then just strokes very gently, and I have my first orgasm.

“Holy crap, was that supposed to happen?” I say once I have my voice back.

He blushes.

“Guess so?”

We laugh.

“That was amazing.”

“Umm… thanks?”

“Can I – do the same for you? Seems unfair, otherwise.”

“Should we really be doing this?”

I shrug.

“It’s done now, right? Can’t hurt to reciprocate, I figure?”

He frowns.

“What do I do?” I ask, moving a hand to his hip and kissing his throat.

Just like that, his breathing changes and I know he’s done arguing. I trail my fingers over his shorts to the erection, curious to actually feel one. It’s hard, like muscle on someone lifting something heavy, and larger than I’d imagined. It’s not completely smooth, more like slight ridges at odd angles, and one big ridge the entire length, down the front. Huh. The things you don’t learn in sex ed, eh? There’s a softer part on the end, more sensitive I’m figuring, because he draws in a quick breath as I slide a couple of fingers around it, and his eyes lose focus. I stroke up and down a couple of times, kind of like what I’ve seen guys do to themselves in movies, and he stiffens and grimaces. I stop, worried I’ve caused him friction burn or something. But the grimace is gone, so I tentatively move my fingers again – and he pushes my hand away.

“God, that was -”

He seems lost for words, and just kisses me instead.

I think he liked it.

“Maisy?”

“Yeah, Mum?”

“What’s going on with you and Mark?”

I shrug.

“Don’t shrug at me, love – what’s going on between you?”

I sigh. Well, the sex talk had to happen eventually.

“Nothing much, Mum. We’re friends, OK?”

“Just friends?”

I shrug at her again.

“We tried kissing – it didn’t work so good. So yup, just friends, Mum.”

“Well, OK.”

She doesn’t look happy, but I haven’t given her much room to nag me about Mark – and that’s all I’m really worried about.

“So -”

Oh God, MORE talk?

“- is there anyone you are interested in?” she asks.

I shrug again.

“Words, love?”

“Mum! There’s no-one. It’s Bathurst, they’re all idiots.”

She laughs.

“Fine, I’ll stop torturing you,” she says.

“THANK YOU!”

****

“Mum finally started asking the questions,” I say.

“What’d you say?” Mark asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.

“That we’re just friends – we tried being more and it didn’t work.”

“She was happy with that?”

“Kinda – I think she’d prefer I didn’t touch a man til I’m 30 or something.”

“Hey, are we – more than friends?”

Huh. I shoulda seen this one coming.

“Does it matter?”

“I think so,” he says, looking serious, “I mean… if one of us is thinking one thing, and the other is thinking another, then… couldn’t someone get hurt?”

He’s making a lot of sense, but I’m antsy. I want this to be like our friendship has always been before – simple, just like jigsaw pieces fitting together. Right because we fit, not because of something we say or do.

“I – want to be friends,” I say in a rush. I know this is likely to hurt him, or hurt us, but I can’t think of any tactful way to get it out. “I love you, I love kissing you, but – I don’t want to do the playing at love thing, you know? I’d prefer to be friends, and be more, but leave the pressure out of it?”

He nods.

“And what if one of us falls in love? With the other, with someone else… what then?”

I sigh.

“Then… I guess we talk.”

He nods. Funny, he’s not looking at all cut up. Maybe that was exactly what he was wanting to hear. And now that I think that, I feel just a little bit sick. Geez, this shit is more complicated than it should be.

“So, fuck buddies for ever?” I say, jokingly.

He looks shocked, then catches the mischievous look on my face and laughs.

“Kid, you never stop surprising me!”

“If I do, call an ambulance.”

“Yeah, Mum?”

“I’m going out to Mrs Smith’s – can you do the vacuuming while I’m gone?”

“You pay me Aussie dollar?”

“You know, once upon a time you begged me to let you vacuum.”

“Uh huh – we’re all naïve sometime, Mum.”

“Usual amount.”

“Wicked.”

I toss the magazine I was reading on my desk, grab my mp3 player and headphones, and head for the spare room. Not like I had anything interesting to do anyhow.

Ten minutes later I’m dancing the vacuum around the lounge to Fat Boy Slim on loud. I’ve done the actual work and I swing the nozzle around for an extra flourish – and I see Mark standing in the hall looking very, very amused.

“Shades of a young Tom Cruise, I think,” he says when I tear the headphones off.

“Bastard! Who sneaks up on a gal when she’s cleaning?” I say, grinning.

“Hey, are you home all alone?”

I get where he’s going with this, and grin.

“She’s at a friend’s, she’ll be gone for a couple of hours more, I’d say…”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Help with the cleaning first – just the hall to do?”

He makes a face.

“Do I have to?”

“You could leave…”

“Damn.”

“Just move the stuff off the floor so I have a clear run at the carpet.”

He sighs and does what he’s told.

****

“You’re worth the cleaning.”

I snort.

“You’re such a romantic!” I say sarcastically.

He slides a finger lightly down my side, over my hip and down to my knee. Cripes, it feels like every single nerve on the path of that finger goes nuts. I’ve never had that sort of reaction to a guy before. OK, so the few experiences I have had were mostly idiots who didn’t realise that I wasn’t into it because I hadn’t kneed them in the crotch yet, but… still, wow. I tilt my face up to his and he takes the hint to kiss me again.

“Yup, much better when you don’t say anything,” I say, grinning at him.

He tickles me, which just leads to more kissing.

“Crap, Mum’s due home soon for dinner,” I say eventually.

“Damn.”

“Come on, let’s go and do something wholesome-looking.”

“Geordie?”

He’s lying on the couch, sobbing. Great. Did I forget to put the toilet seat down again?

(You’d think that wouldn’t be an issue with two men in the house, wouldn’t you? Well, there you go)

“Geordie, what’s wrong?” I try again, kneeling next to him.

He thrusts a piece of paper at me.

GEORDIE, DARLING, YOUR TIME’S UP. YOU KNOW WHY.

Er. This doesn’t look as though it could have any good interpretations.

“Geordie? Is this a threat of some sort?”

He lifts his head from the couch cushion and wails.

“Only the worst kind!” I make out.

“You mean – someone’s threatening to – kill you?”

Geordie nods and buries his head in the cushion again, sobbing.

Oh dear. Geordie’s melodramatic, but I don’t think he’d descend to sending himself death threats.

I finally get him calmed down enough to talk coherently.

“Darling,” I say carefully, “There’s one thing that’s confusing me a little – you don’t know who sent this, but you know it’s a death threat – does that mean you know what they’re talking about?”

His eyes slide away from my face, and he wrings his hands.

Well, bugger. This isn’t going to be fun, is it?

Ben, the youth group leader, stands at the front of the room and claps for attention.

“Right, people – our group’s been asked to lead worship next month…”

“What, like a morning service?” someone asks.

“Yup, the whole service – it’s a special ”Celebration of Youth’ week that the church is running. So -”

The room turns into a loud babble of questions, suggestions and general chatter.

“OI!”

Near-silence.

“First, how many musicians do we have? Put up your hands. Great! Now – come out the front, and write down your name, what you play, and what sort of proficiency… beginner, intermediate, advanced. K? Right… who can sing?”

Soon everyone has a job to do. I’m part of the bible-reading-choices committee, since I have zero interest in singing in front of people, don’t play an instrument, and didn’t feel like fighting over the song choices. Mark’s worship leader, because he’s the only one of us apart from Ben with experience in it.

“Worship leader, aren’t you the big cheese!” I tease as we break up.

He grins.

“Just call me Maestro!”

“Erk!”

He humphs, then grabs my hand.

“Come with me, kiddo.”

Hey, look at that. It’s only taken a fortnight, but he’s back to acting normal around me.

****

A few minutes later we’re at the beach on the river, and a couple of the girls take time out from their goss session to stare at Mark pulling me along the sand and into the trees.

“Where are we going?” I ask for the fiftieth time.

“Almost there!” he says, and pulls me between two thorny bushes.

“OW!”

Then we’re through, and in a spot I never knew existed. It’s completely surrounded by thick trees and tall bushes, as by the looks of it, no-one else knows about it either. No needles or used condoms, just some grass on enough flattish ground to lie down on. And a blanket, and a picnic basket.

“Hungry?” Mark says, grinning.

A picnic in a secluded spot? Maybe this boy isn’t as hopeless as I thought.

****

Dessert is a mammoth piece of cheesecake. Mark removes a sliver with his spoon and holds it out to me. I open my mouth and he slides the spoon in, grinning as my eyes widen. It’s lemon, my favourite cheesecake in the whole wide world. And that’s the end of the awkwardness I was expecting once the picnic was over, because when I’ve finished the mouthful I lean over and kiss him, like a peck but a lot longer, and we both know what we want to be doing next.

And God, no, that’s not a fade-into-black kinda moment, alright? We don’t lie down and start humping like bunnies or anything. Good little christians, remember? We just kiss, and keep kissing, and suddenly there are tongues and it’s feeling really, really good.

And next thing I know, Mark’s flinching and slapping himself, and there’s a high-pitched whining sound near my ear. Mozzies*. In droves. Well, there goes the romantic interlude.

* Mosquitoes

So, since you never got to know me before, let me give you a chance now. My real name’s John, but no-one’s called me that for years. Except Mum, but she – well, yes. Everyone knows me as Geordie. Why? No good reason, except that in a certain group in a pub in Melbourne, there were two Johns, so they called him Bruce and me Geordie – cos I come from Newcastle. New South Wales, not England, but who cares?

I know I flounce far too much. I pout, and I cry, and I’m so melodramatic that sometimes I make myself sick, darlings… Lazarus calls me a walking stereotype, and I call him a walking stiff, and he says, “Walking stiffy more like, honey!” and… well, let’s say no-one’s feelings get hurt, hmm?

Lazarus is my opposite, my soul mate, and the person who understands me best in the whole world. He knows that I flounce and flame because I like the security of the mask. He knows that I’m truly ditzy, and he helps me keep it together. And he loves me. God knows why.

But this isn’t about me. Well, it is, but it’s about a particular part of me and my life. Like, why someone wants to kill me.

Yes, someone wanting to kill little old me! Somehow I doubt everyone finds that quite as shocking as I do. Especially the person threatening me, I suppose?

So I got home the other night, and there was a letter. Doesn’t sound shocking, huh? But this was handwritten, handstamped, everything that my mother still complains doesn’t exist anymore, that no-one cares enough to write to anyone, especially to her. So it caught my attention, got me all excited, and then – CRASH.

GEORDIE, DARLING, YOUR TIME’S UP. YOU KNOW WHY.

I do? Someone has a lot more faith in my memory than I ever have.

OK. That’s not quite true. I have an awful feeling I know exactly what they’re talking about.

Nothing.

No “I think you’re kinda hot too”.

No “Get lost, I’m trying to angst”.

He lapses into silence, and stares at the sand for an hour. I leave, and get the briefest of waves and a slow “Bye”. Cripes, I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some kind of answer out of him. But I didn’t, I just left.

Now I’m sitting at home angsting about making an idiot out of myself – again. Geez, will I ever learn? Not only am I not appealing, he’s clearly not – really, really not – interested. Sheesh. He’s probably trying to work out what to do with the lovestruck piece of patheticness that’s me.

Meh. I have got to get out of the house and do something vaguely useful.

****

“MAISY! Dude! Where ya been?”

“Gav! School, exams, you know how it is, yeah?”

The vacant block next to the servo is filled with cars and people. But these aren’t just cars – these are beasts. Part performance machine, part artwork, they’re things of beauty, and I love them.

“Mazza!” a guy with dreads and tattooed arms waves from the centre of a clump of people. “Check out the new engine!”

I make my way over, stepping carefully in the stirred-up mud. Lochie is leaning on his Falcon 500. The hood is up, and the engine is huge and gleaming.

“That’s a Barra Turbo!” I say, “You been robbing banks again, mate?”

“Ain’t she gorgeous?” he says, grinning.

I stroke a hand over the heart of the beast, smiling. It’s gorgeous, alright. Damn, I can’t wait til I’m old enough to get a license and a job.

****

“Maisy?”

I’m at school and I’m hurrying to maths class. Mr Fitz gets ridiculously upset if anyone’s late. Detention and yelling and other unpleasant stuff. But there’s a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m late already, later?”

“I -”

“Hey,” I say, and turn around and give Mark a quick hug, “I’ve gotta go. But we’ll talk later, k?”

“K.”

I’m just late enough that Mr Fitz is about to close the door as I slide into the classroom and sit down at a desk. He glowers at me but doesn’t say a word. Phew – caught him on a good day, I guess.

An hour and a half of dead-boring algebra later, it’s lunchtime and I’m detention-free. I head straight for the caf, buy a salad sandwich and a coke, and head for Mark’s and my lunch spot.

“Hey, you!” I say.

Mark’s looking depressed, which is kinda his default look at the moment.

“Hey,” he says. His shoulders are slumped and he doesn’t look up.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, wondering if he’s finally going to get around to talking about ‘the confession’. Or whether he’s going to pretend it never happened.

“I – ummm…”

I sigh and bite my tongue.

“I think you’re a bit of alright too,” he says in a rush.

That was what was so difficult to say?

“Thanks,” I say, slightly confused at the continued depressed look.

Silence.

“So…” I say.

“Huh?”

“So does that mean anything for us two, or do we just go on ignoring it?”

He shrugs, and looks back at the ground. Oh, fer crying out loud. This is getting pathetic.

“Anyone’d think I’d turned into Lisa or something,” I say, letting some of the irritation I’m feeling creep into my voice.

He looks up and smiles.

“I just – don’t know what to do now,” he says, spreading his hands and looking helpless.

“You could try kissing me sometime,” I say.

“What, here?” he says, looking scandalised.

I laugh. Geez, boys – they’re worse than girls.

“I’m sure you can think of something,” I say.

Then I grab my lunch, lie down on the grass and start eating. Relationship angst can wait till another day, when I’m not starving. By the end of lunch, he’s still moody and quiet, but I can’t be bothered. I blow him a kiss and head to history.

****

“You’re mad at me,” his text message says.

“Not mad, irritated,” I type back.

“Oh, that’s OK then.”

Idiot.

I don’t really miss having a dad, you know? Although sometimes I’d love to what he was like, what he did in his spare time – because maybe it’d help me understand me. But then I look around me at all the confused, clueless kids, and I figure maybe it wouldn’t help a whole lot.

It’s just – Mum and I are different, right? Different personalities, different reactions to the same things. I don’t really get her. And sometimes it’d be nice to be able to say, “Oh, I’m like Dad in that” instead of “I don’t know why I do that.”

Enough of the pity party. I’ve been upset because church is just giving me the willies lately. Like I told Mark, this all seemed to make sense once. Now I see stupid things everywhere, and I don’t get it. Is it me, is it the church, or is it the religion? Or is someone just really crap at explaining this stuff?

Sex is the thing that opened the floodgates of what-the-hell?. The church is huge on being ‘good’ when it comes to sex. None outside marriage. None with same-sex partners. Not that we hear many sermons about it, except at youth group. But this guy got kicked out a couple of months ago for sleeping with someone else’s wife, and they got caught (obviously). So sex is clearly an important priority for the church, right? Except if you actually read the bible, Jesus never really mentioned sex, he talked about love for each other and sticking to your word and not being judgmental. And hello – when’s the last time YOU saw someone get kicked out of church for breaking promises or being an unloving git? Hell, those sort often seem to become elders.

I don’t see why it’s all such a big deal. Why does everyone get so heated up about an orgasm now and then? I don’t want to talk to Mum about it anymore. She doesn’t understand, and she seems to think I’m just looking for a justification to sleep around. Why does this all have to be so hard?

****

Mark and I walk down toward the beach, hand in hand. He’s quieter than usual, so I let him be, figuring silence is easier for him than trying to be sociable. When we get near the water, he throws himself down onto the sand and sighs heavily.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

“I went on a date last week,” he says.

Umm. This isn’t sounding end-of-the-worldish.

“Who with?”

“Lisa,” he says, and sighs again.

So much for the ‘oh no’ factor, I think. Interesting that he didn’t tell me about it til now. Meh – we’re not that much in each others’ pockets.

“It didn’t go well?” is all I say.

“Bored me to tears and pissed me off… then told me I was a shite date and she only said yes out of pity.”

I snort, amused despite his angst.

“Dude, she’s been after you for weeks, that was not a pity date!”

He shrugs.

“I’m short, I’m weird… what hope do I really have?” he asks, looking up.

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

Right. Sure, he’s not Mr Popular, but if I had as many boys drooling over me as he has girls, I wouldn’t exactly be angsting about how ugly I was.

“You know,” I say slowly, “I happen to think you’re a bit of alright…”

Mark frowns slightly and stares at me.

I sigh. Well, I’d meant to mention it eventually. If I’m going to screw up the friendship, it might as well be when he needs to feel better about himself, right?

“You look nice, you’re the person I like best out of everyone I’ve ever met, and you smell good. I like you. I wouldn’t mind kissing you in the slightest…”

He’s silent. Well, that’s a bad sign.

“Don’t you like being friends?” he asks, looking utterly confused.

“Why would that stop us being friends?” I ask.

“I don’t know, it just – it does, doesn’t it?”

I shake my head.

“I might hate you for a while, but I can’t imagine ever not being your friend.” I say quietly.

“YOU!” he yelled.

I sighed. This was going to be one of those writing days.

“You – arsehole!” he yelled at me.

“Hi, Les,” I said, trying to act as though I hadn’t heard the abuse.

“Don’t patronise me, you towering, festering heap of dogshit!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have given him such a way with words.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Did I mention that the right side of his face is a weeping old burn that’s never quite healed, he’s lost his right foot, and his right hand is more claw than useful extremity? No? Huh. I stay silent, appalled by the stink that comes through with him.

“WHY?” he yells, pleading.

I shrug uncomfortably.

“It’s all part of the story – it’s necessary, Les.”

“Bullshit! I had to get blown up for – what? Huh? For entertainment?”

“The story’s important. It has to – draw the reader in, keep them guessing.”

“And blowing me up was an example of keeping things interesting?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And killing Lucy?”

“She had to die, mate.”

“I’m not your fucking mate!”

Ye gads. Is this how God feels every time someone prays?

“Look… if she stayed alive, she would’ve become boring, unreal, the Reader would’ve hated her – and so would you.”

“BULLSHIT!”

“It’s all part of the story, Les, trust me – it turns out good in the end. You’ll like it!”

“I’ve lost everything I ever cared about – lost my girlfriend and my job – you made me a cripple – and it’s going to be ‘good’ in the end?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck you. And fuck your bloody Reader. Bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians! You’re just – playing with us, aren’t you? We’re just some entertainment for your tiny fucking brains, aren’t we?”

I definitely shouldn’t have made him so talkative. And what’s with the overuse of the F-word?

“Look, Les,” I say, reaching for him, “I’m sorry, OK? I know it all really sucks, right now. I cried when I wrote that scene where Lucy died. I wish it could have been different. I’m sorry you had to lose her, and your livelihood. I understand your anger. But – it had to be this way. The story wouldn’t come out any other way.”

“YOU – you could have made it come out different! You’re the AUTHOR, you have that power, you know you do, don’t blow me off with lame -”

“I don’t. Some things just have to be, Les. I’m sorry. I really am. But you’ve got two choices here – take the crap that happens and build something out of it, or don’t exist. Because I can’t tell a story about a place where nothing bad ever happens. It’d be boring as batshit and nobody would ever read it, and you still wouldn’t exist, not really. You’d have a – shut up! – a kind of twilight existence, right, where you kind of exist but mostly don’t. If you want to truly exist, you need to be read, to be loved, to have people holding their breath as you teeter and crying with you as you fall. THAT’S the magic that makes you truly alive.”

He slumps, out of arguments but not ready to accept reality, either.

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh… I know.”

He climbs, laboriously, back into his life – and cries.

The Sunday after my embarrassing encounter, I’m sitting in church and trying desperately not to yawn through the sermon. Then I catch sight of something that fixes the yawns right up. Over the other side of the church, in the very front pew, is Mark. Mr Let-Me-Pretend-I’m-Manly. Paying attention, and NOT yawning. My stranger with a sense of humour is stalking me?

After church, Mrs Catrick pulls him straight over to me and starts to introduce us.

“Don’t worry, Auntie, we’ve already met.” he says, and holds out a hand. I take it uncertainly and shake.

“Oh, lovely!” she says, smiling – not picking up a hint of awkwardness, “at school, dears?”

“No, on the street!” Mark says, grinning at me, “a man tried to steal her bag and she -”

I cough and raise my eyebrows, hoping to God he’ll take a hint.

“ – asked him so nicely to leave her alone that he ran away!” he finishes, smirking at me.

I can’t help it. I laugh, and Mrs Catrick looks bemused but happy to see us getting along.

I grab us a few bikkies and slices from the morning tea spread, and we sit down on the steps of the church, a bit away from the adults.

“So…” I ask, trying to make sense of him turning up here and now, “Mrs Catrick’s your aunt?”

He nods.

“And you’re living with her because…?”

“My mum and dad are divorcing, and ducking flying crockery made studying hard.”

I sober. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be – they’re both arseholes. I’m happy to get out of there.”

I put a hand on his arm.

“So – Mrs Catrick thrown anything yet?”

He snorts.

“Give her time – I’m still on good behaviour, remember?”

“Wow – when do we see the real Mark?”

He shrugs.

“So,” I ask, “why didn’t you out me to Mrs Catrick? Burst of altruism?”

“Pure self-interest,” he says, “Aunt Rosie would never let me associate with such an unfeminine girlie if she knew!”

I sigh.

“I am a bad influence,” I say seriously, “I’m not sure I’m such a good person for you to be hanging with, you know.”

He laughs.

“Girl,” he says, “at my last church, I found out that half of my goody-goody mates were really on speed and pot and other stuff… all behind their parents’ backs. And most of them were having sex with boyfriends and girlfriends their parents didn’t even know about. So come on, tell me all the horrible things you’re into!”

I goggle at him.

“Drugs? Fuck! I mean – oh crap, see what I mean?”

We look at each other and laugh wryly.

“So,” he asks, raising an eyebrow, “where’s the happening joint?”

“What, for drugs and sex, or just hanging out?”

“Wow, you are a forward young lady! Aunt Rose’d have a coronary!”

I smirk.

“Well, there’s the beach…” I say, grinning slyly at him.

He frowns.

“I’m 400 k inland, and there’s a beach? Geez, and I thought the drug scene was intense in Sydney!”

“Come on, city boy.”

I take him down to the river beach. It’s autumn now, so the only people there have fishing rods and focus.

“I know it’s lame,” I say, “But… it’s my favourite spot. I come down here and watch the birds, and… chill, you know?”

“I like it!” he says, and lies down on the grass. “I need a straw hat, and I’ll feel just like Huckleberry Finn!”

God help us. Huck Finn?