Iris is slimmer than I am and her breasts are smaller. Her bra and knickers don’t coordinate—rainbow-striped shorts and lacy pastel blue bra. I’m committing to memory the sight of the curve of her waist and the bumps of her spine along the brown expanse of her back. She is so perfect I get an ache in my chest.

She is up to her waist in the water when she turns back towards me, half-wincing, half-grinning with the cold. ‘Don’t be a wuss!’

I pull my T-shirt over my head and wriggle out of my jeans, suddenly self-conscious, then wade into the water as quickly as possible so she doesn’t get an opportunity to see my general pudginess (or my less-than-terrific beige knickers/beige bra combo, the most practical and the most unsexy and grandmotherly underwear possible). It doesn’t bother me, usually, but being in the presence of someone so lovely makes me feel like a manatee.

In some respects, being pudgier is better, like if there’s a zombie apocalypse and I have to hide out somewhere, I can survive off my fat stores way longer than a skinny person would be able to; on the other hand, I cannot run particularly far or fast, so a zombie is probably going to chow down on me sooner rather than later. At least my proportionately larger body will distract the zombies long enough so Mum and Grandad and Nathan and Stanley have a chance to get away. Do zombies eat goats? It’s best not to think about these things.

Iris is looking over at me from deeper water, expectant. ‘What are you thinking about?’ She’s undone her plaits and her hair fans out in the water. She looks like a freshwater mermaid.

‘Zombies,’ I say, before I can stop myself. She grins.

I walk to where the river is deeper and dunk my head beneath the surface, to hide my blushing and slick my hair back, since it’s gone ballistic with the humidity. Sometimes the water is so clear you can see the bottom, but it’s a little bit murky today, it’s still clean and cool.

When I resurface, she is closer than I expected. I push my hair back from my face.

‘There’s not really an amateur youth theatre troupe, is there?’ she says.

‘Don’t tell Clancy,’ I say. ‘But no. There is now, though. He’s committed to this musical. He’s got all these ridiculous money-raising schemes to hire the pub so we can put it on. Don’t go along with it if you don’t want to, but it should be fun.’

She nods. ‘No one’s ever created a theatre group to impress me.’

I imagine that a lot of boys have said and done a lot of things to impress Iris.

‘How old are you?’ I ask, before I can stop myself.

She smiles. I am beginning to think she smiles more than anyone I have ever met. ‘Almost eighteen. How old are you?’

‘Seventeen. I wouldn’t say I was almost eighteen until I was seventeen and a half, which I won’t be until next month. So I’ll say I’m almost seventeen and a half.’

The smile reaches her eyes. ‘I’m really only just seventeen and five-eighths, if we’re being exact. I might be wrong. I’m not that strong on fractions. I said I was almost eighteen because I thought you were older.’ This makes my stomach flutter. I look like an oversized five-year-old. Or at least I feel like one.

‘Have you finished school?’ I ask.

She looks away. ‘I’ve finished with school. I dropped out near the end of last year. So technically I’m only educated to Year Ten, even though I did most of Year Eleven.’

I sense I shouldn’t ask why. ‘I only went to Year Ten, too. They teach you all the good stuff in Prep, anyway. Alphabet and numbers and colouring inside the lines. The rest is fluff.’

She smiles again. That’s good.

I can hear my phone singing out from the pocket of my jeans.

I panic because it might be Grandad, something gone horribly wrong. Or Mr Pool, because I’m skipping work, which is wildly out of character for me—perhaps he thinks I’ve been kidnapped. Or Mum, beset by a goat emergency and desperate for my help. Not that that’s ever happened, but it is always a possibility.

By the time I’m out of the water, my phone has stopped ringing. Missed call. Clancy. Probably not urgent. But I’ll forget if I leave it till later, so I call him.

‘Kirbs, where are you?’

What do I say? ‘With Iris. In the river. Swimming,’ I say, like it’s a guess I’m making in Cluedo: Professor Plum, in the library, with the rope.

‘With Iris?’ Clancy echoes. ‘Swimming. In the river.’ Like he’s Yoda or something. Like it’ll make more sense if he rearranges the words. ‘Why was I not invited?’

He sounds a little bit like a petulant child.

Iris is treading water, arms lazily pushing back and forth. Who is it? she mouths.

‘We just ran into each other at the bakery,’ I say to Clancy. ‘I assumed you’d be studying.’

I can imagine he is frowning, and maybe imagining I can hear it in his voice. I can tell he’s upset at not being included. I don’t know whether I should feel bad or not; I don’t, not really.

‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘see if she wants to come over to my house. I do take breaks from studying occasionally. We can plan this musical, the three of us.’

There is something wonderful about the unique pleasure of walking in the sunshine after a swim on a warm day. Even though I’m sure I look a mess, I feel lovely, like my skin is glimmering from being in the river, like there’s this layer between me and the world. I am untouchable.

Iris winds her hair up into a bun, which is better, because when it’s out I can’t stop thinking about touching it. From her enormous bag she produces an enormous sun hat and a folding bamboo fan. When she catches me watching her, she grins so hard dimples form in her cheeks. She is a curious combination of glamorous and childlike.

‘So, tell me about your childhood,’ she says, in a Transylvanian accent.

‘I’m sorry?’

She laughs. ‘Sorry. I was pretending to be Freud. Father of psychology. Austrian. There’s no mother of psychology, which seems strange.’ She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t made a new friend in so long I don’t know where to start. So I resorted to a dodgy impression. You probably think I’m weird.’ She says it through a smile so I don’t know whether she’s serious or not. I certainly don’t think she’s weird. I think she’s wonderful. I can’t quite summon the guts to say this aloud.

‘Do you actually want to hear about my childhood?’ I ask. ‘It’s incredibly unexciting.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s only unexciting to you because you lived it. It’s unfamiliar to me, so it’s interesting.’

‘Right. I went to the school at the top of the hill. The one you can see when you look up Main Street. It’s small enough that there were only really two classes. It was pretty great. I live with my mum and my grandad and now my cousin Nathan. We have goats and manufacture soaps with the milk and then ship them to Sydney where they get sold in health food shops at a ridiculous mark-up.’

‘Could you say he raised the baa for goat’s milk soap?’ asks Iris.

I laugh. ‘You could.’

‘Do you like goats?’

I consider. ‘Generally. I like some better than others. My pet goat, Stanley, has the biggest and best personality. I think he can understand human speech. I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent. What about your family? How’d you end up here?’

‘I love a tangent,’ she says. ‘Well, my parents are both accountants, got sick of it, wanted to get out of the city. Dad loves to cook, always wanted his own restaurant. Mum likes talking to people and organising things, so front of house suits her. They came through here on a road trip years ago and decided to come back.’ She doesn’t say anything about her childhood, or where they lived before. I decide not to push it.

‘Do you like it here?’ I ask.

She smiles at me again. No one smiling at me has ever made me forget to breathe. I am unaccustomed to the thrill of it, of being smiled at by someone so beautiful. I feel like I’m a Jane Austen character, swooning like the silly girl in Northanger Abbey who is obsessed with novels.

‘Yes,’ she says.

Clancy seems annoyed when we get to his house. ‘We’ll convene the amateur youth theatre troupe meeting in the living area. Just through here, Iris. Kirby, please help me prepare refreshments.’

I am railroaded into the kitchen. I catch my reflection in the window and immediately wish I hadn’t. I’d felt amazing on the walk back, like a shimmering water goddess, after swimming with Iris and the sheer pleasure of having her attention focused on me. In reality I look more like a drowned rat.

‘You didn’t even ask her what she wanted,’ I say, as I’m getting tea, coffee and Milo out of the cupboard. Clancy’s house is like my second home. I yell, ‘Tea, coffee or Milo, Iris?’

‘Milo would be nice,’ she calls. ‘I can help.’

‘It’s fine!’ yells Clancy. ‘Stay there!’

‘Hot or cold?’ I yell.

Clancy hisses at me. ‘What happened?’

‘Cold,’ she yells back. ‘Thank you!’

‘What?’ I ask Clancy, as I load up three glasses with more Milo than milk.

‘You guys are suddenly buddies,’ he whispers. ‘Without me. It’s three musketeers, Kirby. Not two musketeers and an awkward third wheel.’

‘You haven’t missed anything.’ I sort of feel like he has missed everything, like Iris and I are now friends, and not just because we’re the same age in a small town. But maybe that’s all in my head.

He bites his lip, watching me. ‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asks.

‘That you’re an interesting character.’

He brightens. ‘That’s good, right? That means she wants to get to know me. I’m intriguing. I’ve got depth. Layers.’

‘A man of mystery,’ I add.

‘Exactly!’ he says. ‘You can’t tell her I like her. We have to get to know each other first. The timing must be right. There needs to be unresolved sexual tension and whatnot.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ Have I already said too much?

He disappears down the hallway. I take the drinks to the living room, where Iris is sitting on the edge of the couch, looking around. Given how rarely we meet new people, I forget what it’s like for a place to be unfamiliar. I hand her the Milo.

‘Thank you.’ She smiles at me again. I want to bottle that. I mean actually find a way that allows me to preserve it. A photograph wouldn’t be enough.

Clancy returns, carrying a huge plastic tub of props, which he places in the middle of the room with as much flourish as is possible when setting down a huge plastic tub.

He produces a script for each of us, different sections highlighted. ‘I’ve already done the casting.’ He doesn’t even bother to smile at me, all of his attention focused on Iris.

‘I thought I was painting sets?’ says Iris, sipping her Milo.

‘Look,’ says Clancy, and I can tell he’s practised this, but I’m not sure Iris can. ‘There’s only the three of us, and we can’t fit a complicated set in the pub. The actors are what make a piece come alive, not the sets. Why don’t we do a read-through, and take it from there?’

‘He’s got a directorial vision,’ I say, only a little bit sarcastic. Iris suppresses a laugh. He looks daggers at me. I give him an apologetic look. I actually don’t mean to undermine his authority, as much as I would like to make Iris laugh, despite the fact that I am not particularly funny.

‘Let’s do a read-through,’ she agrees.

It is a truly ridiculous play, about a nerdy guy who acquires a plant from outer space and ends up murdering people to feed it. It’s a demanding plant. I guess it’s about an alien invasion. Clancy sings all his parts. We laugh, a lot. Iris laughs at (with?) Clancy much more than she does at me, but that’s okay. Just hearing her laugh is enough. She sings magnificently, once Clancy convinces her to. When his dad comes by on his way out to the restaurant, he claps and bravos and we bow and curtsey. It’s hysterical. I can’t imagine putting it on at the pub, but Clancy is convinced it’s going to happen, especially now Iris has agreed to take a role.

‘I better head home,’ says Iris. ‘My parents need me to help with the evening shift. They’re hoping people will start showing up.’

Clancy sighs dramatically. Clancy does everything dramatically. ‘We still need to raise three hundred dollars to hire out the pub.’ He says this like we’re going to have to dig up skeletons and sell them to medical schools, or go on a cross-country crime spree in order to find that amount of money.

Iris is nonplussed. ‘A hundred each? I’ll busk.’

He seems disappointed. ‘I thought we might get up to some hijinks to acquire the cash. Don’t mind me. Finding the money through legal means is perfectly acceptable.’

‘Speaking of hijinks,’ I say. ‘I forgot to mention that Judy reckons you’re responsible for the crop circles, Clance.’

‘It does seem like something I would do,’ he concedes. ‘But between schoolwork, work work and this play, of which I am both star and director… Plenty of people believe it’s actual aliens.’

‘Just thought I’d let you know. We’re going to have to put on auditions, too. Apparently there’s interest. Judy hinted.’

Clancy delivers another dramatic sigh. ‘If we must.’

Mrs Hunter grudgingly allows auditions to be held in the beer garden of the pub as long as we buy a jug of lemon squash for every half hour we’re there. I also purchase some chips, not because I want to compensate Mrs Hunter, but because I like chips. Clancy sits between Iris and me, and they converse at length about the musicals Iris has seen live in Sydney and the recordings Clancy has watched online, as well as his plans for his theatrical career. I eat my chips and try not to feel jealous while I wait for someone to arrive for an audition.

The turnout is not amazing.

Mr Worthington, having imbibed several alcoholic beverages, wanders through on his way to the toilet, and, on his return trip, treats us to an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Danny Boy’. Clancy decides he is perfect for the role of the florist, who is an unpleasant elderly gentleman. Mr Worthington, taking this to be an indictment of his own character, abuses Clancy and returns to his drinking. Fortunately, Mr Jameson walks through, also inebriated, and sings us ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Clancy casts him as the florist instead.

Judy auditions with a tap routine. She fancies herself as a triple threat, singer-dancer-actor, but we have no major characters left. Clancy gives her as many minor characters as she can play without having scenes where she speaks to herself. She regards this as unacceptable, so Clancy makes her assistant director and chief choreographer, as well.

Nick visits to offer technical assistance with the play. We can’t convince him to sing. He says he’ll do AV instead. In the pub, this will pretty much involve turning the light at the end of the bar on and off. But we do need someone to flick the switch.

Mrs Kingston comes down to the pub because she heard Clancy needed a wig, and she has quite a selection. We coerce her into being a back-up singer-dancer and cast her as the remaining minor character, because we now need someone to appear in scenes with Judy and it doesn’t look as if anyone else will show up. She agrees. We call it a day. Mrs Hunter shakes her head at us as we leave, and Clancy holds up his piece of paper with the four names on it, and shouts, ‘It’s a real play! It’s got adults in it! I am igniting the amateur theatre scene of Alberton! This will be a cultural mecca!’

It is not the first time I am embarrassed to be seen with him.

Clancy enjoys his power. He schedules rehearsals at least three times a week. I have two songs, and appear in a total of only three scenes, for which I am grateful. Clancy and Iris are entertaining: Clancy is the better dancer, but Iris is the better singer. In the musical, the two of them fall in love, though Clancy has cast himself as the ditzy blonde girl and Iris as the awkward nerdy boy. It even works, though he looks absurd in the wig Mrs Kingston lends him. Mrs Kingston knits in the breaks. And while performing. I’m certain she will knit during the actual play.

It’s easy to picture Clancy and Iris as a couple, singing their duets. I’m sure Clancy thinks so, too. It’s harder to get a read on what Iris is thinking. When we’re talking in the breaks, Clancy makes references to random details from musicals, and Iris laughs. I don’t understand half of them, and being on the outside of in-jokes isn’t something I’m used to. I talk to Iris, too, but I second-guess everything I say, convinced she will think I’m a fool.

Stanley and I practise my netball skills while they rehearse. I have not played netball since primary school. Judy brings leftover pastries from the bakery, which I very much enjoy.

I have to keep stopping Stanley from attempting to chew through the extension cord of the speakers; none of us has the cash—or inclination—to invest in a portable set, which would be far less of a Stanley-hazard.

When she’s not around, I think about Iris a lot. More than is strictly healthy. When I’m lying in bed I imagine her next to me, talking into the darkness. I make jokes and she laughs and tells me how beautiful I am and holds me and brushes my hair back from my face and kisses me tenderly.

I’ve been kissed before but not by someone I like and who likes me, and that’s important, I think—the liking. When I was thirteen, Aiden Kingston kissed me, lips pursed, on a dare. I understood, then, why they call it a peck; it was distinctly like being assaulted by a chicken. When I was fifteen, Rowan Jameson practically licked my face after footy one Saturday. I got mud all over my shirt because he held me in place so I couldn’t duck away. I don’t exactly have a grand history of romance. Being fancied would be even nicer than being kissed.

I realise how me-centric my fantasies are. If in some alternate reality Iris and I were a couple, I would not be so self-centred. I rationalise that it’s okay for my fantasies to be about me because I’m the only one who knows about them; I’m sure Iris wouldn’t mind if the fictional relationship we have in my head is one-sided.