I’m in English the next day, and I’ve completely forgotten to do the homework. Mrs Thomas is looking far too imposing for a person who’s decked out in saffron scarves and dangly amethyst earrings.

‘Pray tell, what was so dreadfully important that you forgot to do your work yesterday?’

What can I say? That I was too busy shouting comebacks at my schoolbag, and talking to a dead boy who haunts an old phone box? I don’t reply, and she closes her eyes like she has a migraine.

‘Acting stupid doesn’t make you cool, Kirra. It makes you stupid. You know that, don’t you?’

Cassie and Lou laugh loudly, but one sharp look from Mrs Thomas silences them.

‘Can you enlighten me as to what’s so thoroughly hilarious, girls?’

They stay silent and examine their fingernails. Tara, hoping to win some brownie points from the others, pipes up. ‘The idea that Kirra is cool, miss. Obviously.’

Cassie and Lou suppress smiles while the rest of the class erupts into snickers, until Mrs Thomas whacks her ruler against the desk. The look she gives Tara makes it clear that were it not for our generation’s liberal school-discipline policies she would take Tara’s ear and twist it tightly between her thumb and her forefinger. Unfortunately, she restrains herself, but her voice is still sharp.

‘I hardly think that someone who wears make-up as badly as you do is the arbiter of cool, Tara Smith.’

This sets the class off twice as hard as before, but this time, Mrs Thomas doesn’t call for quiet, and it’s a few minutes before everyone settles down again. Even Cassie, Sasha and Lou are laughing at her, and if looks could kill, both Mrs Thomas and I would have rigor mortis setting in by now.

‘Tara, I have far better things to do with my time than to watch you roll your eyes in detention, so as punishment will you so kindly get up . . .’

Tara stands with a smirk on her face.

‘Now go to the bathroom and wash that muck from your face.’

Tara gapes at her in sheer horror. Mrs Thomas merely taps her long red nails on her desk.

‘What part of now don’t you understand, Miss Smith?’

With a sob, Tara slams her chair back and races to the door. The teacher shuffles her papers.

‘And Kirra, you’ll stay behind after class. Now students, turn to page thirty-three.’

After class I stay seated as everyone shuffles towards the exit. Tara’s glaring at me as she files past, her face is blotchy from crying, and a few pimples peer out from her forehead – they look surprised at being allowed to finally see daylight. Willow lingers by my desk and drops a note in my hand before she makes her way out. My heart drops. Is Willow going to start on me too? The only notes I’ve ever received in my life have been step-by-step outlines on how I was embarrassing everyone. By everyone, I mean Cassie and the others. I slip the note into my pocket and look up to Mrs Thomas, who’s holding a sheet of paper in her hand. I open my mouth to talk, but she silences me with a gesture.

‘Let’s save us both the indignity of you lying to me, all right? I don’t care about excuses.’

I nod. She hands me the piece of paper – it’s for a Youth Issues conference at the town hall next week. I stare at her blankly.

‘To make up for having a dog eat your homework, or whatever happened, I’d like you to be our school’s representative for this. All the local politicians will be there, and you can bring parents along to watch, if you like.’

If nothing else, Mrs Thomas has a knack for cruel and unusual punishments.

‘. . . I have to give a speech?’

She nods.

‘In public?’

‘Yes, that’s generally what happens with speeches, Kirra.’

I just imagine the grief I’m going to get from everyone when they hear about this. I am never going to live this down.

‘Why me? Why don’t you choose a debater or someone from the smart group?’

I’m gripping the desk now, desperate. She meets my gaze.

‘Because despite your penchant for being mute, I have a feeling you’ve got the most to say.’

Just before she exits in a flutter of scarves and flowing skirts, I call out to her.

‘If you tell anyone about this, I won’t do it. I don’t want this in the school newsletter, or at assembly. I mean it.’

She turns, her gaze firm behind her bright-red glasses. ‘All right, we won’t mention it,’ and then her features soften, ‘but I do hope that one day you’ll realise you’re worthy of praise. I really do.’

With that, she leaves. I stare at the space where she was, and I think of how sometimes I hate her so much for making me work harder than anyone else, and for always picking on me, and for making me do this stupid speech, but then at the same time I respect her more than anyone else I know. I sigh, and look down at the note I’ve taken from my pocket, bracing myself for a barrage of insults. I open it. This is what it says:

Hey doll,

I can be a real brat sometimes, hey? Can you please let me explain at lunchtime?

Also, I wanted to list three things about you, which I know to be true.

1. You are the cleverest cat that ever was. Don’t miser the smarts.

2. Your eyes are amazing. If I could wrestle them from your face and stick them in my head, I would. I’m insanely envi- ous of them, which is a problem, because envy is green, and alas, green is a hideous colour on me.

3. You’ve got such a big heart, I’m not sure how it fits in such a small person. It doesn’t seem physically possible. Your chest cavity must be like a Mary Poppins bag. Truce?

Your bratty friend,

Willow

PS Tara is a jerk!

I read and re-read the letter. In my fourteen years of existence I’ve never had a girl write nice things about me. I want to cry, and I think of that night with my mother at the school social, and how nice she and Noah were, and how kindness punches you in the heart more than meanness ever can. It’s the most powerful weapon there is, and I wonder why people don’t use it more often. She likes my eyes? My big, scary, alien eyes? Cassie and everyone have teased me about them ever since primary school – how could anyone ever want to own them? I don’t know what to think, but that strange feeling washes over me again, that odd one that feels like friendship.

When I get to our spot, Willow breaks her Chiko Roll in half and hands one half to me.

‘Truce?’

I take it. ‘Truce.’

We munch in a comfortable silence for a bit, then Willow starts. ‘I wasn’t stealing, not properly, I mean, I always return them.’

‘So you’re a repeat offender then?’

She cracks a smile.

‘Guilty as charged. Lock me up and throw away the key, officer.’

I throw a clover at her.

‘Why don’t you just get a library card, you muppet?’

A flash of sadness flickers across Willow’s face, but she chases it away almost as quickly as it arrives, and she plasters a nonchalant, half smile in the spot where the sadness was.

‘You need a driver’s licence or something official like that with your address on it to get a library card, and alas I don’t have a fake ID, to the disappointment of all the nightclubs in town.’

‘I don’t want to sound like Captain Obvious, but get your parents to sign you up, like everyone else.’

Lark had signed me up for the library when I was six and he realised that books could be used as a cheap babysitter. Willow sighs loudly and lies down on the grass.

‘Uh huh. So you know that time at the social when I told you your family was as mad as mine?’

I nod. She continues.

‘I lied. Mine is far, far madder.’

I think of Lark, and Desiree, and Mum.

‘That’s physically impossible, like licking your elbow, or sneezing with your eyes open. My family have the patent on stark raving bonkers.’

Willow doesn’t even throw me a sardonic smile, and instead rips at the grass either side of her. After a few deep breaths she replies.

‘So when I was eight years old, my favourite movie ever was The Princess Bride.’

‘Me too.’

She ignores me and continues. ‘So this one day, Mum had rented a copy from the video store, and she put it on for me and my little brother. She made us bowls of ice-cream with sprinkles and chocolate sauce, and told us that she was just popping out to get us a surprise. The surprise was, she never came home. Mum had just had enough, I guess, and that’s the last we heard from her. Apparently she’s living in Adelaide now.’

I don’t know what to say. As much as it upsets me that Lark and my mother have egg fights at the grocery store, I don’t know what I’d do if he actually left town.

‘I’m sorry,’ I finally whisper.

She arches an eyebrow at me.

‘Tell me about it, it completely ruined The Princess Bride for me. Anyway, Dad’s been to rehab too many times to count. I had to call the ambulance for him when I was ten and he overdosed. So no, signing me up at the library isn’t up there in his top priorities.’

‘What sort of stuff does he do?’

‘All of the above. Mostly alcohol, though – he just dabbled with the rest. It’s such an innocent word for it, isn’t it? Dabbled.’

We’re silent again while her words sink into me. Her face is set in the most serious expression I’ve ever seen it in. I roll over, wearing my own serious expression.

‘Okay. Fine.’

She stares at me blankly.

‘Your family wins, then. Fine.’

She looks like lots of emotions are battling inside of her, but then a huge laugh erupts from her throat, one that startles a nearby duck, and that sets me off too. We laugh until our stomachs are sore, because what else can you do? It’s either that or cry.