Fred and I were sitting underneath the cider gum.

It was lunchtime. I was eating a cheese and salad sandwich, on soy-and-linseed bread. Fred was eating cucumber sandwiches from his wicker picnic basket. He had a teapot of Earl Grey brewing. I was trying to think of a way to politely ask for a cup. It smelled so good.

I was still staring at the teapot when Fred took my hand. ‘Clementine, I was wondering if I might ask you . . .’ He trailed off and looked down at my fingers, intertwined in his. ‘I’m sorry, Clementine. I should have asked your permission before I did that.’

My heart flapped its wings and took flight.

‘It’s fine,’ I said softly. ‘It’s nice.’ I knew I was blushing. I didn’t care.

Fred smiled. His dimples made little indents in his cheeks and I wanted to stick my finger into one of them.

Is that peculiar?

I cleared my throat to cover my embarrassment. ‘So, what were you going to ask me?’

Fred’s forehead creased. He looked very serious all of a sudden. ‘Well, I was going to ask you to accompany me . . . somewhere. But I think I may have changed my mind.’

My heart sank. ‘Well, okay. I mean, that’s all right. Don’t feel you have to—’

‘Oh, it’s not that! Not at all! I certainly wish to ask you. But, Clementine, I have to warn you, this place, it’s . . . Well, some people – your friends – might think . . . What I’m trying to say is that you might not think it’s very cool.’

I stared at Fred. What was he on about? ‘Fred, I’m not cool. My friends are, but I’m not. And I don’t want to be. I want to be a flying fish!’

Fred laughed. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘So, Miss Fish, shall I tell you about the BSS?’

‘BSS?’

‘Burnie Steampunk Society.’

‘Burnie . . . what now?’

‘Burnie Steam . . . You read the book I gave you, right?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. And I know now there’s a steampunk movement . . .’ I noticed the impressed look on Fred’s face and felt self-conscious. ‘Um, but there’s seriously a society for it? Here? In Burnie?’

Fred nodded. ‘Indeed!’

‘Well . . . jeepers!’ Now I was impressed. I know Burnie is changing. I know there’s all sorts of stuff that wasn’t here in my parents’ day, like the Makers’ Workshop, and the big creepy octopus thing down at the beach, but a Steampunk society, here in Burnie?

Surprising. And intriguing.

‘So what do you do, exactly? In your steampunk society?’ I asked.

‘Well, fundamentally,’ Fred said, ‘we are a conglomerate of people who really appreciate steampunk fiction, and the Victorian era aesthetic, and we come together on a weekly basis to talk about what novel we’re reading, or any interesting developments in steampunk generally. Then, every month, we hold a Victoriana ball, where we dress up in Victorian clothes and eat Victorian-era foods, and play cricket and croquet. It would be wonderful if you’d join us.’

Suddenly, all I could think of was Cleo and Chelsea-Grace, and how their faces would look if they saw me. Playing croquet.

In a bonnet.

Fred inclined his head, examining my face. ‘You’re worried about what people will think.’

I nodded silently, and felt terrible. I’d just told Fred I wanted to be a flying fish. I wasn’t flying. I wasn’t even swimming.

‘Everyone worries, at first. But in time, it ceases to matter, the opinions of others. In time you get lost in it all. And the people who go to the balls? Clementine, they don’t care. You can dress how you want to, and be exactly yourself. It’s one of the wonders of it. And, if it helps, there are several members from Burnie High. Gemma Gleave is one of them.’

‘Gemma Gleave? Really? But she’s so busy with all her causes. And she’s addicted to her phone! I wouldn’t have thought—’

Fred laughed. ‘Yes, she is certainly devoted to that thing. Did you notice it has a steampunk case? With a horse in goggles and a helmet riding a unicycle. We bought it for her, for her birthday. And we assist her with her campaigns. That’s what BSS is like. We help each other. So . . . will you come?’

I wanted to say yes. But I wavered. It wasn’t quite coming to school dressed as a pademelon, but I knew Cleo and Chelsea-Grace would think going to a Victoriana ball was unacceptably weird. That shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

What would you have done, Ms H?

Scratch that. I know what you’d do. You’d go.

I, on the other hand, was about to allow the stream to carry me away. I opened my mouth to say, I’d love to but I am, tragically, allergic to bustles . . .

That’s when I saw them. Chelsea-Grace and Cleo. Walking by on the oval, arm-in-arm and giggling: a happy, totally-right-together, Clem-less 2CD. And I grew some fins.

‘Maybe I could meet some of the others?’ I said. ‘And then decide if I want to go to a meeting?’

‘Of course.’ Fred’s grin was huge and contagious, and I found myself grinning back. ‘That sounds like a perfect plan. Now, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

‘Don’t forget to position your pinkie.’ Fred held his out at a right angle. I copied, giggling.

‘So . . . did you have a Steampunk society back in Sydney?’ I asked as I waited for the tea to cool enough to drink.

Fred shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t get involved in any of this until I moved here.’ He shrugged and looked away. His eyes got a sheen to them then, and I knew that wherever his mind was, it wasn’t there with me, under the gum tree.

I could hear cogs whirring.

‘Why did you move?’ I asked, trying to drag his attention back to me. ‘Why come to Tasmania from Sydney? Most people go in the opposite direction!’

‘Yes.’ Fred stared into his tea. ‘There was some . . . stuff. Mum thought it might be better if we moved away, and my grandmother lives down here, in Penguin, so it seemed a good enough choice.’

‘Stuff?’ I asked. ‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Nothing important.’ One corner of Fred’s mouth tilted upwards into a sweet half-smile. ‘Not now.’

It was clear there was more to the ‘stuff’ that had happened in Sydney than Fred was letting on, but I remembered what Elizabeth had said, about letting things happen in their own time.

He winked at me then, and it was so adorable I thought I might faint.

‘I really thought you’d say no, you know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t pick you as . . . uh . . .’

‘A geek?’ I smiled broadly.

‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Personally, I own it. Being a geek. I take power from the haters and transfer it to myself.’

‘Well, all right then!’ I sipped my tea. It was delicious. I held the cup up towards my face, so the steam could warm my cheeks. ‘Though, what is a geek, really? I’ve always liked Shakespeare and country music and art and poetry – stuff nobody else our age seems to be into – so if that makes me a geek—’

‘It makes you you.’ Fred smiled. ‘If you want to call that geek, then so be it.’

‘I don’t really know what I am,’ I admitted. ‘I used to think I did, but now I’m not friends with Chels and Cleo anymore, I feel . . . lost, I suppose. As though what I thought I was is actually what they are. What we were. Not what I am. I think I’m just finding out what I am.’

‘Yes, that can take some time.’ Fred looked pensive for a moment and shook his head. ‘I think it’s important to know what you are,’ he said finally. ‘I think much of the . . . bad stuff happens when you don’t.’

‘But you know yourself.’ I gestured at his clothing. ‘Obviously. You know who you are.’

I expected Fred to smile at that, but he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘Maybe,’ and then we lapsed into silence.

Finally, Fred spoke again. ‘I think that’s what Ms Hiller is trying to do with this writing exercise. I think she’s trying to say, It’s all well and good to read what other people think about stuff, but it’s more important to work it out ourselves.’

Is that what you’re doing, Ms Hiller? Are you trying to help us to know ourselves?

I wonder if it will work.