Last night I went out with the Burnie Steampunk Society.

Or some of them, at least. The ones Fred thought I should meet before deciding whether to join.

Gemma Gleave was there, and there were two other kids I recognised from school. Their names are Liam Wu and Joshua Phillips, and they’re in Grade 10. Then there was Ang Jones, Lucy de Blau and Noel Campisi. They all go to Devonport High. We met up for dinner at Fish Frenzy.

‘You’ll like them,’ Fred had said to me earlier that day, at lunchtime, as we sat again beneath the gum tree sharing tea. ‘And it’s a good way for me to introduce them to you. It’s not a proper meeting. We’re simply touching base before the ball at the weekend. There’s no pressure. They’ll love you. Lucy and Ang might even have something you can wear, if . . .’

‘If?’ I prodded.

Fred’s face was reddening. ‘Well, as I said, there’s the ball on Saturday, so I thought, if you get on with the others . . . They’re very nice. Angharad talks a lot, but—’

‘Angharad?’

Fred nodded. ‘Ang, yes – that’s her full name. She’s lovely, if verbose. And she is quite excited to meet you. As I said, she’s even picked some Victorian clothes out for you, just in case.’

‘Um, will her clothes fit me?’ I asked a little awkwardly. ‘I know I’m a bit bigger than—’

‘You’re perfect, Clementine,’ Fred interrupted. ‘You’re beautiful.’

There was a big pause. Fred looked down at his shiny black dress shoes and bright-white button-up spats.

I didn’t know what to say. Fred thought I was beautiful?

I know I shouldn’t care, Ms Hiller. I know, as an intelligent, independent, liberated woman of whatever this decade is called, I shouldn’t place any store at all in what some boy thinks of my outward appearance.

But Fred isn’t just any boy.

And I think he’s beautiful, too.

Geeky? Yes.

Slightly bonkers? Absolutely.

But also beautiful.

He’s the first boy about whom I can ever imagine the things Chelsea-Grace and Cleo always talked about. The sex things.

Not now, Ms Hiller! Not any time soon – but for the first time, I can actually imagine wanting to do it.

Sometime. When the time is right.

‘Anyhow,’ Fred said at last, still staring at his spats, ‘I would estimate that Lucy and Ang are both about your size.’ He looked back at me, his cheeks blazing. ‘It’s a good size,’ he said softly.

And he was right, Ms H! Lucy and Ang are ‘about my size’.

It’s not like I’ve never met anyone my size before – there are plenty of people my size; in fact, my size is the most common size for Australian women. But I’ve never hung out with people my size before. I’m used to being the biggest person in any given group. I’m used to being the fat one.

Don’t get me wrong, Lucy and Ang aren’t fat. In fact, Ang is one of the most gorgeous people I have ever seen. She’s blonde and curvy, with enormous blue eyes and lips you could use as a pillow. She is also very tall – a ruler-length at least taller than I am. She has a dusting of freckles on her nose, like cocoa powder, and skin like a porcelain doll. She dresses as if she’s in a 1950s movie. At Fish Frenzy, she was wearing a polka-dotted dress and a tight red cardigan. And Fred was right – she talks a lot.

Lucy is elfin, and quiet. She has dark cropped hair, olive skin and Cabbage Patch Kid dimples. She wears square, black thick-rimmed glasses, the kind Woody Allen might wear. On her they look feminine and sweet – and yet she’s a tomboy. Last night she wore old baggy jeans and a short-sleeved penguin shirt over a long-sleeved stripy one.

Liam, one of the Burnie High guys, is a pierced punk rocker in a leather jacket and ripped jeans. His black hair has chunks of white splashed through it. He looks like a Chinese Joey Ramone.

Joshua, the other guy I’d seen around Burnie High before, looks as though his idea of rock’n’roll is Simon and Garfunkle. He had on brown corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt, buttoned to the neck, and his hair was in a mad red afro.

Liam and Joshua couldn’t be more different but, bizarrely, they seem perfect for each other. It only took me a second to realise they were together. And very much in love.

And then there’s Noel, Ang and Lucy’s mate from Devonport High. Noel is, I suppose, your classic geek. He was wearing a Star Wars T-shirt and a Casio calculator watch. He has a lovely, friendly face, and I figured he must be very nice, being friends with Fred and all, but I couldn’t tell for certain because, after saying a smiling ‘hello’, Noel became . . . preoccupied.

Noel had a new iPhone. Noel liked his new iPhone very much. Noel liked his iPhone so much that it sometimes felt as if Noel and his iPhone were having their own little date at their end of the table, while the rest of us talked steampunk.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Ang said. ‘He’d be hopeless if he was actually in Victorian times. Unless he somehow worked out a way to invent a steam-powered iPhone – and if anyone could do that, Noel could. He’s a total science freak. That’s why he’s so into steampunk. Which leads me to my next question.’

Ang finally paused for breath. She narrowed her eyes at me.

‘I have to ask: you totally don’t look like a typical steampunker, so why do you want to join? Is it because you saw The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? Granted you seem to know a lot about this stuff, so I’m thinking you’re not simply another LEG tragic, but if you are, you should just out yourself now. And you know I’m not talking about the graphic novel, right? I mean, Alan Moore is pretty awesome. But the movie’s kind of terrible. Apart from the clothes. And Peta Wilson is the bomb. Except her figure would actually have been really unrealistic in those times. She’s way too buff. Women didn’t exactly go around lifting weights back then, did they, Fred? We played croquet, and the men played cricket. Can you play croquet? Or petanque? If not, you need to learn. But my whole point is, so many people watch that movie and think that’s what BSS is all about, but it’s not. You know? So if that’s why you’re joining—’

If Fred hadn’t interrupted Ang there, she might have talked her way into the next century.

‘Clem hasn’t decided if she does want to join yet,’ Fred said.

‘Actually, I have,’ I blurted. I hadn’t been certain of it until the moment I’d said it, but I did want to join the steampunk society. I liked these people. They laughed loudly, and they didn’t look around all the time to check if other people were watching them. They were utterly unselfconscious. And they made me feel as if whatever I said, however I acted, that was just fine. Also, there was Fred.

I know I must sound like a broken record, Ms H, but right now I just want to be where Fred is.

He beamed, and I felt even better about my decision. ‘Noel, Clem actually got into steampunk because of that book I loaned you.’

Noel looked up. ‘Yay.’ He went back to his gadget, jabbing at the screen with his thumbs as if he was trying to perform CPR on a mouse.

‘I’ve been reading some other stuff, too,’ I added. ‘China Miéville and Gail Carriger and Scott Westerfeld, and this other fantastic one about dragons and demons and this family who—’

‘All right, all right, we get it! You know your stuff!’ Ang held her hands up in the air.

‘You’ve been busy!’ said Fred. He looked a bit proud.

‘Yes. Well, I’ve had some time on my hands,’ I said, thinking about how many extra hours in the day there seemed to be now I wasn’t having sleepovers at Cleo’s house or going on Runs of Doom.

‘In between writing all your poetry. And passing the time with me under the cider gum.’

‘You write poetry?’ said Ang. ‘That’s so Victorian! Have you read these poems, Fred?’

‘Not yet.’ Fred smiled at me. ‘But I hope to soon.’

I felt my cheeks colouring. You know how I feel about showing anyone my poems . . .

‘A poetess!’ Ang squeezed my hand. ‘That is so awesome! You are going to love BSS!’

‘You will love it, Clem,’ said Liam, twiddling with one of the many neon badges on his black leather satchel. ‘I didn’t think it would exactly be my scene, but it turns out steampunk is pretty punk. It’s naughty and anarchic, and the clothes are totally what Joe Strummer would have worn if he was around in the nineteenth century. It’s wicked, isn’t it, Josh?’

Joshua nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty . . . wicked.’ He smiled at Liam, shyly, and coughed. ‘I never would have said wicked before I met this guy.’

Opposites really do attract, I thought.

Just then, Gemma (who’d been tapping away at her phone ever since we got to the restaurant) squealed, ‘Noel!’

‘What are you two up to now?’ said Fred, raising an eyebrow.

Gemma went bright pink. ‘Seriously, Campisi,’ she said to Noel. ‘Do not show him.’

‘Relax, Gem.’ Noel finally looked up from his phone. He and Gemma locked eyes, flirtatiously.

‘You two are together?’ I said.

‘Ever since he offered to hold my parasol for me while I texted.’ Gemma sent a coy grin in Noel’s direction.

‘I had her at salutations,’ added Noel, his eyes glued to his phone again.

‘Everybody hooks up at the balls.’ Ang winked.

‘No, that’s mostly just you,’ said Lucy, which gave me a little start because she hadn’t said a word for ages.

‘Oh, as if you don’t have your fair share of admirers,’ Ang shot back. ‘I know you pashed Edward Chamberlain at the last ball.’

‘You mean Axl,’ said Lucy, rolling her eyes. ‘Yeah, I did. But from what you told me about Sir Charles Binglefield, it sounds like he was a much better kisser.’

‘Hang on, why did you say You mean Axl?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you say his name was Edward?’

‘Oh, didn’t Fred tell you?’ said Ang. ‘You have to have a Victorian name. We call them our nom de vapeur – vapeur means ‘steam’ in French. My nom de vapeur is Scarlett Gadsbloom.’

‘Mine is Sir Keith Rollingstone,’ said Liam, smirking.

‘I told him he would regret that choice once he actually started taking steampunk seriously,’ said Joshua, flicking his afro. ‘He thinks it’s all a big joke right now.’

He and Liam shared a mock-angry look.

‘So says the Earl of Cheddar,’ said Liam.

‘It’s a place!’ Joshua protested.

‘It’s something you eat on crackers!’ Liam cried, laughing.

‘I’m Gwendolyn Goldsworthy,’ said Gemma. ‘I wanted to keep my initials. And don’t you dare tell her your nickname for me.’ Gemma glared at Noel. Noel raised one eyebrow and kept tapping.

My phone beeped. I picked it up. Would you like to accept a new message from FitzwilliamG?

‘Is that you?’ I asked Noel. Noel’s nod was almost imperceptible.

‘What? No! Noel!’ cried Gemma as I clicked on the message.

‘Giddy?’ I asked, looking up.

‘As in giddy-up,’ Noel explained.

I was none the wiser. ‘I still don’t—’ And then I twigged. ‘Ah.’

‘That’s me,’ Gemma groaned. ‘GG. Despite the fact that I’m totally against horseracing. It’s barbaric. But, to change the subject – please – what will your name be?’

‘First thing that comes into your head.’ Ang gripped my arm. ‘And no. You can’t keep the surname Darcy. We have banned the name Darcy, because everybody wanted it, because they’re all in love with Colin Firth, even though Pride and Prejudice is actually set in Georgian times, not Victorian, and so it’s completely—’

‘Angharad, let her ruminate,’ Fred scolded gently.

‘Whatever your lordship wishes.’ Ang rolled her eyes and grinned.

‘First thing?’ Everybody nodded. Noel unglued his eyes from his phone to look at me expectantly.

‘Clear out your mind,’ said Fred. ‘Focus.’

I looked at him helplessly. How could I empty my head? There were too many people inside it, jostling for space. Fergus, Sam, Cleo, Chelsea-Grace. And Fred himself. He was taking up a lot of room.

‘Close your eyes,’ said Fred. ‘Pretend we’re not here. Just say the first name that comes into your head.’

Suddenly it was so obvious I felt like an idiot for not thinking of it before. ‘I don’t need to close my eyes,’ I said, smiling.

You remember I told you, Ms Hiller, about when Sophie and I were kids, back when we were best friends, how we’d play faeries in the garden? We had Mad Hatter’s tea parties with cupcakes and minty lemonade. Her faerie name was Ginger Parakeet. And mine?

‘My name is Honeysuckle,’ I declared. ‘Honeysuckle Nightingale!’

Everyone at the table stared at me, silent, their mouths gaping open like so many goldfish.

‘Really? That’s the name you want?’ Fred’s voice was gravelly.

‘What?’ I asked, feeling suddenly, desperately insecure. ‘Isn’t that a good name?’

‘It’s just that Fred . . .’ Ang started.

Golly, I thought. If Ang is lost for words I really must have said the wrong thing.

‘I’m sorry, Clementine. It’s just that, um, the name Nightingale is already taken.’ Fred clicked his fob watch open and closed.

‘Oh, well, that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I can make up a new name. Who has the name Nightingale?’

‘Ah, that would be me.’ Fred smiled sheepishly, and bowed his head. ‘Lord Franklin Nightingale at your service, my lady. But I don’t mind if you keep the name, too.’

It felt like time had stopped, Ms Hiller. It felt like Fred had closed his fob watch and paused the world.

Fred and I had picked the same last name?

All at once, nothing else mattered. I didn’t care if Fred wasn’t cool enough; that Chelsea-Grace and Cleo wouldn’t approve.

Fred is . . .

Quiet.

And strange.

And he talks oddly.

And he draws peculiar pictures sometimes.

And he wears spats.

Chelsea-Grace and Cleo would definitely think I’m crazycakes.

But maybe it doesn’t matter now, what Chelsea-Grace and Cleo think. Maybe they were my stream, Ms Hiller.

Maybe I was always meant to turn against it.

I smiled as I looked around the table, at the motley little group assembled there. And they smiled back. And I felt welcome. I knew I’d made the right choice, joining this group. Choosing Fred.

I felt like I’d come home.