Last night I went to Fish Frenzy again with some of the steampunkers.

Chels invited me over to her place, but I told her I’d promised Mum and Dad I’d stay home. I know it’s wrong to lie to her and Cleo, Ms Hiller. They’re trying to get me to go out with Brent, and I know all I need to do is tell them about Fred and they’ll stop – I know I should be able to tell them about both Fred and BSS anyway, Brent or no Brent, because they’re two really important things going on in my life right now.

But I can’t. Everything is so good with Cleo and Chelsea-Grace now; it’s as if our big fight never happened. I don’t want to do anything to mess things up.

I’m going to the movies with them and their boyfriends on Saturday night. Brent will be there, but it won’t be me and Brent alone. I’m doing it so that 3CD can be strong again. Fred knows I’m going – he knows Brent will be there, along with some other boys. He doesn’t know Cleo and Chelsea-Grace are trying to set up Brent and me, though.

It’s all too messy. So I’m writing all of that stuff out of my story, just for now, and making it all about me and Fred. And steampunk-themed dinner parties.

‘Dad’s crazily excited,’ I told Fred as we waited for the others to arrive at Fish Frenzy. ‘He found his hat, and he keeps talking in a strange accent. He thinks it’s cockney, but it sounds more South African to me. Or maybe Spanish. It’s hard to say.’

Fred laughed. ‘I can’t wait to hear it! I’m excited, too. It will be nice, getting to know your family.’

He put his arm around me, and I tried to forget about Saturday night, Brent, my splintery friendships with Chelsea-Grace and Cleo. I tried to forget about the things those boys in the hallway had said to Fred, too. And the words. Those words. Fred’s words. The ones I’m rubbing out in my mind. The ones that keep rewriting themselves.

After a while, I did forget. Because everything was so lovely.

We chatted about our favourite classic steampunk books, and argued over who was the best Sherlock Holmes. I said Robert Downey Junior, and Fred accused me of having a crush on him and being biased, and, well, it all led to a tickle fight. Naturally.

When Ang, Gemma and Lucy arrived, they just about fell over themselves attempting to sound out whether I was feeling okay without letting on to Fred what had happened with Sam, until he let them know that he knew, and we were all able to freely revisit our ideas for revenge together. (After he’d been pooed on by an elephant, it turned out that Sam would be shot out of a cannon, made to eat cabbage cupcakes, and then sent to Timbuktu.) I know we won’t enact any of these ideas, of course, but it was therapeutic to talk about it.

Eventually the conversation took on a more serious note, and I explained to them that in truth I’m not really the revenge type, but rather more of the ‘let it go’ type, a la Jimmy Buffett. I may always want to try to fix things, but revenge doesn’t feel to me like fixing – it feels like ripping and tearing and cutting and hurting even more. I’d prefer to focus on my friends, my family; on Fergus getting better – I told them about him, too; on moving on. I was trying very hard not to worry about what I would do when I next bumped into Sam at school, which hadn’t happened yet.

I may have only known them a few weeks, but all four of them listened so intently and respectfully as I told them that, Ms Hiller. It felt as though they’d do anything for me.

I’d do anything for them, too. It feels as if I’ve known them forever.

And they love Fred, too, Ms Hiller. You can really tell that they care. I wondered if they’d know the meaning of the words Fred wrote. For a little while I was almost tempted to ask them. But then I realised that was the cowardly option. And I’d decided to be brave.

It was after dinner. The others had gone. Fred and I were walking along Marine Terrace, holding hands. ‘Fred?’ I said, tentatively.

‘What, Clem?’ He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

I almost didn’t ask then, Ms H, because the kiss was so nice and it would have been easy to get distracted by it, but I knew I had to do it.

‘Fred, I saw something.’

‘Hmm?’ Fred said, and waited for me to go on.

So I did.

‘Um, accidentally. In class, we were writing in our journals, for Ms Hiller, and I was just watching the back of your head – in a not-creepy way, I promise – and I saw the heading you wrote for one of your entries. It said, I try not to think of what happened back then, because thinking of it is like dying inside, all over again. You were talking about what happened in Sydney, weren’t you?’

When Fred didn’t reply immediately, I steamrolled on. ‘And, um, don’t get angry, Fred, but I heard those boys in the hallway the other day. They were so awful to you, and you didn’t even respond. It’s connected, isn’t it?’

Fred didn’t get angry, Ms Hiller. He didn’t become cold and distant. He didn’t walk away. He stopped, and he turned to me, and he said, ‘Things weren’t so great at my old school, Clem. That’s all. Those boys at the locker? That’s nothing on what I had to put up with back home. You might think it would be better in the big city, but it’s not. Back in Sydney, I got picked on big-time. By this one group of boys in particular. About my hair, and my clothes – even though they were much more ‘normal’ back then – and for daydreaming in class, and even the way I walk. Apparently I walk like a giraffe.’

‘I never noticed,’ I said gently.

Fred smiled. ‘That’s probably because it isn’t true. Those boys had just decided to pick on me, come what may. And I knew that. But still, every day was a nightmare. Every day I wanted to disappear. Every day I felt like I was dying inside – that’s what I meant in my journal. That’s all. Those kids were bastards.’

‘You don’t mind talking about it?’ I asked.

Fred shook his head. ‘Not with you.’ He swallowed. ‘I was always different. I never wore the right clothes, or talked the way other kids did. At home, that was okay. My mum’s always encouraged me to be myself. Without her, and her faith in me . . . heavens, I don’t know where I’d be, Clem. She got me through, in Sydney. She never let me lose my belief that I was okay, a worthwhile person. But I still had bad days.

‘At school, I’d hide in the library to get away from those guys. One day, they followed me there, and even the fabulous librarian couldn’t stop them. So I did the thing I promised I’d never do . . . I hid in the toilets.’

‘What’s so bad about hiding in the toilets?’ I asked, trying to understand.

Fred shook his head and smiled. ‘You’ve got no idea of the stench that emanates from the toilets at an all-boys school. The levels of hygiene in Victorian London were infinitely better. But anyway, it was in those hellish latrines that I found the quote that saved my soul. I want to go ahead of Father Time with a scythe of my own. It’s HG Wells.’

‘Gosh. At our school, the graffiti just says Julia for Ryan forever.’

Fred laughed. ‘Sanitation levels notwithstanding, the school I went to was exceedingly upper crust. But the quote got me thinking, Clementine. About time, and about power, and about how none of us are really trapped by the time we’re in and the circumstances we’re faced with. We can choose to build our own time machines and make our own destinies. I let myself out of the toilets. I went straight home and told my mother that I wanted to leave. And so . . .’ Fred spread his hands wide.

‘And so now you’re here, and you dress like this,’ I said. ‘Because of that quote?’

‘Yes and no. I was inspired to read more HG Wells, and Jules Verne and, from them, I moved on to modern interpretations. And my love of steampunk was born. After that, it became something of an obsession. I realised those boys didn’t have the power to influence my life. I realised I could change my life every day. Every day could be an adventure, and I wanted to live that adventure. And now I am. With you.’

Then he kissed me again. On the lips this time. And he hugged me. And I was glad I had asked. I was glad I knew more now about Fred. It only made me like him more.