WE SNEAK BACK into school just after the bell rings for the end of the day. I get through after-school life drawing without a SWAT team descending or, worse, a summons to Ms Papaevagelou’s office. By the time I get home I’m silently congratulating myself on finally having done something adventurous that I can tell my future grandkids about someday.

Unfortunately, my self-congratulation is short-lived.

When I walk in to the flat, I drop my bag and kick off my shoes. Dad calls out from the other end of the apartment. ‘Patch, is that you?’

‘No, it’s the Mormons. I’ve come to talk to you about Jesus,’ I yell back, riffling through the mail by the door.

He sticks his head around the kitchen door. ‘Can you come in here for a minute, please?’

I follow him into the kitchen. It’s silent except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the fridge. There’s nothing bubbling on the stove, no dishes in the sink. The absence of the radio and of Lou’s chatter is ominous. Dad turns to face me. He looks serious. My stomach takes a dive, panic rising in my gut.

‘Is everything okay? Where’s Lou?’ I suddenly picture him hit by a tram, choking on a peanut, being rushed away in an ambulance. I grip the edge of the table.

‘Lou’s fine. He’s at the park with Bernie and Potato.’ Dad rubs his stubble. ‘Patch, I received a call from school.’

‘Oh.’

So, I guess we were missed after all.

‘Ms Martinelli wanted to know if you were sick.’

‘I, uh…didn’t feel well.’

‘Please, Patch,’ he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’ He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘You missed fourth period. Was there a reason for it? A good one, I mean.’ He opens his eyes and looks at me steadily, giving me a chance to defend myself, but there’s not a whole lot I can say. I did it for love? Everyone else was doing it so I thought it’d be okay? Neither of those excuses are going to fly with my dad. My silence seems to confirm his suspicions.

‘I see,’ he says.

‘Dad, it’s not what it sounds like.’

‘Oh, really? Because it sounds like you decided to blow off school to go and do something more entertaining.’

Okay, so it’s exactly what it sounds like.

‘Well, yes, technically I missed a bit of school. But it’s no big deal. Kids do it all the time.’ This is a barefaced lie. I don’t know when I became the kind of person who lies to their dad.

‘Patch, this is a very big deal. Who did you wag with? Edwin?’

‘No,’ I mumble.

‘Who, then?’

I pick at a crack in the lino on the table.

‘Patch?’

‘I…alone. I was alone.’

‘Really.’

It’s not a question. I nod mutely.

Dad sighs. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he says. ‘You will go to Ms Martinelli on Monday and apologise to her. Do you understand?’

‘But—’

‘And I’m confiscating your phone for two weeks.’

‘Dad!’

‘And your laptop. You can use it to do homework, but only in the kitchen.’

‘That’s completely unfair!’

‘No, Patch. What you did today was disrespectful to your teacher and to me. I’m really disappointed in you.’

‘Dad, it’s not a big deal!’ I can hear my voice rising.

‘See, that’s where you’re wrong. This is a very big deal. This kind of thing could compromise your future.’

‘I’m hardly going to fail English because I missed one class,’ I scoff.

‘Probably not,’ he concedes. ‘But skipping school might compromise your scholarship.’

Oh, fuck. I hadn’t thought of that. There was a behaviour clause in my scholarship contract. I’d pretty much forgotten about it until now, mostly because I’ve never done anything even close to bending a rule.

‘You don’t have the luxury of skipping class. If you get kicked out, there’ll be nothing I can do about it.’

I keep staring at the crack in the table.

‘Your education is really important,’ Dad continues. ‘I know Mountford’s strict, but I wouldn’t be sending you there if I didn’t think it’d open up opportunities for you. I want you to have the kind of chances that I didn’t have.’

I wish he’d yell and scream at me. This quiet, disappointed Dad is way harder to take. There’s a thick layer of guilt sitting in the bottom of my gut, heavy and uncomfortable.

I push myself away from the table and, without looking at him, snap, ‘Forget about it. You wouldn’t understand.’

I run to my room and slam the door. I fall on my bed. I’m sick with fury. But the worst part about it is that he’s right.

Dad and I barely speak to each other all weekend, and I can’t even text Edwin to bitch about it because Dad has my phone. The atmosphere’s so tense that even Lou notices. Dad stays true to his word: he locks my phone and laptop up in the cash safe in the Heartattack office, and he only gets my laptop out so I can do my homework at the kitchen table where he can keep an eye on me. He won’t even let me walk Potato. I’m uncharacteristically excited to go to school on Monday.

Edwin’s waiting for me at my locker. His expression’s stony and his lips are in a thin line. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest.

‘Morning,’ I say.

He barely nods in acknowledgment.

‘What’s up? Your face looks like a cat’s bum.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘Seriously?’

‘What?’

‘“Cat’s bum?” Really? You don’t return my texts all weekend when you know Friday was a massive deal for me, and then you call me a cat’s bum?’

Friday. Oh, shit, his appointment. I’d completely forgotten about the T injection. God, I’m a shit friend.

‘I didn’t forget! I didn’t have a phone!’ At least that last part’s true.

‘Because phones are the only means of communication in existence,’ he says sarcastically.

‘I didn’t have my laptop either. Seriously, I was on complete communication lockdown.’

‘Really?’ His arms are still firmly crossed.

‘It’s a long story. Boring.’

His expression’s still stony.

‘I’m really sorry. I’m shitty. The shittiest. It won’t happen again.’

‘Promise?’ he asks warily.

‘I swear on my grandmother’s grave.’

‘She’s not dead,’ he says. ‘Swear on the power of Beyoncé.’

‘I swear,’ I say gravely, one hand over my heart.

‘Well…okay then,’ he says, uncrossing his arms. He still looks wary.

‘Thank you,’ I say, my body sagging with relief. ‘You are a kind and merciful friend. Now, tell me about it.’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Honestly? It was…painful.’

‘Well, that doesn’t sound pleasant.’

‘Yeah, my bum hurt all weekend.’

‘It wasn’t in the—’

He nods. ‘Top of the cheek. Hurt like a motherfucker.’

I give a low whistle.

‘So how do you feel?’

‘Nervous. Yeah, I dunno…excited, I guess.’

‘Do you feel different, though? Can you feel it doing…stuff?’

I slide my finger underneath his nose, wiggling it, miming a moustache.

He finally cracks a smile. Thank god.

He pushes my hand away. ‘Fuck off.’

‘What?’

‘Your understanding of the functions of the human body is woeful.’

‘So, no moustache.’

‘Not after forty-eight hours. I feel…different. Good different. But no moustache.’

‘Soon?’

‘Maybe. In a couple of months.’

‘Okay, I can settle for that. Just don’t grow one of those creepy thin ones.’

‘Thank you, no. The serial-killer look isn’t really me. Now, what’s with the communication lockdown?’

‘Because,’ I say, twiddling my combination lock, ‘I was grounded. Seriously grounded. Still am, as a matter of fact. I’m lucky Dad even let me out of the house to come to school this morning. He’s really pissed off.’

Edwin doesn’t look sympathetic. ‘What did you do?’

‘Like I said, it’s a long story.’

‘Well, you’ve got’—he checks the time on his phone—‘seven minutes.’

I manage to do it in three.

‘…and now he’s making me apologise to Ms Martinelli, and that’s not going to end well.’

‘I can’t believe this. I’m not at school for one afternoon and you’re already pulling some Thelma and Louise shit.’ Edwin’s eyebrows have shot up so high they’re in danger of disappearing into his hair.

‘Hardly. I just skipped lunch. And English.’

‘Why?’ Edwin goggles at me.

I rearrange the books in my locker, careful not to meet his eye. ‘I felt like it,’ I say, trying to sound breezy.

‘Right, because that totally sounds like your idea,’ he scoffs.

‘Okay, no, it wasn’t. It was Abigail’s.’

‘What? You hung out with Abigail? You hate Abigail.’

‘I don’t hate Abigail.’

He looks deeply sceptical.

‘Okay, fine, I hate Abigail.’

‘Does she have to apologise to Ms Martinelli?’

‘She’s not in my English class.’

‘You know that’s not the point. What about your scholarship?’

Apparently, I really am the only one who didn’t think about that.

‘That’s why Dad’s making me apologise. To smooth things over, I guess.’

‘Right. Well, now’s your chance,’ Edwin says, nodding at a familiar figure retreating down the hallway. ‘Better get it over with.’

‘Oh, shit. What do I say?’

‘I dunno. You could try “sorry”.’

‘Fuck. Fuck. Okay, yeah.’ I hoist my backpack a little higher on my shoulders, pull a face at Edwin, and hurry after Ms Martinelli.

‘Ms M? Ms Martinelli? Can I talk to you for a sec?’

She doesn’t look surprised to see me, which doesn’t bode well.

‘I, uh. I’m sorry I skipped English on Friday,’ I say.

She’s arching an eyebrow sternly. Hoo boy, here we go.

‘Were you sick?’

‘Um, no. No, I just didn’t come. And…I’m sorry.’

‘Right. Well. I appreciate your honesty. Thank you for apologising, Patch, but you do know that this will have consequences, don’t you?’

Two minutes later, I traipse back to where Edwin’s still hovering by my locker.

‘Well?’ he asks expectantly.

‘Lunchtime detention. Rubbish duty with Bosco. Tomorrow.’

Bosco is Mountford’s maintenance guy. Nobody knows his first name; we all just call him Bosco. He is not a fun guy.

‘Well, that’s not too bad.’

‘Yeah, it’s magnificent. I can hardly wait,’ I say.

Heartattack’s almost deserted when I get home. Bettie and Boop are dozing on their quilt and Bernie is kneeling on the concrete floor, unpacking a stock delivery. The sun’s pouring in the shop window in big buttery beams.

‘Hey pal, how was school?’ Bernie calls.

‘Fine.’

‘Cool.’

I hover by the office door, fiddling with the door handle. Bernie flips over a Joni Mitchell record to read the track list, then pops it on one of the piles in front of her.

‘Actually, it was a pretty weird day,’ I admit.

‘Yeah?’ she asks mildly. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Hey, I was gunna make a cup of tea. Want one?’

I shrug and nod. Five minutes later we’re sitting with our legs stretched out on the threadbare Persian rug, mugs of tea in hand, sorting the new stock together.

‘So, weird day, huh?’ Bernie says.

‘Yeah. Dad’s pretty mad at me,’ I say, putting Edith Piaf in World Music.

‘Uh-oh. What happened?’

‘I wagged,’ I say simply.

‘Hmmm,’ she says, examining a PJ Harvey album, then assigning it to the Rock pile. ‘You know, you’re probably going to hell for that.’ She grins.

I snort. ‘I thought you were an atheist?’

‘Oh, totally, but hell’s definitely real.’

‘Oh really? What’s it like?’

‘Easy: a never-ending Andre Rieu concert. You?’

I think for a moment, then say, ‘Fast and the Furious marathon. Without snacks.’

Bernie throws her head back and laughs, big and loud. The light catches her piercings. It feels good to make Bernie laugh.

‘Bernie…have you ever done something bad, and you know you shouldn’t, but you just, like, can’t help yourself?’ I ask, running my finger around the rim of my mug.

She glances at me over the top of a Björk album. She hesitates, just for a moment, then puts it on top of PJ Harvey.

‘We’ve all done things we regret at some point,’ she says slowly. She sounds like she’s choosing her words carefully. ‘Everybody fucks up, but it’s what you do afterwards that matters. If you try to make things right and learn from the experience, it can end up being a good thing. That’s what I reckon, anyway.’

‘I’m making things right. I apologised to my teacher.’

‘Because your dad made you, or because you wanted to?’

I fiddle with the corner of a Laura Mvula record. ‘I do feel bad. Really,’ I say. ‘Dad’s disappointed, Edwin’s mad at me. I hate that. But, the thing is, it was fun.’

Bernie sips her tea, waiting for me to go on.

I hesitate. ‘It’s like, everyone has these expectations that I’m just going to stay home and do the same shit I always do. They think they’ve got me all figured out and there’s no room for me to do anything new. It’s nice to hang out with someone who sees me differently.’

‘Is this about your new friend?’ She eyes me beadily.

I have no idea how she figured that out so quickly. I could deny it, but Bernie’s not gullible, so I nod.

‘You know your dad thinks you were with Edwin, right?’

‘I wasn’t. Edwin didn’t even know about it.’

‘So, it was just you and this new friend?’

‘And others.’

‘You like her, huh?’ She’s watching me carefully.

‘I mean, yeah. As a friend,’ I say hurriedly.

‘Oh no, yeah. Totally. Friends.’

‘She’s cool,’ I say, unnecessarily.

‘That’s great, Patch. But just because you think someone’s cool, doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself for them.’

‘That’s very Disney Channel of you, Bernie. Thank you,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Devil child. I’m giving you advice. Listen to my wisdom.’ She grins.

‘Fine, fine. Don’t do bad shit—is that it? Don’t wag or drink or have sex or—’

‘Are you drinking and having sex?’ Bernie arches an eyebrow.

‘I could be,’ I say defensively.

Bernie laughs. ‘Look, if that’s what you want to do, knock yourself out. That stuff can be fun. Just make sure you’re doing it for yourself, and not because someone else pushes you into it.’

‘Don’t give in to peer pressure,’ I say. Like I haven’t heard that line before.

‘Well, yeah. You’re a cool kid.’ She couldn’t be more wrong on that front, but I decide not to argue.

‘You don’t need to prove that to anyone. It’s okay to go slowly. That shit’s not a race.’

Which is all well and good for Bernie, who has probably never experienced a split second of uncoolness in her life—she probably came out of her mum’s vagina with twelve piercings and a taste for feminist punk—but it’s trickier when you’re fighting off the stigma of being a frizzy-haired gay scholarship nerd in a bougie, cashed-up fishbowl.

‘Thanks, Bernie,’ I say, not at all meaning it.

She gives me a knowing smile. ‘Patch. Seriously. Everybody’s different.’

‘That’s what they tell me.’ I try not to roll my eyes. It takes a colossal effort.

‘I took a while to get going. Didn’t have my first drink until uni. And I didn’t have sex until even later. Everybody’s different,’ she repeats.

‘Really? How old were you?’ I ask.

‘That’s a very personal question.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘I was twenty-three.’ She smiles gently. ‘I wanted to wait until I was ready. Some people are ready earlier than others. You’ve just got to do it your way.’

Bernie, a twenty-three-year-old virgin? The idea’s weird, but not unpleasantly so. It’s like finding out that Iggy Pop collects vintage sugar bowls or something.

‘How?’ I ask abruptly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘How do you…y’know…do it your way?’

Bernie’s quiet for a few moments. She’s not ignoring my question, I don’t think; she’s thinking about it. She takes another sip of her tea; the records lie on the rug, abandoned.

‘Well…’ she says thoughtfully, ‘I guess you’ve got to go with your gut. If it feels right, do it. If it feels wrong, don’t.’

‘Simple as that?’

‘Sounds obvious, but it’s always worked for me. Trust your own judgment.’

Betty yawns and stretches, then pads over to Bernie for a pat. Bernie scratches her ears. ‘And maybe you should talk to your dad. And to this new friend. Let them know where you stand.’

‘How do I do that?’ I ask, stumped.

She shrugs. ‘Hey, pal, I’m a record-shop manager, not a psychologist.’

I laugh. ‘Fair enough.’