Henry and Cassie cruised the tables spread out with food.
‘Crispy noodle salad,’ said Henry, pointing at a dish. ‘Tick! My favourite. I’m going to have a big scoop of that!’
Cassie slid further down. ‘A beefy thing here. With nuts!’
‘Someone else can eat that.’
‘It might be nice,’ said Cassie.
‘I don’t think so.’
Cassie laughed. ‘You never know.’
Fish were sizzling on a nearby barbecue. Pop and Reed were standing side by side, wrapped in navy aprons. They were click-clacking their tongs and flapping their flippers like they were conductors.
‘The maestros are at work,’ said Dad to Henry, with a wink.
Crowds of people were gathered around, sniffing up the fresh deliciousness of lemon and salt and garlic and chilli. The nuggety rugrats from next door were listening eagerly to Pop’s tales of Reed’s daring adventure. ‘Now let me tell you about how the lad reeled this one in! It was an epic Moby-Dick fight, I’m telling you,’ cried Pop, pointing at the biggest fish on the barbecue.
Patch and Jay and Dylan lounged on the grass, near the water’s edge, talking with the coconut girls.
Dad slid a salad bowl onto the table. ‘Whoo-hooo! Here’s another potluck dish! Corn and bacon and avocado, with a twist of lime. So I’ve been told.’
‘Hmmm-mmm,’ said Henry to Cassie. He licked his lips. ‘Ba-con. I lo-ove bacon.’
‘Would you look at this feast!’ said Dad. ‘So much bounty to share! I can’t wait to taste them all.’ He bent and scruffed Lulu’s hair.
‘Don’t!’ Lulu reached up and pressed her hair back down. She was sitting on the grass, surrounded by the big bikies. Each one held a pony on their lap, because Lulu was teaching them, in great detail, about the art of grooming. ‘Their manes can be quite tricky,’ she confided. ‘And they get very fussy and snorty when you have to work through their knots. I find it helps if you sing to them very loudly. But not lullabies. They hate lullabies. But they LOVE love songs.’
Henry leant over another bowl and sniffed. ‘Potato salad with egg and tiny green things. Yeulch!’
‘This one is chicken caesar salad,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s got the little bread cubes in it. They are so crunchy. Sometimes they have anchovies. Do you know what they are?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘They’re tiny little fish with the biggest ker-pow taste. My Nan loved them so much she could eat them all on their own, straight from the jar. I don’t like them. They’re too salty and oily and sluggy and—whoah!’ Cassie pointed at a dish in the middle of the table. ‘Who made that?’
‘Who made what?’ asked Henry. He stared at a basket containing a crusty buttered breadstick.
‘That salad!’ said Cassie, pointing at a cracked yellow bowl, edged with pink rosebuds.
‘Are you sure that is a salad?’ Henry stood on tiptoe to look closer. It looked nothing like a salad to him. There was not one iota of green in it, for a start. ‘What are those white things?’
‘Marshmallows,’ said Cassie.
Henry screwed up his nose. ‘And the orange stuff?’
‘Mandarin,’ said Cassie. ‘Little segments of mandarin. And crushed pineapple and shredded coconut. All stirred in together with sour cream.’
‘Sour cream!’ said Henry. ‘Holy Glamoley! That doesn’t sound like a salad at all!’
‘Where did it come from?’ Cassie peered around the tents. ‘Do you know?’
Henry tugged at the collar of his shirt. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Anybody could have brought it.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Cassie rushed forward around the tables, across the grass. She gazed down the bike path as if she was searching for something. She turned and looked up the bike path.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Henry.
Cassie circled back. Her face was flushed and she was breathless, like she had run a long way. ‘That salad . . . it was my Nan’s favourite.’ She trudged back across the grass, pinching her bottom lip. ‘She always made it . . . on special occasions. And just for a second I—’
‘Ah, gosh,’ said Henry.
‘I thought . . . but then . . . of course, you know.’ Cassie’s head drooped. Her neck was thin and pale as a stalk.
Henry gazed up at the sky, at the first wish star beginning to bloom. ‘You know what?’ He stood up straight. ‘I’m going to eat a double helping of that salad.’ He clenched his fingers tight. ‘And I’m pretty sure it’s going to be delicious. The nicest thing I’ve ever eaten. Even if it does have mandarin in it.’
Cassie sniffed, then laughed, her eyes glistening.
Henry crumpled the edges of the tablecloth. ‘And anyway, who’s to say your Nan wouldn’t send you a marshmallow salad? Who’s to say she wouldn’t send you that, instead of a shooting star, so you can know she’s still thinking of you even in heaven?’
‘Oh, Henry,’ whispered Cassie. ‘Yes!’ A smile broke out across her face.
Henry blushed, red as a can of crushed tomatoes. He opened his mouth to say something more, but just at that moment Reed rushed up, huffy and sweaty. He held out a platter like he was making an offering to royalty. ‘Henry!’ he said, almost bowing. ‘The big kingie. It’s ready. It’s done. It’s all yours. I hope you enjoy it.’
Henry gazed down at the fish. It was gigantic, staring up at him with a fevered, disapproving eye. Holy Dramoley! He wasn’t sure he could eat it. He swallowed, trying to dislodge the big lump in his throat.
‘I’m going to stay right here with you, to see you take your very first bite,’ said Reed. ‘I want to know what you think!’
Henry nodded. He took the proffered platter. A puff of soy and ginger stung his nose. He glanced at Reed’s flushed, proud, anxious face.
It came to Henry then that perhaps true friends could be found in unexpected places. It struck him that sometimes a fish was more than just a fish. That sometimes a salad was more than just the bits and pieces that made it up. He knew in a flash that eating a huge, heaped plate of marshmallow salad with mandarin, topped with a barbecued kingfish with a bulging, mad eye was a big, wild way of saying yes to the grand, genius adventure of being a straight-up and true friend. And funnily enough, he wouldn’t change a thing.