17

Vân Ước tidied up the little kids’ area after homework club. She liked the routine: putting the pencils back in their jars, stacking the unused paper, clipping the lids on the modeling-clay containers, tidying the books away into the book bins, and making sure the gym mats where the kids lounged around and read were free of any sticky spills.

She took her time more than usual just to make sure that Billy would be long gone by the time she headed home. She sprayed and wiped down the tables (not even her job) before she got her bag, said good-bye to the church custodian, Serena, who locked up each week, and opened the door into the still-hot afternoon.

Oh, great. Billy was sitting on a swing, texting. He looked up at the sound of the door, came over, and started unlocking his bike. Vân Ước kept walking.

“Wait up, I’ll walk you home.”

“I can get there by myself.”

He wasn’t that easily put off. He walked along beside her, wheeling his bike, ignoring the periodic buzzing of his phone. “Which way are we heading?”

“I only live about five minutes away; I really don’t need…”

“You were great in there,” he said. “You know every kid. How long have you been doing this?”

“Just since last year.” Despite having done what Jess suggested, and letting him come along to see her in her natural habitat, he had no real idea of who she was. It was time to take the plunge. This would be sure to get rid of him. “Before then, I was a student here. I’ve been coming here every week since year five. My parents hardly speak any English. We live in the high-rise public housing, like most of the kids who come here. Tutors, like you are now, go home to Toorak. Students, like I was, go home to the apartments.”

Billy stared at her. “Cool. So at least I know I’m heading in the right direction.”

Huh? He hadn’t skipped a beat. Did he already know? She glanced at him. He was wandering along, appearing not to have a care in the world. His phone buzzed again. He took it out of his pocket, read the screen, and sighed.

“Are you going to Tiff’s tonight?”

“Ah—no. We’re not friends.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to go, either. Only it’s her birthday drinks. So I should. I guess. But why? Why do I have to do all this stuff?”

“Because she’s your friend?”

“Yeah, but not really. And I have to be up at five.”

“So, maybe—go home now?” He really stuck around like glue, and didn’t take a hint.

Billy smiled at her. “But this is the best part of my day so far.”

“You must have had a pretty ordinary day.”

“Can we go back to your place and hang for a while?”

Vân Ước looked at him. He did not seem to be joking. “No. We can’t. My mother’s not well.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

“She… I’m not sure that she’d want me talking about it.”

“No, cool. I’m sorry. Hope she feels better soon.”

They were at the gates of the apartment complex. “Okay, bye,” said Vân Ước.

“See you on Monday,” Billy said, wheeling his bike away with a plausible impression of regret as Matthew walked up, wearing his ever-present, genuine—as he was keen to point out, though who cared?—French beret, whistling tunelessly between his teeth, and greeting Vân Ước with a familiar yo.

Jess broke up a block of Turkish delight chocolate, her confectionery mew, looking very stern.

“Billy. Huh. What an arrogant, self-centered dick,” she said. “He was strutting around like he owned the place. First visit!”

“That’s typical behavior.”

“Well, I can’t see why he’s your mew guy.” Jess ate a piece of chocolate. “Except for he’s magazino handsome.”

“Yeah.”

“And cut. He must do nothing but work out.”

“He’s the stroke of the first eight.”

“Which means?”

“It means when he’s not studying, he’s training. It’s the top position in the school’s best rowing crew.”

“Right.”

“Which he holds in year eleven—so, he’s the king of rowing a year earlier than you might expect.”

“So, he can row very quickly? Big deal. He’s not good enough for you.”

“What did you think? I mean, did you get a sense of what he thinks about me?”

“He’s besotted, you idiot. You have won the heart of one very hot dickhead.”

Frowning to hide her annoyingly automatic thrilled response, Vân Ước pressed play on their Friday movie, Clueless, which they hadn’t seen since last year. “That was way harsh, Tai,” she said.

“Not even a quarter of the harsh he deserves. Seriously, we couldn’t be friends if you went out with him.”

“Our friendship is safe.”

Vân Ước reached for a piece of the Turkish delight chocolate, which made her think of Narnia, of bewitchment, and of little glass vials.