THE ESCAPE ROOM

The Nike douchebag is right in my face. From the nose up, he’s blank. The whites of his eyes are dull. The pupils are pinholes. His blond bowl cut is oily and limp. Below the nose, he’s fuming. Mouth twisted, teeth gritted. The huge angry zit on his chin is begging for a mirror and a squeeze.

‘Fuck off, dipshit,’ he growls. ‘It wasn’t a foul.’

‘What do you call this then, asshole?’ I lift my forearm up to eye level. A big red welt runs from my watchband to my elbow.

Nike D-bag’s lips peel away from his crooked teeth. ‘You don’t like playing hard? Then fuck off back to your figure-skating lessons.’

I hold his stoner gaze. The murmurs of the surrounding spectators go up a notch. I can’t make out what they’re saying. The talk in my head, though, is loud and clear.

He has no idea who he’s dealing with.

I flex my right hand. Fingers scream. The back of my neck feels like it’s about to split in two. I didn’t go looking for a fight today. After waking up late and not being able to do my usual anti-Coyote exercises, I thought half an hour of pick-up would be a decent substitute. I thought it would take the edge off. A brawl on the basketball court – the perfect way to finish Week 2. By my super-low standards, the first few days at Sussex were a triumph. No meltdowns. No flashbacks. The Coyote was vocal but not totally intrusive. Entering Week 2, I was hopeful about the direction in which I was pointed. Who knew – maybe I could even get my hands on a compass?

I did not get my hands on a compass. I grabbed hold of a grenade instead. The pin came out Monday lunchtime with the girl lying on the grass next to the soccer pitch. She was flat on her back, one leg bent, one arm flung sideways. Friends stood around her, heads bowed. A dude with his collar turned up was on his knees by her hip. One of the girl’s sneakers had come off; it was upside down on the painted sideline, lime-green laces untied. The reality of the situation, I found out later, was pretty tame. The girl had tripped running backwards and smacked her head on the ground. A few circling stars, a few there, theres. Nothing serious.

Trickles of sweat poured down my back. Armies of goosebumps marched on my skin. My lungs tightened. My head throbbed. My heart may have even stopped for a few seconds. I told the gang I needed to sit in the shade, the heat was getting to me.

More problems piled on after the girl on the grass. On Tuesday, I had a panic attack during the school fire drill and ended up in the first-aid room, hyper-ventilating into a paper bag. On Thursday, I froze during a practice book talk in English. And now, here it is: the icing on top of my Week 2 relapse cake. Friday recess and some bowl-cut fuckwad mauls me on a drive to the hoop. And when I call him out on it, he wants to throw down.

My heart is a wrecking ball, swinging away in my chest. Ollie’s words itch like a mosquito bite: You are not your thoughts.

She’s right! You are your actions!

Punch this asshole’s lights out!

Nike D-bag rolls a glob of spit around in his mouth, then hoicks it onto the ground right next to my sneaker.

‘What are you waiting for, dipshit?’ he says. ‘You wanna go? Let’s fuckin’ go.’

Though my right hand hurts like a mother, I ball it into a fist and draw back.

YES!

‘NO!’

My cranked hook stalls. Somebody’s holding it back.

‘Let’s go? Sounds like good advice, Mun.’

I wrestle Rowan’s bear hug, trying to lash out.

‘You don’t want to take on this one, Trey,’ he says to Nike D-bag. ‘Ice-hockey player. Knows how to throw ’em.’

He hangs on to me and gets some help from Digger. The two of them muscle me out of reach.

NO!

The girls emerge from the onlooking crowd and add their two cents.

‘Seriously, you got nothing better to do, Trey?’ says Maeve.

‘Like shave your palms?’ suggests Renee.

Caro confronts Nike D-bag, feet apart, hands on hips. ‘Get in Munro’s face again,’ she says, ‘and I’ll let Mr Wilson know you shoplifted your LeBrons.’

He laughs nervously, tells her to piss off and calls out to me. ‘Lucky your babysitters were here, dipshit!’ He gives me the finger, accepts a bounce pass from one of his gangsta goons and shoots an airball.

Rowan and Digger shunt me through the crowd and off the court. The girls follow. I’m released only after I’ve promised to be good. I breathe, counting down from twenty.

‘No doubt Trey was outta line,’ says Rowan, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘but that joker outweighs you by fifteen kilos.’

‘Twenty,’ corrects Digger.

‘You got some kind of death wish, Munro?’ asks Renee.

I stretch the fingers of my right hand. ‘Life wish, actually.’ I quickly add, ‘I’ve faced up to worse than him.’

Caro begins examining the welt on my arm. It’s a welcome development. And not unfamiliar. Caro went all Florence Nightingale on me after Monday’s girl-on-the-grass flashback. Lots of oohs and awws. The suggestion of a cold washcloth to put on my neck and forehead. And, best of all, she touched me. Four times. Twice on the upper arm, once on the shoulder and once on the face. It was a better treatment than the breath counting, the muscle releasing, the morning exercises, the ‘work with your unreasonable thoughts’ mantra – all the Ollie-advised calming techniques put together.

‘Thanks for having my back out there,’ I say.

‘No worries,’ replies Rowan. He consults with Nurse Caro. ‘Is he going to be okay for the escape room tonight?’ She nods. ‘Good. Well, Munster, I think you’ve met your quota of trouble this week.’

The others agree. Digger’s phone bursts to life, looping the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars. He checks the incoming text.

‘From Kenny,’ he says. ‘Ms Mac’s put up the placements for volunteering.’

Fair Go Community Village is always looking for Living Partners to help make a difference and create meaningful connections with our special needs community. You will provide friendship, coaching, education and experience to positively impact the residents’ life journey.

You’ll be a key part of the daily routine, with activities in the areas of vocational and educational training, community access, fitness and recreation, home maintenance, and a multitude of other life skills and fun experiences.

The role of Living Partner is a wonderful opportunity for you as a young person with energy and compassion. You are the sort of individual who views time spent with our special needs residents as a privilege.

No experience necessary.

We look forward to meeting you!

Rowan slides the print-out back across the desk. He keeps his eyes fixed on our Biology teacher, Mr Pearce, standing at the whiteboard like a six-and-a-half-foot, sweaty-armpitted praying mantis. He murmurs through a cupped hand. ‘This your placement?’

‘Yeah,’ I whisper.

‘And you don’t want to go here?’

‘No!’

‘Did Trey’s devil breath melt your brain? This joint seems like a pretty sweet set-up.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Ah. Too much baggage?’

I flinch. My vision buffers for a second, stuck in its download.

Remember Evie’s field trips? You weren’t much help, were you? Wherever they went – Science World, the PNE, Watermania – whatever the activity – eating lunch, crossing the road, walking in a crowd – you were always a helicopter. How is she doing? Is she enjoying herself? Is she listening? Is she learning?

You didn’t have to watch out for her the whole time. You know that. You loved being there. Evie loved that you were there. That should’ve been enough.

But you couldn’t help yourself.

Rowan looks down at the desk, begins tracing the scratches on the surface with his finger.

‘I get it. Dad couldn’t swim for a whole year after the rescue. We’d go to Coolum – his favourite place in the world to bodysurf – and he’d just sit on the sand, reading Rugby League Week. Sometimes he’d get the shakes and have to go back to the hotel room. Wouldn’t even look at the water.’ He stops tracing. ‘It was hard.’

Several classmates turn and shoosh. Out front, Mr Mantis scans the rows of bugs, looking for a lunch date.

I take two deep breaths. ‘This isn’t the same. I just want to do my hours somewhere else. In a place that’s … not a privilege.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Can I change?’

‘Doubt it. We call it the Voluntold Program for a reason – you do your fifty hours where they say you will.’

‘Shit.’

‘Maybe Ms Mac can help. Go see her after this.’

‘Rowan Hyde. Disturbing the peace, as usual.’ Mr Pearce rubs his hands together. His voice suggests he’s caught a fly. ‘A question for you, young man: a population, or groups of populations, whose members can interbreed and produce fertile offspring … What’s the biological term?’

Rowan twists his mouth. ‘Can you repeat that, sir? My Canadian friend here may not have understood.’

I shrink in my seat.

Mr Pearce rolls his eyes and flicks his bony arms. ‘Population or groups of populations, members can interbreed, fertile offspring produced. What’s it called?’

Rowan slaps his desk. ‘Splendour in the Grass, sir.’

The room erupts. Mr Pearce sighs and waits it out – the eye wipes, the fist bumps, the simulated sex acts. He grasps a red marker in his twig fingers and begins stalking the whiteboard.

Rowan waits for his name to get written up, then leans over. ‘Brother, if you want to avoid Fair Go, you’re gonna need a pretty good excuse.’

‘You need a pretty good excuse,’ says Ms MacGillivray, typing at the speed of light, eyes fixed on the monitor. She has two long scratches on her neck. They look like a fish gills tattoo I saw on Reddit. ‘Have you got a pretty good excuse, Munro?’

You do – you’re afraid of this Fair Go place.

Tell her.

‘I just thought students might, you know, have a choice. Seeing as it’s a volunteer program.’

Ms Mac stops typing and gives me a sappy look. ‘Oh, that’s a lovely thought. But I guess you haven’t heard the students calling it the Voluntold Program.’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I wish we could call it that, honestly.’

‘So, I’m stuck.’

‘No, you’re in prime position.’ Ms Mac gets out of her seat and sits on the edge of her desk, hands in her lap. ‘You’re away from home, on your own. Trying to fit in. And you’ve had a rough go this week, no risk. Yes, I heard about the fire drill on Tuesday. And the spat on the basketball court at recess.’ She holds up a hand. ‘That’s a conversation for another time. What I want to say right now is, give this a chance, Munro. You told me in our first meeting that you want to be better. Fair Go is tailor-made for that. I hand-picked it just for you. Spend some time out there and you will be better. I guarantee it.’

I exit the guidance officer’s digs, wondering what a Bail ’Er Swift guarantee is worth.

School week is done, eh? You made it.

No thanks to you.

So, where is this train headed? Sea World? Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary?

No.

Are we going to the beach?

I – not ‘we’. I am going into the city to a place called Liber8 with my new friends.

What’s Liber8?

It’s a bunch of rooms you have to escape from. They have clues and stuff. You race against the clock.

I think that’s stupid.

What you think doesn’t matter.

Yes, it does. You brought me here to Australia. You wanted to ‘find a place for me to go’. So, I want to go to the beach.

You will go to the fucking beach when I say so. Okay? I’ve got six months here, you know.

Not if you keep losing it.

‘Still mulling over that arsehole?’

I quit leaning against the handhold by the doors and put my weight on both feet. ‘I’m thinking about Fair Go, actually.’

‘Really?’ Rowan raises his voice over the noise of the train. ‘Stuff it, Mun. That’s in the future – this is now. Friday. You’re going into town with your new mates. We’ll go to the Snag Stand or Little Saigon afterwards. Hungry Jack’s in the mall, if we’re really desperate. You look sharp, by the way.’

Jeans, retro Grizzlies cap, old sneakers – with the exception of my Robbie Vergara tee, hardly sharp. I did take the elastic band out of my hair, so now I look sixteen instead of fourteen.

‘You’re in Australia!’ continues Rowan. ‘Here for a good time, not a long time, so that’s what we’re gunna do.’ He digs into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a small plastic bottle. ‘I reckon this might help you loosen up.’

‘Coke?’

Rowan looks around. ‘Bundy and Coke.’

‘Bundy?’

‘Bundaberg rum. Have some.’

In the summer after the funeral, I got wasted twice on ‘borrowed’ Pabst Blue Ribbon, figuring I’d test out that whole drink-to-forget thing. Although it tasted like ass, the beer numbed the ache for a few hours. And it did sort of muffle the Coyote – it sounded like it was talking through a tin can. But I didn’t forget, not for a minute. Not when I took a piss in my goalie mask or when I cried on Louis’s shoulder or when I staggered into our front yard and threw up on the garden hose.

‘Think I’ll pass.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Rowan shrugs and takes a swig before stashing the bottle back in his jacket.

The train slows to a stop. The stretch of Brisbane River we’re perched over is flat, not a ripple in sight. It looks more like earth than water.

Rowan taps me on the shoulder. ‘This bridge – people live in it.’ He points towards the large concrete support to the left of our car. A line of windows runs up the centre of the pylon. A small balcony at the top has a sad-looking plant and a line of laundry. ‘In 2011, pretty much everybody east of here went under.’

Rowan pulls up a short YouTube video called Brisbane Flood – Walter Taylor Bridge. It shows the rushing river, brown and swollen and sweeping beneath the deck. Debris enters the shot: a pontoon dragging branches, a small white boat still attached to its buoy. I watch it twice, then hand the phone back.

‘Pays to live up high, hey?’ he says. ‘No rescue required.’

A flush appears in Rowan’s cheeks and ears. I don’t know if it’s the Bundy and Coke or the YouTube video, but I have an inkling he’s about to fill in a few blanks about his dad’s heroic deed. Then the train lurches forward, pitching us both out of the moment. Rowan shudders and settles back into Friday-night anticipation.

‘Caro is excited. You were all she could talk about in Physics this afternoon. She even got roused on by Ms DiMambro for being too chatty. That never happens with Caro.’

‘Glad I’m getting other people in trouble and not just myself.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t think she’ll mind too much if there’s, ahem, a bit of trouble tonight.’ He does air quotes around the word ‘trouble’.

‘Really? You went there?’

‘Oh, I went there. What’s the matter? Worried you won’t get any alone time?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about.’

Rowan watches me fan the fingers of my right hand, then massage the palm. Before he can repeat his ‘good time, not a long time’ spiel, I point to his jacket.

‘Think I might try some of that Bundy and Coke after all.’

Rowan and I meet the others outside Liber8. Digger is pumped.

‘Been looking forward to this for a loooong time!’ he says.

‘Didn’t you do this two weekends ago?’ asks Renee.

‘Yeah, with my cousin.’

‘And last weekend?’

‘Yeah, with my mum.’

‘So when you say you’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, you actually mean seven days.’

‘It was hard, I’m not gonna lie.’

‘Just make sure you don’t give anything away,’ warns Maeve.

‘We’ll tell Jessica Mauboy if you do,’ adds Rowan. ‘I doubt she’ll want to come to a semi-formal with a walking spoiler alert.’

Digger swears under threat of electroshock therapy that he hasn’t done the asylum escape.

We enter the foyer – it’s a cross between a dentist’s office and a club – and Caro pulls me aside. Released from the Sussex school uniform, she is formidable. Mascara, eyeliner, deep purple lipstick, dark grey bangles. Hair like a black portrait frame. A bright yellow dress contrasts the shadows. She’s not breathtaking – she’s breath-giving. She’s mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

‘Are you okay, Munro?’ she asks, leaning in to combat the shouting monitor on the foyer wall. ‘I keep thinking about how woozy you were on Monday.’

The hand she has on my sleeve is burning a hole in my tee. ‘I’m good. One of those things. Won’t happen again.’

‘I brought a washcloth in my bag, just in case.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Caro.’

She notices goosebumps on my arm and smiles. ‘Now you’re cold! Mind you, so am I. The aircon in here is cranked.’

A listless guy with stretched earlobes appears from a back room and gives us blindfolds. Renee asks if she can have a whip as well. Rowan makes a crack about Fifty Shades of Renee.

I put on my blindfold. Immediately, my head feels heavy, as if the Grizz cap I’m wearing has been replaced by a football helmet. Lobe Guy tells us to line up single file and put our hands on the shoulders of the person in front. I clamp my left hand onto Renee. Caro holds on to me, giving small squeezes.

Right there and then I think, This is good. This can all work out fine.

Evie would be scared if she was here.

She hated the dark. You know that.

And now she’s in a box, buried in the ground.

When Lobe Guy tells us to take off the blindfolds, Caro, Rowan and I are in a cell with grey bars and white padded walls. Splotches of ‘blood’ dot the floor under our feet. HELP ME has been scratched into one of the padded panels to our right. In the corridor outside the cell there are three objects: a broom handle, a single workboot and a mounted picture frame with columns of weird symbols and numbers. A black combination lock secures the door. The air smells like bleach and sweat. I hear Maeve, Renee and Digger laughing and whooping next door, the sounds leaking through a gap between the wall and the ceiling. From what I can make out, they’re in a similar cell, same lock. Rowan surveys the space – barely big enough to fit three people – then pulls out the Bundy and Coke for a swig. He hands it over and I do the same. When I offer it to Caro, Rowan intercepts.

‘Not a good idea,’ he says, reclaiming the bottle.

‘I don’t drink,’ says Caro. She gives me a thin smile and twists one of the bangles on her wrist.

‘Oh, I’m … I’m sorry, Caro. I don’t like to drink either … normally. I mean, I drank a couple of times, over the summer, but it didn’t do anything for me. So … yeah.’

Lobe Guy comes to my rescue, asking for quiet so he can give us the background to our escape scenario. Standing in the corridor, where we can all see him through the bars, he pulls a manky laminated card from his pocket and reads aloud in the voice of the teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. We are trapped in a ‘home for wayward girls’ in 1920s Brisbane. One of our friends, Vera, has recently died after a prank gone wrong; she was in the attic, rope around her neck, faking suicide in the hope of guilting the headmistress out of her stern rules and cruel punishments. When the headmistress discovered Vera, she didn’t notice the hidden chair she was standing on and lunged for her. The chair was knocked out from under Vera’s feet, hanging her for real. Inconsolable over what she’d done, the headmistress flung herself out of the attic window, splattering on the ground far below. Now, we are locked up, accused of killing the woman as payback for Vera’s death. We have one hour to escape the home, prove our innocence, avoid lethal injection and elude a vengeful ghost. Lobe Guy puts the card back in his pocket and stifles a yawn. If we need a clue to help us along, he concludes, press the button on the remote provided.

Rowan claps his hands as Lobe Guy locks the doors and departs. The digital clock high up on the dividing wall begins to count down. ‘Let’s GTFO.’

These peeps are fun. A bit like your friends back at DSS, eh? I mean, the friends you used to have back at DSS. They didn’t hang out with you much the summer after Evie died, or when school started again. Apart from Louis. But even then there were times he blew you off, too.

I can’t blame them, Munro. Who wants to be around someone sad and angry all the time?

That’s not fun.

We’re out of the cells and on to Stage 2.

I’m not really sure how that happened.

I remember Lobe Guy came and gave us a clue because we hadn’t done squat in the first half-hour. After he left, Rowan and Caro figured out something that made Renee angry. She groaned and said, ‘Why the fuck didn’t you notice that before? We’re in this together!’ It had to do with the stray boot on the floor, out of reach. And the broom – that was important. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t paying attention.

I tried, early on. I tried hard to think about the clues, what they might mean. I read out the number sequences on the wall so Rowan could work the lock. I listened to the others, speaking through the gap above our cells. I even suggested there might be something in the boot at one point. But as the number on the clock got smaller, and the noise of the gang increased, thinking became too much of an effort. I massaged my temples. I bit my nails. My groin felt like water. I sat out. Literally. I sat on the cell bench, reminding myself that this was supposed to be fun, that I was here for a good time. I shouldn’t have had that Bundy and Coke.

I’m standing now, in the second room, the others bouncing around me like ping-pong balls. The scene is grim. There’s a handprint on the wall and more blood on the floor. A nasty-looking machine with wires and electrodes and switches with large handles is off to one side. A suicide note is taped to a large mirror beside the locked door; it’s signed ‘Vera’. The ceiling lights are in metal cages. They flicker every now and then, as if spelling out a warning. In my hand is a disc, smaller than a puck, with lines that look like soundwaves on one side. The digital clock in the corner shows we’ve got just over twelve minutes left.

My legs are turning to jelly. There aren’t any benches or chairs in this ugly room. I wish I was back in the padded cell.

At home, everyone knew why you were angry and sad. Apart from Rowan, these guys have no clue. They figure it’s tough for a new kid coming from the other side of the world. But is it so tough that you’re freaked out by a girl lying on the grass? Or you’re in the face of some goof on the basketball court? Or you’re afraid of volunteering with disabled people?

And now you’re standing around like you’re waiting for a bus while they work their butts off to get you out of this place?

Their voices are bleeding into each other, but I can still make out some of the talk.

‘We need to get this open!’

‘We tried that already!’

‘It’s gonna be something really simple!’

‘Calm down. Let’s think it through.’

‘Look at the time!’

I’d like Caro to stand behind me again, to put her hands on my shoulders. That would feel good. That would help.

I lean against the wall. The bricks are cool on my cheek.

Six minutes left.

Not a long time. But enough for a good time?

Let’s have some fun, Munro.

Smoke is gathering around my feet. The walls creak and groan. Someone screams. I flinch, look around.

Didn’t they hear that?

No, only you can hear it.

And see it.

You have four minutes.

There’s a body on the floor. On its side. Tucked in next to the machine with the wires and the electrodes.

It’s the suicide girl from the story – Vera. She’ll have a clue for me. She’ll get me out of here.

It’s Vera.

I know it’s Vera.

You know it’s not Vera.

You have three minutes.

She’s not dead.

She’s dying.

She needs to be turned over, put flat on her back. She needs compressions.

I look at the others, hoping they can help. They’re busy. They’ve found something. A box. The box. Opening it gets you out of here.

Where’s the key?

Two minutes left! Time is running out!

It’s up to you!

Every second counts!

I kneel down beside the body. Before I can turn her over, I need to get rid of this disc in my hand.

On the other side of the room, Renee shouts, ‘Munro! He’s got the key!’

Under a minute!

Get to work, Munro!

My hand.

It’s in agony, but I can’t open it. It’s locked.

‘Munro! You’ve got the key! Give it to me, mate! Before it’s too late!’

Twenty seconds!

SAVE ME!

‘MUNRO, GIVE ME THE KEY!’

TEN SECONDS!

SAVE ME, MUNRO!

‘LET GO OF IT, MUNRO!’

SAVE ME!

‘LET GO!’

‘JUST LEAVE ME … THE FUCK … ALONE!’

A loud buzzer sounds. The lights turn up to full brightness.

I blink. Vera is gone. My right hand slowly opens and spreads. The disc falls to the floor. There’s an imprint of its soundwaves in my palm. I press it against my aching chest, then stand, surveying the scene. Renee is a few feet away, face pale, breathing hard, fingers probing the point of her shoulder. Hair is thrown across her face, as if a gust of wind has caught her unawares. Maeve stands to the left of Renee, biting her lip. Digger stands to the right, covering his mouth. The two of them look like deer in headlights. Rowan, arms folded, is holding the box we failed to unlock and leaning against the door we failed to open.

Caro.

Her bright features are blurred at the edges. She’s got questions. Concerns.

Lobe Guy appears, seemingly out of thin air. He wanders into the middle of our silent movie and plants his hands on his hips. He has a toothpick in the corner of his lopsided grin.

‘Whaddaya reckon?’ he asks. ‘Did ya have fun or what?’

Louis goes off-screen for a few seconds. When he reappears, he scratches at his nest of red hair. ‘So, let me get this straight. The clock’s counting down to zero and this Renee, she grabs your hand trying to get the key you’re holding and you yell at her. And, as you’re yelling, you … shove her?’

I shake my head. ‘I pulled my hand away from her.’

‘But she got hurt, yeah?’

‘I kind of yanked her shoulder.’

‘You pulled pretty hard, then.’

‘I guess. It was just a reflex.’

‘A reflex?’

‘Yeah. You know, like when somebody taps on your knee with a little hammer.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Louis sucks air through his teeth. ‘What happened after your reflex?’

‘Nothing much. I said sorry, asked if she was okay. She said she was fine. She apologised for grabbing my hand. She said she got too caught up in the moment. We all went to get something to eat. It was awkward. No one wanted to do much or talk much, so we just went home.’

Lou sighs and leans to one side. ‘James lost his shit completely when we did the Egyptian room in Richmond. Those escapes, dude – they can bring out the worst in people.’

Or they can show people as they really are.

‘Did you have, like, a flashback or something?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure!’ I hold my hand against my ear and press the buttons on a pretend phone. ‘Hello, Teen Helpline? Yes, I’d like to speak to Louis Erasmus, please? What’s that? He’s too busy being a jerk?’

‘Quit it, bro. I know you had episodes and stuff at home.’

‘This isn’t home.’

‘What happened there – what you’ve just been talking about – sure sounds like an episode to me.’

Smart boy, that Louis. Very smart boy.

Lou leans in to the camera. ‘How about we switch gears, eh? What was that place you said you were going to be volunteering at? The residence for disabled people?’

‘Fair Go.’

‘That’ll be pretty rewarding, I reckon.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘What?’

‘You sound like the guidance counsellor. You going to guarantee Fair Go will make me better, too?’

‘I think it’ll stop you yanking the shoulders of those Aussie honeys.’ Lou throws his hands up. ‘Ah, crap. You’re still mad.’ He makes his own pretend phone, puts it down on the table in front of him. ‘Lookit, the jerk is hanging up. He’s off shift. He’s gonna call up a sex hotline instead.’

I laugh. ‘I’m hanging up for real.’

‘I’m here for you, Munro.’

‘Worst sex hotline ever.’

‘I’m here for you. Don’t forget it.’

Lou starts licking his lips and rubbing his nipples. I flip him off and kill the call.

The Fair Go volunteer role of Living Partner is a wonderful opportunity for you as a young person with energy and compassion. You are the sort of individual who views time spent with our special needs residents as a privilege …

We look forward to meeting you!

I switch off the lamp and turn onto my side. In the darkness, my left arm splays sideways, holding the print-out off the edge of my bed. Sometime between awake and asleep, the paper slips out of my fingers and falls to the floor.

A wonderful opportunity, it says. It will help you get better, they say. You know what I say? A place like that will make you worse.

Fair Go could be the last straw, Munro. One visit – just one – could mean the end. Of school. Of the exchange.

Of you?

Evie? Are you there? I don’t know what to do, Evie. Tell me what to do. Talk to me.

Why can’t you answer? Why are you the only one who’s off limits? I’m supposed to hear you. I read that it happens a lot. I read that it helps the people left behind to cope. But you haven’t spoken to me. Not once. Why? Do I have to die, too? Is that the deal? I have to die before I can hear your voice again? That hardly seems fair.

I looked after you, Evie. I taught you stuff. I protected you. You know how a clownfish takes care of the coral reef it lives in and vice versa? You were my coral reef. You were my world. You were my bud.

All I hear now is the fucking Coyote. I can’t stand it – for everything it’s done and everything it’s doing. The day it goes away will be the greatest day of my life.

I hate it.

I don’t hate you, Munro. I’m here for you.

Unlike Evie.