Friday 29 July

It’s late. We’ve been in the pub for four hours. No one’s said anything about eating dinner. I’ve had three beers and fourteen peanuts. I’ve never been anywhere like this – it’s like a warren with beer-sopped towels along the bar, photos and curios between the bottles like what you’d find in an op shop, a scrum of old dudes and ladies sitting at formica tables with pots, and a for-real TV in a wood veneer case showing football.

The bargirl has tattoos and dyed black hair. She’s wearing a bra-top and high-waisted black skinny jeans. She’s been smiling at Stu since we came in. During a break she takes it upon herself to lounge in his lap.

‘Hey, handsome. How come I never see you anymore?’

‘You’re seeing me now,’ Stu says.

They chuckle. I nearly choke on my peanut.

The bargirl pushes Stu’s hair away from his eyes and adds, ‘Hi, Danny,’ to the hairy guy. Then she looks at me. ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Clem,’ Stu tells her.

‘Right.’ She looks at me for so long it’s uncomfortable.

Stu clamps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me towards him – a bit rough, but the contact is still thrilling.

The bargirl says, ‘Look out, honey. He’ll ruin you.’

‘Someone has to,’ Danny murmurs. He laughs. Stu laughs. I laugh. (What am I laughing at?) The bargirl moves away.

I feel really young. Really young. I don’t know what anyone’s talking about. I don’t know what it is I’m saying that Stu and Danny think is so funny. Whenever Stu goes to the bar, there are terrible, torturous seconds alone with Danny. He picks his teeth with a plectrum and looks at me and never says a word. When Stu comes back, the air changes again, and I forget Danny and drink my beer, which tastes like dead flower water.

I listen to Stu and Danny talk about bands I’ve never heard of and look around at the faces of the customers – their skin is lined like hard land. They’re scary, but Stu and Danny just talk and joke like having starburst veins and exploding noses from too much booze is normal. Every now and then, Stu looks at me, as if to ask me if I’m okay, but he doesn’t actually ask it.

At about ten, Danny finally leaves. But then it feels strange to be alone with Stu. He looks bleary, pissed. I’m not exactly sober. I feel sloppy, heavy; I can’t think of anything to talk about. His hands are on my thighs. He’s probably thinking about how fat they are.

‘Let’s go outside,’ he says. ‘It’s stuffy in here.’

He takes my hand and leads me out the front of the pub, where the Friday night traffic is in full effect, and down an alley where empty kegs are stacked, silver as the night is silvery. He pushes me up against the wall. We kiss and people leaving the pub walk right past us. One guy, drunk, kicks over a barrel and it crashes on the bluestones, breaking the spell. ‘I’d better go,’ I say, my tongue feeling all thick now I’m using it for words and not kisses.

On the tram I feel like I’m phosphorescent.

Stuart Laird McAlistair. I whisper it, affecting the accent, rolling the brogue.

All the way back to school I am amped, electric. It’s only in the dark of the grounds that I get nervous. What if Ady and Kate have told? Why did I take such a risk?

But everything is working. The portal, the empty corridor, no cavalry.

Jinx is still up, doing crunches, listening to a podcast.

‘I told Old Joy you were at the showers. She was going to come back, but she never did. How was it?’

‘It was okay. They’re okay, I guess.’

‘Jeez, Clem, you smell like a hundred beers.’

‘I had one. Please! Don’t be a cop.’

I’m so edgy. Sleep is out of the question. And I don’t want to answer Jinx’s questions so I get out Malik’s sheet to write about my ‘date’ with Kate and Ady and complete the lie. I make it all up, laying on the superlatives. By the time I’ve finished I’ve almost convinced myself that we’re best buddies. Ady is classy and generous and stylish. Kate is calm and talented and honest. I don’t write the one thing I hope: that they can keep a secret.