I couldn’t go on doing that forever or I’d need major surgery. Take me as I am, or don’t take me. That’s what I decided.

Relax. It’s okay.

Shari didn’t say that out loud, but as we sat down, her facing me and looking happy to be there, I heard those words in my head. It was her voice that said them. Most probably I imagined it, but whatever, it worked.

We drank hot chocolate and ate raspberry muf- fins. And took turns at talking. Shari went first.

She had two sisters, both older than her.

Rachael was getting married next year. Emily was in a convent training to be a nun. There was a mum and a dad, and two cats.

‘But what about you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m not very interesting.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Okay. You’ve twisted my arm. But where do I start? Well - I love acting. From when I was little I was always doing a drama class. I’ve been in four plays. Never the major role. I was the girl in the back ground who screamed or giggled- they were my best acting qualities. Ummm - my best friends are Amy and Kendall. They’re Harry Potter experts. You can ask them anything - they’ll know it .. . I miss them.’

‘You don’t see them anymore?’

‘No, wish I did. We were at Saint Brigid’s together. But then - almost a year ago now - I had to move on.’

‘How come?’

‘Don’t ask.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘For a while I didn’t think I’d survive, but I did. I’m doing okay now.’

The words that had evaded me when we first met were now lining up eagerly and clamouring to get out. I had heaps of questions.

Where do you live?

Wiry haven’t I seen you brfore? And what does ‘doing okay’ mean? But Shari got in first.

‘That’s enough about me,’ she said. ‘What’s your story?’

I wanted to make it sound riveting, like a book you can’t put down. But my life wasn’t that kind of book. Sticking to my plan about taking me as I am, I blabbed out the boring truth.

‘Since I was twelve,’ I began, ‘I’ve helped out at the family servo. Mum does the accounts and works in the shop. I’ve got a little sister, Karen. She goes to the shop, too - but only to be annoying. Mum says that’s her job. Dad’s the mechanic. When I leave school - which is any time soon - he wants me to come work with him. Says he’ll teach me the trade.’

Shari folded her arms. Her sunny face became a stern, no-nonsense one.

‘Is that what you want, Andrew?’

‘No way. I don’t know about cars - don’t want to know. I want to write.’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘So it’s all settled. Just tell him that. Problem solved.’

Shari didn’t know my dad.

‘Thanks,’ I told her. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘You better.’ She wagged a finger at me. ‘I’ll know if you don’t.’

Soon our drinks and muffins were only a fond memory. Shari looked at her watch, confirming my fears - it was time for her to go.

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.’ She pushed back her chair and stood. ‘This has been fun. But you know how it is - things to do, people to see.’

‘Maybe we could meet up again some time?’ I tried to say it as casually as I could, as if it didn’t really matter to me.

Her answer wasn’t made of words. She took my hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. I swear, in that second, there was no one else in the mall, in the country, who felt what I did. It was like my heart lifted up, and all the drudgery that had been my life, was swept away.

She strolled off, and less than a minute later I wanted to kick myself for not at least asking for her mobile number. I had no way of contacting her. I asked around at school the next day, but drew a blank. A mystery girl; that was Shari.

All the same, in the weeks that followed, I felt that she wasn’t far away. I sensed that she was with me when I dyed my hair jet black, to match my new clothes.

Also, I think it might have been Shari’s idea for me to have one thick and dangerous lock draped across my forehead. It looked like a monster’s claw emerg ing from primeval slime. The slime was hair gel. I was considering getting a lip-ring, too, but the body piercing shop wouldn’t give me a general anaesthetic.

And I was sure Shari was right beside me, nearly a month later, when I at last found the courage to tell Dad that I wouldn’t be joining him in the servo, because I was going to be a writer.

‘Writer? You gotta be jokin’!’ That was his response.

‘Andrew’s always talked about writing, George.’

Mum was in my corner, as usual.

‘My point exactly.’ Dad jabbed a hole in the air with his finger. ‘All he ever does is talk. This is twad dle, Dorothy. I’ve never seen anything he’s written yet.’

‘He’s done plenty,’ Mum said. ‘All sorts of stuff

But he’s only ever let me see one thing.’

‘Is that so?’ Dad turned to me. ‘Well how come I haven’t seen this masterpiece, then?’

‘It was nothing.’ I shrugged. ‘Forget it.’

‘It was a poem.’ Mum straightened her back as she said it and stood up tall. Like she was proud. ‘He didn’t show it to you, George, because it was about you.’

‘A poem?’

He looked at me, scratching his head and seeming perplexed.

‘You wrote a poem about me?’

‘Yeah, Dad.’

‘That’s about the dopiest thing I ever heard.’ Mum sighed, loudly. ‘Andrew knew you’d react like this.’

Dad slumped deep in his chair and scraped a hand up and down his chin. I’m pretty sure I know what he was thinking -

Gawd! Cars aren’t as much trouble as people!

‘All right then,’ he said finally, ‘give me a look at this fiamin’ poem.’

‘I tore it up, Dad. It was garbage.’

‘It wasn’t garbage.’ Mum’s arm circled my waist.

‘It was about a boy who believes his father doesn’t know the first thing about him - doesn’t care about him.’

Dad grimaced.

‘You don’t see how sad he gets, George. It’s right there in front of you, but you never see it.’

I tried to stop her.

‘Please, Mum. Drop it.’ She didn’t.

‘He’s like that because he can’t get close to you; can’t talk to you. He’s different, so you’ve shut him out, but he’s still your son, and he still loves you.’

Dad’s eyes moved slowly from Mum to me. He gulped and for a second I thought he might spill a tear. But he huffed, and blinked it away.

‘Was it any good, this poem?’

‘It was very good, Mum said.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, George. Really.’

Dad clicked his tongue. His brow was deeply fur rowed. It was an exact replay of how he looked when he first saw my dyed hair and Goth gear.

But this time he wasn’t angry.

‘I don’t care about ya, eh?’ he said to me. ‘You big hairy galoot. Come here.’

My dad was big like me, but where I had flab, he had muscles. He was bald and his nose was bent and he stomped more than he stepped. He looked like a wrestler who’d overdosed on head-butts. But when he hugged me, he was just my dad.

I never saw Shari again. Didn’t expect to, really. But to this day I still spend an awful lot of time in libraries.Just hoping. Hoping and writing.