Declan and I are in the alleyway between our houses.
'Can I feel your boob?' he asks, scooting closer.
'Why would you want to do that?'
'All the guys at school were talking about boobs today. I said I had felt yours, so now I need to do it so it will be true. I don't think it's properly a lie if I do it within twenty-four hours.' He hooks his arms around his knees.
'You want to feel my boob so you can tell your mates? Correction – they're not even your mates – just some guys. You want to feel my boob for people you don't even like! This is peer pressure. You're pressuring me into letting you exploit me sexually.'
He frowns. 'I'm not exploiting you sexually! I just want to have one little squeeze!' He puts his hands up in defeat. 'Fine! Forget it! I don't even want to any more. Make me a liar. It's not like it would hurt you. I thought we were better friends than this.'
'Declan! That's not fair!'
'Pllleeease? I'm just going to put my hand on it for two seconds.'
I squirm for a moment. 'Okay.'
Declan reaches for the hem of my shirt.
'Over clothes,' I say quickly.
He inches closer and then puts his hand on my breast – cups it. I'm looking in the other direction. Chairman Meow is washing himself on the back step. He's giving me a disapproving look. He thinks I'm a skank. Chairman Meow has never got over being given a joke name. He's an angry young cat.
It's been more than two seconds. 'How much longer?' I ask.
'Does it feel good?' Declan wants to know. 'Because one of the guys at school said that girls moan in ecstasy when you feel their boobs, and I've seen it on the internet.'
I shrug. 'It feels okay. I'm not in ecstasy though.'
'Why not?' he asks. He reaches out with the other hand.
I move away. 'You said one boob.'
'How come you didn't moan in ecstasy? Doesn't it turn you on?'
I sigh. 'Declan, you don't get it. If a girl really likes a boy then it doesn't matter what he does – whether it's feeling your boob, or when he says "pass the tomato sauce", you moan in ecstasy. When you say "pass the tomato sauce", it's all about the sauce.'
'Oh.'
'And as for those girls you've been looking at on the internet, you do understand they get paid to do that stuff, don't you? It's not real.'
We sit silently for a moment.
'How's the cancer going?'
'How's the gambling addiction?' he snaps back. He gets up and stalks down the alley.
'Declan,' I call after him.
'Shut up, Jenna-Belle. This could be the last time we see each other. Do you know that? I could die tonight and then think how sorry you'll be.'
'Why would I be sorry?' I call after him. 'I just granted your dying wish!'
The screen door slams behind him.
I go inside and stare into the empty fridge for a few minutes.
Bryce Cole wanders down the hallway. 'Fight with your boyfriend?' He grins at me.
I'm supposed to squeal and object, but instead I just curl my lip.
Declan has a crush on me, but it might just be because I'm convenient. He's not very experienced with girls. I tease him about that, but the truth is I don't know much either. I've always gone to girls' schools. It's like the beer thing. We're practising on each other, except I haven't told him, or he would dare me into doing stuff more often. Everybody pretends that girls aren't interested, but I'm probably as curious as Declan is – almost.
There was this boy who had a piano lesson after mine when I first started high school, and I would stand on the doorstep of the piano lady's house and we would flirt with each other. When I climbed in the car my mum would sigh and huff, all How come it took so long? Didn't you see me waiting here? because she's so passive-aggressive, but she was the one who wanted me to play the piano. So I gave piano boy the eye, and waited for him to ask me out, but he never did.
I do wonder about how far I should go with Declan, because I know I'm supposed to wait for that really special guy, but in all the movies there is always the hot, dangerous guy, and then the guy who's loved the girl all along, and he always ends up being the right one. So I could just skip the hot, dangerous guy part and be with Declan, who is literally the boy next door.
But then maybe it's a conspiracy, and all the chick flicks are written by a syndicate of guys like Declan on a mission to get chicks to be with them. Or alternatively, there's a secret syndicate of girls-next-door who want to keep all the hot, dangerous guys to themselves. Who knows?
Mum comes in and puts her house keys on the kitchen bench. She's flicking through the mail. She drops the unopened letters on the table one by one. I recognise the logos in the corners – Telstra, Energy Australia, David Jones, American Express, Sydney Water. She finds one that interests her and runs her thumb under the lip. She tosses it on the counter. It's her driver's licence renewal reminder. Her licence is out of date. She opens the last letter. While she's reading, she presses the button on the answering machine.
Beep. Hi Sue, this is Melanie from accounts receivable . . .
Mum presses fast-forward.
Beep. This is Jason calling about your Visa card statement . . .
Beep. It's Melanie again . . .
The phone cord is all tangled up beside the answering machine. Mum tries to untangle it, but it just gets more knotted, so she slams the handset back down and picks up the last letter.
'Beep. This is Mr Morris from The Finsbury School . . .
Mum's finger hovers over the fast-forward button.
I'd like to talk to you about a complaint we've received from the Australian Jockey Club. While Jenna-Belle is temporarily not a student of this school we would certainly appreciate her not attending gambling venues or bars in The Finsbury School uniform.
Jughandles! You bastard!
The Principal and I consider this a matter of great concern and urgency. My number is . . .
Mum presses fast-forward again and the machine emits a long beep – end of messages. She stares at me.
'They must have the wrong student,' I blurt.
She holds out the piece of paper. I'm not taking it – not this time.
'We've been sent a section fifty-seven two B of the Real Property Act. It says we have to repay our loan in full or vacate the property within thirty days. It's just a piece of paper that came through the post.' She stares at the page. 'I would have thought something like that would be on bright red paper, or that you'd have to sign for it. Something. You can't be ambushed like this in the normal mail.'
'They can't kick us out!' I tell her. 'What are they going to do? Flush us out with a SWAT team?'
'They send the sheriff,' Bryce Cole says.
I have a vision of Clint Eastwood on our lawn, eyes all squinty, picking his teeth with a paspalum stem. Behind him is the bearded posse with shotguns and spotty horses.
Are you ready to vacate? Well, are ya?
All I can think about is the beer in the roof space. Now the sheriff is coming. They're going to sell our house with a ceiling full of half-drunk beers. They'll wonder why we did that. How embarrassing.
This could be a stress response. I should be worrying about where we're going to live, or the fact that Mum knows I've been going to the track with Bryce Cole. I'm not really worried though. They're not going to kick us out. Not really. We'll build a fort.
Dad will come back. He'll have won lotto. He'll give the sheriff the money in a briefcase, like in the movies. Okay, maybe not like a movie, but something will happen. Mum can go down to the bank and talk to the manager, and if we have to, we can just move back into a smaller place.
Sheriff-schmeriff. They can't come in and remove us forcibly. We live in the first world. We have civil liberties. I learned about it in legal studies.
Bryce Cole slips his fingers into his breast pocket. He unfolds a wad of notes and counts them onto the kitchen bench in front of my mother.
Four hundreds and six fifties.
Mum puts her hand over them, but she doesn't say anything.
'Rent in advance,' he says. He slaps his hip pockets and the car keys jingle. 'I was going out to get some takeaway Chinese. Would you like some?'
Mum is sitting very still with the piece of paper still held out in one hand and her other hand resting on the notes on the bench. She looks stiff, as if she's a shop mannequin.
'Thank you. You have no idea what a difference this will make.'
'I have an idea,' he mumbles, and then he leaves.
I can see why porn is bad, how drugs are bad, and why drinking is bad, but I don't get how gambling is like that. It's not dirty. It's fun. No one gets hurt, or sick, and no one is being exploited. Everyone who's there makes their own choices about how much they can afford to spend. If you're not willing to lose it then you just wouldn't bet it in the first place. What's the big deal?