A pact

The Holden isn’t in Manx’s yard

so I take a smooth round stone

and toss it onto the roof.

A second later he swears

and comes barrelling through the door,

almost tripping on the front step.

I can’t help but laugh.

He runs towards me

and grabs me in a headlock,

pretending to punch me again and again.

I squeeze free –

neither of us can stop laughing.

‘You’re always fighting someone,’ I say.

‘Only those who deserve it,’ he answers.

We walk across to the lake and sit on a log.

Manx slaps a mosquito on his arm.

‘It’s the swamp and those mozzies

stopping you from having

rich neighbours building next door,’ I say.

‘Nah,’ he says.

‘People like you and me, Jonah,

we drag down the price of everything we touch.’

I think of Ella and me,

the simple pleasure of holding hands

and the honour of Manx

not letting Rachel get caught.

I shake my head.

‘You’re wrong, Manx.’

I look towards Tipping Point.

‘Let’s make a pact,’ I say.

‘In five years’ time,

you and I will be sitting here,’

I look meaningfully at Manx,

‘drinking the beer you bought,

and we’ll count off the residents

at Tipping Point.

I bet none of them will be the same ones as today.

They’ll all move out

bored with the lake,

the sunsets,

and the salt of the ocean.

They’ll return to Sydney

or build an even bigger house

further up the coast.

We’re as permanent as gold.

They’re as temporary as …’

I try to think of the word.

‘… as paint?’ Manx grins.