Jonah was right. I did need to go back to school.

I went the following weekend, but only to see Mr Wo’s mural. Jonah and I walked there on Saturday afternoon, right after he finished work. He brought sausage rolls and sauce and we sat on the bench under the callistemon and ate them in silence, staring at the most beautiful painting I’d ever seen. The whole wall was covered in fish and coral and seahorses and jellyfish and seaweed, with tiny little starfish on the rocks and sharks in the background. And everything swayed with the current. It was even more beautiful than the original, although I wish that one wasn’t lost. Now that I can never see it again, I’ll probably imagine it differently. In years to come I’ll be like Nana who remembers things the way she wants them to be and I’ll lose Dave McKewen’s drawing forever.

‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Jonah.

‘I love it,’ I replied, and it was the truth.

‘Then why the sad face?’

‘When Mum lost her wedding ring, Dad saved up for two whole years and bought her a new one. It was beautiful. And Mum loved it. But I understand, now, why she cried when she put it on. It reminded her of how much she missed the old one.’

We sat there until it got cold. When we decided to leave, Jonah walked me the long way, past the new school buildings and the netball court. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Jonah,’ I said, ‘but I’m not ready.’

‘I know,’ said Jonah, ‘but you’ve already missed a year.’

It’s a cold and windy Saturday. The Minnow and I have an hour or so until Jonah finishes work, so we’re killing time at the pet shop. Mrs Blanket has the heating on, so it’s nice and warm.

As usual I’m parked in front of the carp tank. And I’m daydreaming, which is why I get a bit of a shock when Oscar starts talking.

‘I saw her,’ he says. ‘She had long brown hair and she was carrying a snorkel. I told her the snorkel was no good unless she was going to use it, but she said it was already too late.’

‘Thanks, Oscar.’ I can’t believe he has finally decided to speak to me. ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

‘I was afraid I’d hurt you.’

‘I’m tough.’

‘I figured that out.’

If it is possible for a fish to smile, I’d swear he was smiling.

‘The Minnow says you’re dying.’

‘She’s a smart one, your Minnow.’

All four carp are side by side, almost motionless, looking at me and the Minnow. Mrs Blanket is fussing with a customer over a guinea pig.

‘Oscar,’ I say, pausing for a moment so this comes out right, ‘why haven’t you told the others?’

‘There are carp and there are carp,’ he replies. ‘These three are sweet but uncommunicative. They’ll find me floating on my side in a couple of weeks and the only one who’ll grieve will be Mrs Blanket. This lot will just take it in their stride.’

‘And me,’ I say, ‘I’ll miss you heaps.’

‘And you,’ he says back.

I turn to walk out the door.

‘Tom,’ Oscar calls after me. ‘The police were here asking questions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Just stuff about your family.’

‘Thanks, Oscar.’

And then I think of something else. ‘Did they mention Dad?’

‘I don’t remember.’

No one mentions Dad. I can’t figure that out. Nana and Papa only talk about Mum. Of course, she was their daughter. But still. It’s weird isn’t it? Or maybe I’m just extra sensitive.

Dad was tall and thin and brown. He didn’t like being inside and he spent all his time in the yard. He ate his dinner on the porch and he slept in the hammock. He didn’t come inside to shower because he had a shower in the shed and a thunderbox behind the garage. Mum said he was a paradox. She could never figure out why showering in the shed was okay, but being in the house upset him. I really like the word ‘paradox’. And I like all its alternative words except ‘absurdity’. I don’t understand how that one fits.

Everyone said Dad was talented. Mum said he could turn his hand to anything. We had a pond down the back. Dad had dug it close to the creek, with a little channel that fed it fresh water and a spillover to stop it flooding. In the middle was a fountain made entirely of scrap metal that he had scrounged from the Bunter and Davis recycling centre. Paul Bunter and Jacko Davis were Dad’s mates and would give him anything he wanted. In return, Dad did all their electrics. Dad wasn’t certified. He just knew how to do it on his own.

Dad and I got along better than Dad and Sarah. Probably because Sarah was a girly girl and I was a tomboy. And Dad never said much about anything and Sarah was a chatterbox. So Dad and I never argued, never got on each other’s nerves, never got in each other’s way. Mum said we swam in the same direction. I guess she was right about that. I never really thought about how comfortable I was around Dad until I had to fit in with Bill. Bill’s a loner. People were surprised when he took me in.

I have a beautiful new dictionary. The Chambers English Dictionary. It has one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two pages. I found this great word: ‘solivagant’. It means ‘wandering alone’. I was looking for a word to describe Dad, but I’m not sure solivagant is the one. But it’s a great word.

Mavis bought me the dictionary for my birthday. She says her husband (who is really Papa) told her to buy it. Mavis says her husband is quite sure I’m brilliant. I know this is really Papa telling her these things because Mavis has a room-mate, Betsy Groot, and Betsy told me that Mavis has never been married. I suppose Nana has always known this, too.

‘Thanks for the dictionary.’

‘You’re welcome, sport,’ says Papa. He is sitting in the rocker on the front veranda. He looks out of place at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. He looks too young.

‘I know,’ he says, when I tell him, ‘but I’m old. I’ll be eighty this November, just behind your grandmother.’

‘You’re not old, Papa. You’re fifty.’

‘No, Tom, I was fifty. Looks can be deceiving when you’re dead.’

Sometimes Papa and I sit on the veranda all afternoon. Some of the old people say hi to him as they walk past, some don’t. I guess some of them recognise him from his photo. Some don’t see either one of us. Papa calls them the sad cases.

Every hour or so, he checks on Nana. They never chat or anything. Nana has imaginary conversations with him, rather than the real thing. But I think she knows. Little things give her away. For example, she never sits on the rocker if Papa is already there. She always walks around him, not through him (like the sad cases do). And it would be just like her to ignore Papa for thirty years as punishment for leaving her so young. Mum and Dad are lucky they are together. I wonder if they have found Sarah.

Sarah is three years younger than me. Well, in a way she is four years younger now. It’s a bit confusing. When she drowned she was three years younger and that is over a year ago. Anyway, in between Sarah and me, Mum had a miscarriage. Twins. I wish I knew if it was two boys, two girls, or one of each.

I often keep an eye out, just in case they’re swimming around with the Sarah catfish. Jonah says I am getting ahead of myself when I worry about such things. He says to let it go.

I have never understood the let-it-go advice. What does it mean? Let what go? And how do you let something go if you’re not even sure you’re holding on to it? And anyway, what’s so wrong with holding on?

Papa says ‘letting go’ is new-age bullshit.

I’m wandering back to Jonah’s house in the dark, when I hear voices up ahead. The Minnow is fast asleep and I don’t want to wake her, which is a shame because she’s really good at hearing from a distance. The gravel is crunchy and noisy so I stand still. I recognise Jonah’s voice. He is laughing about something. There is a man’s voice. Older and more musical, almost like he’s singing rather than speaking. I concentrate really hard but I can’t make out any words.

‘Tom!’ It’s Jonah. I don’t answer. ‘Tom!’ he yells. ‘Come and meet Mr Wo.’

I realise I am standing in a pool of light. The moon has appeared from behind a cloud and given me up. ‘Okay,’ I call back, trying to sound normal and not like a complete idiot, and I walk the thirty or so metres to the house.

Mr Wo is really young. His name is James and he says it’s okay to call him that outside of school. He says he’d prefer everyone to call him James but that Mrs Haversham, one of the new senior teachers, thinks it is disrespectful. He has come to the house to meet me. This is Jonah’s fault, I know it. He keeps avoiding my eyes.

‘So, Tom, when do you think you’ll be coming back to school?’ Mr Wo says, getting straight to the point.

‘I’m pregnant,’ I say, and I can feel my eyes sting. Please don’t cry in front of Mr Wo, I beg them, but they ignore me, and small tadpoles drop onto my cheeks.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mr Wo. ‘Can I help?’

‘It’s all right,’ says Jonah. ‘She’ll be okay in a minute, won’t you Tom?’

I nod. Yes.

I stop crying, eventually. I blow my nose and look up to find Jonah and Mr Wo smiling at me. ‘What?’ I say to both of them.

‘Nothing,’ Mr Wo says. ‘Are you okay to talk now?’

‘I guess.’

‘You haven’t been to school since the flood, which means you missed most of year nine and it’s already September so year ten’s going the same way.’ He waits for me to speak, but I don’t say a word.

‘Okay,’ he says, pausing to take a breath, ‘how do you feel about using the next few months catching-up on year nine, with the idea of going into year ten next year?’

I look across at Jonah. ‘It wouldn’t be too bad,’ he says.

He’s right. But I’m still going to feel like a loser.

‘Tom,’ says Jonah, reading my expression, ‘it’s not like you’re repeating.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ I reply.

‘I know,’ says Jonah.

The three of us are quiet for a minute or so. Eventually Mr Wo breaks the silence. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I was thinking I could send some work home with Jonah. And I could come here once a week and check how you’re doing.’

He raises an eyebrow at me. Jonah makes a face. ‘How does that sound, Tom?’

‘Good. It sounds good. Thanks, Mr Wo,’ I say.

‘James,’ he says, and smiles. He’s nice. He has a really pretty face.

Mr Wo—James—stands to leave. ‘I’ll see you Monday, Jonah,’ he says. Then he turns to me and says, ‘and I’ll see you Friday afternoon, Tom.’

‘Yes, okay,’ I say, leaving out his name. ‘Thanks.’

Jonah and I stand and watch him walk down the drive to his car.

‘Oh, no,’ I say to Jonah, ‘I forgot to tell him how much I love the mural.’

‘Tell him on Friday,’ says Jonah.