Rani took me to Café L’Incontro, one of the few coffee places in the middle of Melbourne that’s open twenty-four hours. It’s right near the Town Hall, and it’s not just open around the clock, it’s open and makes good coffee.

We talked, drank espressi, I had one of their sensational burgers, we talked some more, Rani had some tortellini. My birthday had been looming for some time now, as they tend to do. To tell you the truth, I was a little ambivalent about it. On the one hand, I’d survived another orbit around the sun, yay! On the other hand, other stuff. Like resurfacing memories I can do without.

Eighteen was turning into nineteen, though, and that got me thinking. Nineteen was different. It wasn’t just inching over the threshold into legal adulthood, it was right in there, wedged tight, no going back, no more ignoring all the adult things I wasn’t interested in. If those politicians decided that an election might be fun, for instance, I’d actually have to vote.

Politics. Yay.

Since nineteen was pretty much unavoidable, I decided to fan the flames of this slow-burning maturity thing I had going. I made a very private, very secret birthday resolution to grow up a bit, and not just because ‘Geez, Anton, grow up a bit’ was something I’d heard so often it was finally sinking in. I thought a blend of youthful and energetic Anton with mature and thoughtful Anton could be irresistible. I’d keep all the good bits of young me and slap on an extra layer of wisdom and responsibility. And gravitas, which was a word I’d bumped into recently and decided to adopt because it followed me home.

In one sense, it’d mostly mean not saying some of those smart-arse things my motor mouth loves coming out with. But if a smart remark can distract me from the seriousness of the situation, that’s a good thing, right? Except, maybe, when it becomes a habit and covers up feelings I really shouldn’t cover up.

People. No wonder I find them complicated, especially when they’re me.

Step One in this Anton Maturity Program was to grow a beard, something I’d been working on for a while.

I know, in years to come I’ll be grateful for my youthful features, but at eighteen going on nineteen, getting mistaken for a kid is a pain in the bum. I’m a grown-up, dammit! That’s what the law says and I agree with the law when I agree with it.

One thing had held me back, though – Dad had a beard. Not that there was anything wrong with that, apart from the way it was going all flecky grey. The trouble was that he’d make a point about it, how I was taking after him, modelling myself, like father like son, yada, yada, yada. I’d like to be as certain about the next Melbourne Cup winner as I was about this.

Still, leaving that aside, a beard had a lot going for it. Instant maturity, for one. I was counting on instant respect, instant admiration and instant hero worship, too. And think of the money I’d save on razor blades, shaving foam and Band-Aids!

In my mind, I played with various visions of Hairy Anton. Full Ned Kelly, Soulful Artist, Generic Hipster, Jazz Musician and even Out of Work Actor. The thing was, I didn’t realise that you don’t grow the beard, the beard grows you. Once I committed, you see, it was as if the whiskers had been waiting for their chance, straining at the leash. They sprang into hairy life, but they were all over the place, sprouting like weeds. The result was patchiness – so much patchiness – and I had to make decisions on my beard direction if I wasn’t to look like a complete idiot.

Soul patch? Evil Overlord goatee? Victorian gentleman mutton-chops? But the patchiness was epic in that part of my face in a way that would have made Simpson Desert scrub look like a rainforest, so that was out.

In the end, I decided to keep it short in a kind of chin strap/moustache. Understated but undeniable, and it had the virtue of uniting all my bits and pieces into something whole. Took a while, but bit by bit it filled in and I had it under control.

I was so ready for the next idiot to call me Baby Face. I’d come back with, ‘You mean Baby with a Beard Face!’

Zing.

Apart from the sad memories, I mostly like birthdays, especially mine, because presents. I like giving presents as well as getting them, you see. Finding something cool for the right person, that’s fun. Wrapping it up neatly, though, not so much. Sticky tape and I have a difficult relationship, going back a long way. There’s a family legend about Dad finding five-year-old Anton sitting on the floor tangled in most of a giant roll of sticky tape, along with nearby furniture, a couple of houseplants and a wooden spoon that belonged to a neighbour. Baby brother Carl was mesmerised by this, apparently, screeching his high-pitched laugh, the one that made people in nearby suburbs rush outside and scan the skies for incoming spaceships.

There’s nothing like family legends. Some truth, some reality, and a whole lot of stuff designed to embarrass.

Rani and Bec were all over this idea of a party and both declared that nineteen should be a memorable one. I could see that. Old friends blending with the friends from the new world of early adulthood. Lots of fun, lots of laughs, maybe an embarrassing speech, and in the end some of the old friends might wind up going home with some of the new friends in a gorgeous rom-com meetcute sort of way.

Of course, since I’d been homeschooled all my life I didn’t have a huge range of long-time friends to invite, and my new adulthood had been totally taken up with ghost hunting, which isn’t the greatest way of meeting people. Encountering ghosts and sending them to their reward? Shedloads of that. Introducing yourself to co-workers/fellow students around the photocopier? Yeah, nah.

Besides, the sorts of people you usually run into when ghost hunting aren’t the sort to bring home and meet the parents, if you know what I mean, Rani excepted. The ghost-hunting world attracts unusual types, and let’s leave it there, okay?

Bec and Rani had decided that their flat was the best place for the party. In a brief, stupid moment I put in a bid for holding it at the bookshop, not because the bookshop would be a better venue, but because I liked books.

That was one of those increasingly frequent times when Rani and Bec looked at each before one of them answered. This time it was Bec. ‘Nice idea, Beard Boy, but we were thinking less reading, more dancing.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to read the day after your birthday,’ Rani said. ‘And you’ll need it, because I’m equally sure you’ll get lots of books as presents.’

I had to reach out a hand and steady myself against the wall at the prospect of a mountain of new books all of my own to read. So good. ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘And remember,’ Bec said, ‘a gloomy guest of honour is no fun.’

I saluted. ‘Roger, skipper. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Charming, polite, well dressed and funny, with heaps of top-quality conversation to go around.’

‘Be yourself, Anton,’ Rani suggested.

‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’