9 p.m.

This is how it goes.

I am standing in a corner, ’cause I always seem to find myself standing in corners. Not in the centre of the sweaty, heaving dancers, and not in the back sunroom with the stoners and smokers. Definitely not too close to the front door — that would imply that I’m eager to escape, or eager to be seen. Party rules are vague and complex, but even I know that eagerness is never a good look.

I am holding a warm beer, handed to me ages ago by some guy in a baseball cap. He might’ve been one of Abdul’s brothers, but it’s hard to know for sure who lives here. I reckon there’s, like, eighty bajillion people crammed into this tiny house, and, unlike our primary school socials, none of them are wearing nametags. Man — how many life situations could be clarified by nametags? Like, the guy hovering next to me with that smarmy look on his face? His nametag would read something like, ‘Hi, I’m Ian! I’m gonna try to start a conversation by commenting on the juiciness of your lips, and will probably cop a feel of your arse as you try to flee.’

Yeah, and no doubt my tag would read, in pointy all caps: ‘Gabrielle. Wicked crabby, despiser of parties, hater of mankind. Approach with caution.’

I take an accidental sip of beer. It tastes like what I imagine the Razaks’ bathroom floor might taste like right about now: a soupy combo of dirt and cig butts. A hip-hop song is blasting, the walls and windows vibrating with bass, and the grind of dancers in the lounge are feverishly yelling the lyrics, as though there’s some cosmic affinity between this ramshackle house on the edge of the Broadmeadows train line, and South Central LA.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be hiding in the Razaks’ granny flat with the other dorks who only score an invite to these things because their group, mysteriously, contains people who are considered cool. I should be exchanging snarky observations with Lara in front of Abdul’s TV in said granny flat, or skulking with Tommy and his maths-nerd mates. I should be sharing silent, knowing glances with Louis, who went to round up our friends ages ago and has yet to return. Hell, if I were honest — I should be home, in bed, with a book and my daggy sixties music, which would reap me so much crap if these people knew it was the music I preferred.

I should be giving Ian my practised f-you face, ’cause even without looking I can feel him inching closer, the threat of mouth-breathing bearing down upon me.

Instead, my eyes are locked on the dancers. They’re all silhouette and shadow, the dark broken only by the glow of a dozen mobile phones. In the middle of the space is Cameron, familiar floppy black hair a head and shoulders above almost everyone else in the throng.

There’s nothing unusual about Cam being smack bang in the centre of the crowd. If there’s a crowd of any kind — in Year 12 Theatre Club, or the Chinese Youth Society soccer team his parents made him join — Cam will inevitably find himself in the centre, the rest of us mere mortals drawn to his smiling, too-pretty light. It’s weird, ’cause in all the years that we have been friends, I’ve never found it intimidating — Cam is just my tall, affable, popular friend, who Mum likes to describe as ‘our very own Gene Kelly’. I had to google that one, and no, I still don’t get it. Though I suppose the shiny hair and perpetual shiny confidence do sort of fit.

Yeah, it’s not unusual to see Cam grinding it up on the dance floor. Except, if this were any other party, Cam’s side should be occupied by his beautiful girlfriend, ’cause Claire and Cam are never more than tongue length away from each other at these things. Claire and Cam are perfect, broad and tall and dark to tall and slim and light; kind and confident to warm and funny, and their babies would be adorable and flawless, like the mixed-race kids from a Bonds commercial. For four whole years, this is how it’s been. Cameron and Claire are inevitable.

But now, as the music shakes the sticky floorboards, Cameron is kissing a tiny girl with bright-blue hair, and all I can think is this has to be some kind of elaborate Claire-and-Cam prank. My brain is doing strange things — well, stranger things than usual — but it seems to be telling me that one of my best friends is kissing some chick who is not one of my other best friends, and definitely not the person he is supposed to be kissing. My brain might be short-circuiting, but man, all I can think is that they do not look inevitable together. They are wrong, and incongruous, and would have some weird-arse-looking kids, with his cheekbones and her disproportionately long neck. Like photoshopping an otter’s face onto a horse.

A hand grabs me lightly around the back of the head. I drop my gross half-beer with a squeal. Even through the pounding decibels, his low voice penetrates.

‘Gabrielle? Are you hyperventilating? You look like you’re hyperventilating.’

‘Argh, Louis, let go!’ I yelp. I straighten, fleetingly caught off guard by his calloused palm on my hair. Lou shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s not much taller than I am, but is all shoulders and muscles and square, stubbly jaw, the boy my mum has always described, affectionately, as ‘the thug one’. Though in Mum’s estimation, Tommy is ‘the nice one’, and Lara is ‘the chatty one’, and Claire is ‘the pretty boy’s girlfriend’, like my friends are characters in some lame-arse sitcom.

Lou’s thick eyebrows furrow. He’s wearing his uniform of faded jeans and a black T-shirt, a pack of smokes peeking out of his pocket. He smells faintly, familiarly, like tobacco and generic shampoo. I grab hold of his arm as my brain tries to hammer out some words.

‘Gabe? Why’s your face that colour?’ Lou asks, dark eyes travelling back and forth between mine. ‘You look like you’ve seen —’

But Lou is no longer looking at me. He’s followed my gaze, and he’s clearly caught sight of Cam, judging by his open-mouthed double take.

‘Oh. Shit,’ he says.

I grip his hand and use it to point through the crowds, somehow hoping that our combined power will cancel out whatever insanity is happening here. ‘Lou — what is going on?’ I yell. ‘What’s Cam doing? And who the hell is that girl?’

Lou has recently shaved his dark hair almost to the scalp, but a hand unthinkingly lifts to tug at the non-existent strands, his habitual nervous manoeuvre. ‘Dunno. I mean, I guess him and Claire had a tiff or whatever, but —’

‘What in the freaking hell is this?’ A tinny voice squeals.

Lou and I spin around. Lara is standing next to us, hands on her hips, substantial chest heaving like she’s sprinted here.

Lara rounds on us, an accusatory finger pointed. ‘What is Cameron doing? Did you guys know about this?’ she yells over the music.

‘Lara, chill,’ Lou rumbles. ‘Look at Gabe. Do you think we know anything?’

Whatever is happening on my face makes Lara downshift from burly tempest mode. She has a smear of lipstick on one canine tooth, and it’s normally my job to be on teeth patrol for Lara and her red lipstick, but none of that matters because the cosmic calamity continues as Claire materialises beside us.

I am frozen in shock, but Lara, always the more dramatic of the six of us, leaps in front of Claire. She grabs Claire and steers her around so that her back is to the dance floor. Lara shoots Lou and me a look of desperation; Lou takes a step back, disengaging as he is prone to do whenever any hint of emotional drama threatens.

‘Listen, Claire-bear, let’s go outside,’ Lara says quickly. ‘Tommy shouldn’t be left alone with those guys from Lou’s Greek school. Let’s go find him before they dare him to chug a bottle of Sriracha again.’

Lou shoulders a little in front of me. ‘Ah, yeah,’ he says, his gravelly voice pained. ‘Outside. Let’s do that.’

Claire shakes off Lara’s hand and turns around, pale ponytail swinging. It’s like watching a car crash, a slow-motion building demolition; as disastrous as witnessing Tommy attempt to pull off a Panama hat for a month in Year 10.

Claire blinks at the dance floor. She smooths away an imaginary wrinkle in her dress. A pink-nailed hand reaches up to straighten the single heart on her necklace, a Valentine’s present from Cam, which she has worn for as long as I can remember. And then she turns to face us again.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘So that’s Isla. I kind of imagined she’d be taller.’

Lou superglues his shoulder to mine, tension humming through his skin. Lara’s mouth opens and closes, but for once, Lara seems to have no words.

I round on Claire, my eyes bugging. ‘Wait, what — you know about this?’ I yell over the music.

Claire takes a nonchalant sip from her giant red cup. ‘Well, yeah. I think Cam met her at the English exam last week.’

The three of us stare at Claire. She, quite painstakingly, avoids our eyes.

‘But … you guys … you just had a fight!’ I say. I hear the panic in my voice, and I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t seem to hold it back. ‘You and Cam always fight, and you always make up. What … Claire! You can’t be okay with this!’

Lou looks kind of angry, or as angry as his deadpan face ever gets. ‘Gabe’s got a point,’ he rumbles. ‘It’s not right. Even if you guys are on the outs, or whatever. He’s being … disrespectful.’

Lara nods vigorously, but Claire just gives Lou a swift, shrewd look that makes him scowl and avert his gaze.

Claire closes her eyes. ‘Yeah, okay, look,’ she says slowly, gesturing for us to huddle closer. ‘We knew this was going to be tough for you guys, and I am a little pissed at him because we said we would talk to all of you together, but, the thing is …’ She crosses her arms defensively, and I feel a heavy, horrible weight settle in my guts. ‘Cam and I have decided to break up,’ Claire says flatly. ‘It’s been coming for ages. I’m sorry we didn’t say anything sooner, but you guys …’ Her face scrunches, and even though my entire world is shifting on its axis, I’m also a bit flabbergasted, because I think Claire might be trying not to laugh. ‘You guys are maybe just a wee bit invested,’ she finishes with a grin.

My eyes ping-pong between Claire and Lara, Lou and Cam, but I think my brain stalled somewhere back at, ‘So that’s Isla.’

Claire sighs. ‘Look, guys, this is gonna take some time for you all to process, but really, it’s for the best.’ She smiles brightly, like she hasn’t just pitched a giant flaming turd bomb into the centre of our group. ‘Come on, think about it. Uni starts soon, and honestly, I think we’re both kind of relieved to be starting it … free.’

No, no, no. This wasn’t part of our plan. For four years it’s been Claire and Cameron, ever since they hooked up at Tommy’s fourteenth birthday party. Every movie night at Cam’s house, bigger and nicer than any of the rest of ours, and every Saturday trip to the movies in the city; every lunch hour hanging on the edge of the soccer field watching Cam train; every after-school session at the greasy chicken-and-chips place at the train station. Every plan for next year, our first step into freedom, so close I can almost taste it — it’s always been Claire and Cameron. Yeah, so maybe we are a wee bit invested. But, man, with the rest of our shitty, messy lives? Claire and Cam are the closest thing any of us have to a gravitational centre.

Claire gives us her best sympathy eyes. ‘I know this is unexpected,’ she says, her voice that patented, soothing Claire tone. ‘But it’s fine. Everything is going to be okay. It’s all good.’

No. No, no. ‘It’s all good’ is not acceptable for this situation. It’s what you say when you fail a quiz that doesn’t count towards final marks, or when Lou once again finds himself sleeping on Cameron’s floor, ’cause Lou’s mum is entertaining another Tinder date. It is not a satisfactory explanation for the only people in your life who are supposed to be rock-solid and unbreakable, one of whom is currently snogging a girl with indigo hair, who — oh my God — now has her hands right up the front of his shirt.

I close my eyes, trying to take myself to my happy place underwater with nothing but silence and my breath through my diving regulator. I haven’t been to the ocean in months, what with exams, and my dad’s wedding plans ballsing up my life. It’s a little hard to visualise the peace of submersion with the brain-busting music, and Lou’s too warm arm practically pasted to mine.

Claire shrugs. ‘It doesn’t have to change anything,’ she says. The song switches to something even more thumpy and aggro, and someone on the dance floor hollers, dislodging the light fixture with an ill-timed arms thrust.

Claire casts one last look at the dancers and then disappears through the lounge-room door. Lara hurries after her.

The press of bodies has jammed Lou flush against me, enveloping me in his familiar smoke-and-shampoo scent. He looks uncomfortable, and totally thrown. Not a good sign, considering Lou dealt with the news of his own parents’ divorce with nothing but a stoic shrug and a weekend Fast and the Furious marathon.

‘Lou! This isn’t right!’ I yell, my voice getting lost. ‘What are we gonna do?’

Lou cups a hand over the shell of his ear. He leans down, presumably to hear me better, the brush of stubble against my cheek briefly ticklish. I take a deep breath, trying to find the fortitude to repeat myself, just as someone jostles Lou, and my lips accidentally brush his ear lobe. Lou leaps back with a start.

Then a slurry, wet voice beside me burbles, ‘Hey, has anyone ever told you you’ve got really sexy lips?’ And Lou grabs my fist before I can launch it at gross Ian.

So this is what it’s come to.

Stuck inside this crumbly house with a life that’s suddenly crumbling, too. And for the first time, I can’t be sure my friends will be there to salvage the pieces.

10 p.m.

Lou and I scramble into the kitchen behind Lara and Claire. It’s like the last days of Casablanca in here, jammed with shouting people, every surface overflowing with cups and cans and the remnants of sausage rolls. Over by the fridge, Vanessa Nguyen is crying, noisy and damp, and her friends are scrambling around proffering paper wipes and fierce sympathy words. The usual party drama, fuelled by some crisis that’ll no doubt be dissected to death over the next few hours. The magnetic letters on the fridge behind Vanessa’s head have been rearranged to spell out the words: Hassan Fahed has a face like a cat arse. Commiserations, Hassan, whoever you are. You have my sympathy.

Lou scratches at his stubble, the raspy sound all too familiar when Lou is feeling beleaguered. ‘Shit. Where’d they go?’ he growls. ‘And has anyone seen Tommy?’

The few people in the vicinity who know us shake their heads. The few people who don’t offer some useless advice, and a few anatomical unlikely places where Tommy could be hiding.

Lou and I always find ourselves together at these things. Partly ’cause Lou is about as social as a hermit crab, or one of those octopuses who lug a coconut shell around, just so they have a handy place to retreat. I guess us social lepers and misanthropes must just gravitate towards one another; at least that’s my explanation for why Lou and I, strangers then, ended up hiding together in the PE equipment room at our Year 7 formal, silently smacking a shuttlecock back and forth between us, tentatively bonding over the stupidity of the rest of the world.

The touch of cool glass against my neck snaps me back to the moment.

Lou holds out a bottle of Limonata, the top popped. It’s my favourite, and not usually found in these parties of off-brand cola and cheap plonk.

‘Where did this come from?’

Lou shrugs. ‘Brought it from home, didn’t I? Better than Abdul’s stash. Didn’t even know Romanian beer from Aldi was a thing.’

I take the bottle, weirdly unnerved by the gesture. ‘Oh. Um, thanks, Lou.’

Lou shrugs. ‘S’okay.’ He clears his throat. ‘We better find Tommy before he hears about this shit through the grapevine.’

There is a crash from the other side of the kitchen. A guy I vaguely recognise shoves his face against the pantry door, shading his hands against the slats. ‘Oi, you guys!’ he says to no-one in particular. ‘Reckon someone’s doing the business in here.’

Lou and I exchange a look. We hustle through the crowds, to find Lara and Claire trading whispered words inside the kitchen pantry in between bags of rice and cans of Spam.

Lara squints at us as light floods the cupboard. ‘Get in here, Gabrielle,’ she hisses, hauling me and Lou inside and slamming the door behind us.

There’s barely enough space for one normal-sized person in here, but with Lou’s bulk and Lara’s boobs, it’s as crammed inside as a novelty clown car. I feel the pulse in my temple start to pound, in time with the shithouse club music.

‘Suppose we couldn’t have this conversation out on the street like normal people?’ Lou grumbles. He lifts his arms above his head to make some space for me, and wiggles his backside into a shelf of tomato cans.

‘Not my fault,’ Lara snaps. ‘Spend less time at the gym, G.I. Joe.’

I bristle. ‘Hey, he’s not the one with a skirt that could double as a circus tent,’ I hiss, shoving the voluminous fabric of Lara’s skirt out of the way.

Lara Saliba has lived three doors down from me since forever. She’s my oldest friend, but weirdly, not my closest. It’s like we’re linked together only by proximity, and our stupid Mills & Boon names. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to death, but her hectic energy and constant shoutiness are just a bit much to cope with, one on one.

‘Yeah okay, sorry Lou,’ she says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘But, you know, forgive me for being a little bit tense. This is an emergency!’

‘So what’s the plan, then?’ I whisper, ’cause urgent whispering seems to be called for in this situation. ‘Lou, maybe you should go talk to Cameron?’

Lou grunts. ‘And say what? You think I’m gonna be able to stop him pashing a rando? I can’t even get him to stop putting McDonald’s in his mouth —’

I elbow him in the ribs. ‘How about, “Dude, since when has your thing been girls who look like cartoon characters?” Who even has blue hair —’

‘Yeah, I reckon we could start by letting Is-la know she’s peed on the wrong lamppost,’ Lara says, crossing her arms. ‘I haven’t been in a fight since Year 7, but I still reckon I could take her —’

‘Christ, you guys!’ Claire yelps. It’s dark in here, and I’ve been momentarily distracted by the gluggy sound of someone puking outside the door, accompanied by a few expletives, and a lot of cheering. I’d sort of forgotten Claire was even here. ‘There’s been no peeing on anything, Lara,’ Claire hisses. ‘Has it even occurred to you guys that this was my decision, too? Why are you all acting like I’m some sort of hopeless bystander?’ Claire crosses her arms. ‘I know you’re upset, but that’s actually really … freaking insulting. And, by the way, none of this is Isla’s fault. That poor girl is not the issue here!’

The smell of vomit wafts into the pantry. I have a cast-iron stomach, but Claire’s rant is making me queasy, and even in the dark I know Lou’s face would be paling. I’m not sure that he’s going to make it out of here without a sympathy hurl right into the Razaks’ basket of cucumbers. Lou grabs my arm. He sways precariously sideways.

‘Okay, we’re done,’ I say, yanking open the door. My friends may have crossed over into some alternate dimension of stupidity and obtuseness, but I refuse to spend another second of this hellish party trapped in a freaking kitchen cupboard.

I tug Lou’s hand, and he follows blindly. I have no explanation for the giant ball of anger that coalesces as the kitchen light hits Claire’s face, I only know that I need to get away from her before I say something I’m gonna end up regretting.

Outside, Brian Cheng from my chemistry class is face down on the floor, a puddle of bright vodka-and-orange sick near his head. His friends are pointing and laughing. One of them is in the process of tying his shoelaces together.

I step over his prone body, dragging Lou behind me, depositing the untouched Limonata on a bench as we pass.

‘We’re going to find Tommy,’ I call over my shoulder.

Lou is holding his breath, his hand clasped firmly in mine. I’ve seen Lou gag after catching a glimpse of rubber novelty puke at Claire and Cam’s last Halloween party, so I drag him quickly towards the laundry door, refusing to acknowledge Claire’s anxious plea behind me. I know it’s ridiculous, and yeah, probably a bit self-centred, this fury I can’t seem to quash, that Claire’s problems have upset my life. And, irrationally, all I really want right now is a hug from Cameron; Cam always has a ready hug for even the smallest of traumas, freely given and uncomplicated, one of the few people whose touchy-feelness doesn’t make me squirmy.

God — I have been friends with Cam for way longer than I have known Claire. Does this mean that I’m supposed to be on his side? What am I supposed to do if these two people don’t come as a pair now? I have this mental flash of my future, managing my friends like I manage my parents — conversations conveyed through me in terse Chinese whispers, and Cam hiding behind the agapanthus as he collects me for an awkward dinner that’ll be filled with not-at-all-subtle digs at his ex — and I kind of want to join Brian Cheng in his epic kitchen-floor puke.

Instead, I hold tight to Lou’s hand and cast a last look over my shoulder, leaving Lara gesturing frenetically at Claire, and Claire looking kind of resigned amid the Razaks’ groceries. They can stay there for all I care.

11 p.m.

I lead Lou through the laundry, down the concrete steps and outside into the warm, smoke-filled air. It’s a little less jammed here, the space beneath the carport hosting various pashing couples, and what looks like an impromptu game of tequila pong. At least, I think that’s what’s supposed to be happening; as far as I can see, the game seems to involve nothing but a bunch of giggling idiots sprawled across the table-tennis table, amid empty bottles of Jose Cuervo.

Lou lets go of my hand as soon as we hit the open garden, but he sticks close as we move through the crowd. It’s like we’re in some kind of shared daze, swapping occasional glances loaded with confusion. Lou’s looking less greenish now, though the line of consternation between his eyebrows has yet to vanish.

‘What should we do?’ he asks as we head past Abdul’s crowded granny flat.

I cast a glance around, but Tommy is nowhere in sight. Part of me hopes he has given up and gone home, but with everything that’s been going on with his folks lately, I shudder to think what our normally cautious friend is up to right about now.

‘Gabe …?’

‘Louis, you reckon I have a plan?’ I manage to reply. ‘Dude, clearly you’re getting desperate.’

Somehow, Lou and I end up wandering towards a group that has congregated behind Abdul’s flat, a rectangle of grass that borders their neighbour’s fence. The Hills Hoist stands near an overgrown lemon tree, school shirts and, like, a thousand pairs of boys’ boxers flapping on the lines. If the Razaks’ place is anything like mine, the clothes will hang there until someone runs out of socks or jocks — being rained on, and drying, and being rained on again, till they’re stiff and crispy.

Abdul Razak waves us over. The guys are playing a game of Cards Against Humanity in the dim space, lit with phone torches and a few scarlet cigarette tips.

‘Hey, guys!’ Abdul says with a wave of his red cup.

‘Hey, Abdul. Great party,’ I say flatly, since spewing bile about what I actually think of this party would probably be impolite.

Lou plonks himself on the grass beside me, slapping hands with Abdul and a few other people from school. He glances suspiciously at the faces he doesn’t know, his unconscious scowl and muscles enough to make a couple of guys drop their eyes.

‘So I hear your boy Cameron gave his girl the flick,’ Abdul says, sculling his drink. ‘Man, thought those two would’ve been sending out wedding invites or some shit soon. What happened?’

Lou shrugs. ‘Pretty sure it wasn’t just Cam’s call. But yeah.’ He glances at me. ‘Looks like it.’

Abdul whistles. ‘Whoa. Who saw that coming?’ He refills his cup from the nearby bottles of Bundy and Coke, managing to spill half of it on his jeans. ‘So you reckon Claire’s ready for some Abdul action?’ he says with a lascivious grin.

Lou scowls again, taking in Abdul’s over-processed hair, and jeans that don’t look like they’ve seen a washing machine all year. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re her type,’ he says dryly.

Abdul doesn’t seem fazed. He waves his cup at me. ‘So how’re you doing, Gabrielle? Suppose this means we’re not gonna be seeing you around soccer training anymore, yeah?’ He peers at me curiously through hazy booze eyes. ‘What … are you into again?’

It strikes me that I have no idea how to answer that question. Not even my mum has a nickname for me. I am not the pretty one, or the funny one, or the smart one — I am too awkward to be the future superstar, too scrawny to be the thug. Suffice it to say, I am definitely not the nice one. I am the one who circles behind the others, who keeps myself locked tight in case anyone sees that I’m part of this group for no reason other than fluke circumstance.

God. I’m not just going to lose some of my friends, however this plays out. I’m going to lose the only parts of my personality that anyone cares about.

Beside me, Lou shuffles a little closer. ‘Gabe’s into plenty of stuff,’ he says, with a look at Abdul that makes him return hastily to his card game.

Lou tucks his feet awkwardly beneath him. His brow is furrowed again, and he looks like he wants to say something to me, but then Rema Jabbar appears, stepping accidentally into the pile of cards and sending them flying. There is a chorus of swearing and curses, but Rema brushes them off with a shrug. She drops down beside us.

‘Hey, you guys — ah, you might wanna go check on your friend Sowinski? He’s not looking too great.’

Lou sits up straighter. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, the guy with the ranga hair, right? He’s one of yours? Think he’s passed out in the hallway. Last I saw someone was drawing a Sharpie face on his arse. And what’s the deal with his dad?’

Lou and I exchange an alarmed look as we leap to our feet. ‘Tommy told you about that?’ I ask.

Rema grabs a drink from Abdul. ‘He’s telling anyone who’ll listen, but he’s not making much sense. Something about his dad running off to Queensland with a chick from accounts? Sounds harsh.’

But Lou and I are already hurrying back through the garden, ignoring the calls behind us and the now half-naked tequila-pong players.

We find Tommy Sowinski in the hallway near Abdul’s parents’ bedroom, carrot hair sticking up like some mad scientist, wire-rimmed glasses askew, pants attempting to free themselves from his arse. His typically placid face is shiny and animated, his normally shy grin very slightly deranged. Beside him is Cameron, sans blue-haired Isla. Lara is hovering on his other side.

Awesome.

Lou makes a growly sound. He pushes a few people aside and clears a path for us. And then he slaps Tommy on the back of the head. ‘Sowinski — what are you on?’

Tommy just giggles. ‘Lou! Nothing, man. Just had a couple of beers with your friends. And wine. And, oh, I think someone had Campari? Man, that stuff tastes like mouse wizz. But your mates are cool, dude.’

Lou turns his back on Cameron, pointedly ignoring him. ‘They’re not my mates, Tommy. And since when do you get shitfaced?’

Tommy giggles again, but there’s a hint of pain in his eyes, too. ‘Yeah, well, what else am I gonna do? Go home to the crying and yelling? Hang here with these guys?’ He waves a hand in Cam’s direction, and hiccups. ‘Can I just say how excited I am for more crying and yelling? So great!’ he yells, his jeans wiggling even further down his legs.

Lara attempts to secure Tommy’s pants. Cameron gives us a cheeky smile, but there’s something defiant in it as well. He slings an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. ‘Dude, there’s not going to be any crying or yelling. Claire-bear and me are fine.’ He gives Tommy a squeeze. ‘Come on, man,’ he says with a laugh. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

I’ve always had a soft spot for confident Cameron, but right at this moment, all I want to do is kick him repeatedly in the ball sack.

I close my eyes, desperately trying to dredge up whatever vestige of underwater peace I can find. But this corridor is stifling and stinks like beer and sweat, and nothing of ocean calm is forthcoming.

God, could I be any lamer? Still dreaming of becoming a marine biologist, which is so incredibly childish and pathetic, not to mention impossible with my spectacularly average final score. It’s juvenile, like wishing for a castle and a pet unicorn. Like wishing for me and my friends to all end up living together in a pretty house with a picket fence and a pair of labradors.

Tommy slides down the wall. Lou and Lara grab him under the armpits and haul him upright. Cam stands back, observing their efforts with his smile that’s always seemed kind and genial, but now just seems crap-eating and smack-worthy.

I consider, briefly, just walking out of here. But then Tommy looks up at me through his coke-bottle glasses, his woozy eyes all lost and sorrowful, and my feet find themselves not moving anywhere.

Midnight

I don’t want to be here.

If my world is going to fall apart, I don’t want it to be in this place of booze and grime, forced laughter and preening selfies, while two guys in their undies dance on the hallway sideboard.

Did I mention I really don’t want to be here?

I could go home. My place is less than four blocks away. I could easily take myself and my shallow, feckless heart home to bed. But then what? It’s Saturday, without even the distraction of school on the horizon. No, scrap that — the clock has ticked over, placing me smack bang in the midst of Sunday morning.

Sundays are the worst. Sundays are supposed to be family days, filled with lazy breakfasts and morning TV and slumming in pyjamas till late afternoon. I remember Sundays being market days, and when I was little, zoo days and park days and movie days, back when Mum and Dad were still Mum and Dad, and not the warring pair of strangers that they’ve morphed into.

Sundays are, like, the most pointless days of the week now. There’s nothing more depressing than waking up and knowing that nothing at all is going to happen today, that getting out of bed is optional, ’cause it doesn’t make a scrap of difference to the world whether I’m in it or not. The only reason Sundays are ever bearable are the bored mid-afternoon drop-bys from Tommy or Cam, the impromptu homework sessions with Lara and Claire, or the last-minute invites to breakfast at Lou’s house with his mum and grandma. Maybe I never fully appreciated just how much I relied on the steady presence of my friends. I should have guessed even that would be fleeting.

Lou wraps an uncertain hand around my wrist.

‘Hey,’ he says quietly. ‘I reckon Tommy’s gonna need the loo in the next thirty seconds ’cause I’m pretty sure whatever he’s drunk is on its way back up. Um …’ He clears his throat. ‘You doing okay?’

I glance down at his hand. His thick, stub-ended fingers curl almost fully around my skinny wrist, and even though he’s not holding on tight, I feel the heat from his skin like a brand. It feels, in this moment, that the only thing stopping me from running out onto the street with a hysterical banshee scream is the warmth of Lou.

As though my hand is operating independently of my brain, I lay my palm over his. It’s like, just for this moment, I can’t bear to lose the contact. Gooseflesh on Lou’s skin pebbles beneath my fingers.

Tommy chooses this moment to unceremoniously remove his pants again. He moves surprisingly fast for someone who still can’t seem to figure out how gravity works, brushing aside a laughing Cam as he whips off his jeans and throws them at the guys still dancing on the sideboard. The pantsless dudes whoop and yell back incomprehensibly, that special vocab only recognised by the chronically drunk and stupid.

Lou lets go of me and grabs hold of Tommy. I collect his jeans from the place they have landed on the Razaks’ umbrella stand, trying not to notice that Tommy is now wearing nothing but faded Simpson boxers with a hole in the left arse cheek.

Lou shoves a shoulder under Tommy’s arm, and Cam does the same on Tommy’s other side. Lara hustles some people out of their way, clearly now in charge of this expedition.

Lou shoots a harried look at me. ‘Just a warning, Gabe — he pukes on me, and you’re gonna be helping clean sick off two of your mates,’ he says with a wry grin.

I fling Tommy’s jeans over my shoulder. The little patch of pale arse skin that’s visible through his boxers seems to wink at me.

‘Yeah. That seems about right,’ I mutter, before following them into the bathroom.

1 a.m.

Lou and Cam hoist Tommy into the bathtub, thank all the gods, now with his pants on again. Someone bangs on the bathroom door, yelling something unintelligible. Lou bangs back wordlessly, but his meaty fist is threatening enough to make the frantic thumping pause for a moment.

‘Shit, Tommy, you need to start hitting the gym,’ Cam says with a laugh. He clears away some cans and bottles and shoves Tommy’s legs over the stained rim of the tub. He scans the disgusting swamp floor, and fishes Tommy’s glasses from beneath a pile of soggy loo paper.

Lou grabs the glasses from Cam, not too gently, and lays them between the half-empties on the vanity. ‘Lay off him, dude. At least some of this is your fault.’

Tommy giggles, then groans. ‘Oh, dude, you should see your face,’ he says, waving a hand at Cam. ‘I dunno why there’s three of you, but all your faces look like they’ve swallowed poo.’ Cam peers incredulously down at Tommy. Tommy squints up at him. ‘’Cept, why is the left one of you so furry-looking?’

Lou shoves past Cameron, but then hovers beside the tub like he’s not sure what to do next. ‘Great,’ Lou mutters as Tommy giggles at nothing in particular. ‘So much for lookin’ out for him. Right, Cameron?’

Cam rounds on Lou, his smile disappearing. He may be the sportiest guy among us, but Cam has never been an aggressive dude. Now he puffs out his chest, his shoulders thrown back. ‘You got something to say to me, man?’

Lou straightens to his full height, too. He tucks his hands into his back pockets, the muscles in his arms popping. ‘Nah. Not much I can say to my mate who’s acting like a giant dick bag.’

Cam takes a belligerent step towards him. He’s way taller than Lou, but thinner, and the menacing effect he’s going for is kinda diminished by the flapping piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. Lou holds his ground, the muscles across his back tensing. There’s barely enough room in here for the five of us, much less Cam and Lou’s puffed-up posturing, and I want to do something, say something that’ll wind back this madness, but I have no experience with my guy friends behaving — well, like guys. It’s Lara who steps between them.

‘Seriously?’ she growls. ‘It already stinks like a mortician’s compost in here. We don’t need the added stench of festy testosterone, thanks very much.’

I manage to unfreeze long enough to insert myself bodily between Cam and Lou as well. I place one hand on Lou’s chest, ignoring Cam’s glare. ‘Come on, Lou. This isn’t helping,’ I say weakly. ‘Tommy needs us right now.’

‘Tommy needs a reality check,’ Cam says, eyeballing Lou over the top of my head.

Tommy waves a hand, scattering the row of novelty soaps on the edge of the tub. He struggles to sit up, unfocused eyes suddenly cheerless.

‘Okay, how’s this for reality?’ Tommy bleats. ‘Everything ends. Life is meaningless and relationships are pointless. No-one sticks around and nothing lasts. We’re all going to die alone anyway.’

Cam grins at him. ‘Much better,’ he says brightly.

Tommy hiccups. He leans over the side of the tub, dry heaving, before collapsing onto his back. Lara sits on the edge of the tub and rubs tentatively at his shoulders.

Lou gets right up in Cameron’s face. ‘See this? This is your fault. You couldn’t just wait to sort out your business till Tommy was more solid? You know the last couple of months have been shithouse for him, and you still couldn’t care less, could you?’

Cameron throws up his hands. ‘Lou, are you seriously saying you wanted Claire and me to pretend to be crazy in love, just to make Tommy feel better about life? What is this, some shitty screwball comedy? Is one of us wearing a fake moustache in this scenario?’

Lou moves in front of me and shoves Cam in the chest with a thick index finger. ‘A moustache might improve your face, arsehole.’

Yeah, Lou has never been quick with the insults. Cam bursts out laughing. Even Lara, busy mopping at Tommy’s forehead with a wet chunk of toilet paper, chuckles. Lou looks filthy, like he’s not sure whether to storm out of the bathroom, or punch Cam in the head.

I, on the other hand, am beyond over this party. I grab hold of the edge of the vanity, the anger and uncertainty that have been building all night boiling over. I’m fully sober, but the world beneath me is spinning and spinning —

‘Argh, for fuck’s sake, stop it!’ I yell.

Cam and Lou recoil. Lara’s eyes widen. Tommy stops his dimwitted giggling. Even the relentless pounding on the bathroom door ceases.

‘Enough,’ I whisper, instantly deflating. ‘That’s enough. There’s no point … it’s done, and over, and blaming Cameron isn’t going to fix anything.’ My eyes are locked on Lou’s worried brown ones. ‘It’s no-one’s fault. It just … is.’

And I realise, as I’m saying it, that the words are true. No-one is to blame here. Not Cameron and not Claire, and, God forbid, not Isla. It’s not Cam’s and Claire’s fault that the rest of us have clung to them like desperate barnacles, too scared of the boundlessness of our futures, too afraid of being cast adrift. But Tommy is right. Everything ends.

I take a deep breath, willing myself to be a grown-up and sensible, but no amount of mental pep talks can seem to stop my eyes filling with tears.

Lara jumps up, but it’s Lou who is suddenly at my side. He drapes a hesitant arm around me, all smoky traces and solid muscle. I wrap my arms around his middle, trying to convince myself that I’m holding on tight for his sake as well as mine, since Lou’s face becomes a delightful shade of puce as Tommy retches in the bathtub.

What is going to happen now to the six of us? How can we still function with a giant fracture down our middle? I know I should be more concerned with my own total lack of a plan or purpose. But all I know is that these five people are my anchors, and one by one, it feels like they’re cutting me free.

2 a.m.

Tommy is asleep in the tub now, snoring, his face tucked into a cushion that Lara found in a bedroom. She brushes his hair back with an affectionate huff.

Cameron, wisely, decided to vacate the bathroom. Who knows where Claire has gone? I can’t even bring myself to care anymore.

I’m perched on the closed toilet seat, peeling the label off one of the Razaks’ shampoos. Lou is leaning against the door, tapping his packet of cigarettes distractedly on his forearm. I can all but see his fingers itching to light up.

I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, mostly silent, lost in our own worlds. Outside, the party continues, the beat still shaking the house, and despite the fact that the cops have now visited twice, it’s still so loud that I know it’ll be ringing in my ears well into the day.

Lara stretches out her legs from her place near the tub. ‘Christ, you guys,’ she says with a groan. ‘How long do we let him sleep it off? This tub isn’t exactly ergonomic.’

I wiggle my butt on the uncomfortable toilet lid, and I remember a conversation that the six of us had one night at Cam’s house a few months back. Claire and Cam were planning to look for a house near the city, one of those sweet terraces that we pass on the tram when we occasionally head out east. They’d been talking about it since Year 11, but time was ticking, and their vague plans had suddenly started becoming real. Tommy was going to rent a room with them, already saving money from his shifts at KFC, and claiming his mum’s old couches before she sold them on eBay. Lou wanted to stay close to home, not knowing if he could afford anything else on a mechanic’s apprentice salary, and Lara’s parents were still freaking at the prospect of her travelling into the city for uni, let alone moving out of home. I had made no plans, but I wasn’t worried; content with the fizzy exhilaration of hearing my friends sketching out our future.

For some reason, it’s the thought of Tommy’s couches that finally snaps whatever composure I was holding onto. Two blue, sunken, Fantastic Furniture rejects, safe under plastic wrap in his parents’ shed, waiting for their new home, that I see turning to dust before my eyes. Maybe his mum will just put them out on the street with the rest of his absent dad’s junk. And the couches that should have been the centre of movie nights and pizza nights and random sleepovers will be relegated to the unknown of someone else’s life.

I stand and back up till my backside hits the bathroom wall. And then I shove Lou aside and pull open the door, pushing past a girl doing a pee dance in the corridor, and I bolt for the nearest exit.

3 a.m.

I stumble into the front yard, stepping over a guy snoring beneath a rose bush, and around a couple whose tongues are so far down each other’s throats that I don’t know whether to avert my eyes or offer them a round of applause.

I bolt to the edge of the garden, gulping in the warm air. From here, I can see the whole expanse of the narrow road — the house across the street with its pin-neat garden, and the one next door with the overgrown grass and collection of beat-up cars. A little way down there’s a house almost identical to this one, with peeling cladding and a concrete porch. At this moment it’s filled with couches and a group of big guys, all beers and booming laughter. Everything is too close together here, everything looking one step away from the decayed neighbourhood in some soon-to-be apocalyptic wasteland.

I slump against the wire-mesh fencing and sink to the ground. The Razaks’ house seems to throb, the walls pulsing with music and the dying remnants of a party that’ll no doubt be repeated in some other house next weekend.

I close my eyes, with a lump in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow. Our neighbourhood is never properly quiet; even now, the early morning is overlaid with the voices of the guys across the street and the sound of distant car horns. I hate this place. But I can’t help loving it, too. And in my whole entire life, I’ve never been able to decide which emotion is going to win out.

My eyes are still squeezed shut when a warm body drops beside me. The faint hint of smoke follows in his wake.

‘What do you want, Lou?’ I mumble.

I open my eyes and glance sideways at him. His too-large frame is squished between me and the rhododendron bush near the letterbox, pink flowers haloing his shaved head. Despite everything, a rusty laugh escapes me.

Lou wiggles himself into place. ‘You okay, Gabe?’

I sigh. ‘I dunno, Lou. Probably not. I’m sorry about the dramatics though,’ I say, waving a hand in the direction of the house. ‘Everything just really … sucks. You know?’

Lou’s head turns at the choking sound on the other side of the lawn, as the pashing couple disengage with way too much saliva than is probably hygienic. He snorts.

‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘But whaddya gonna do? People are gonna do what they want, right, not what we expect them to do. I reckon you’ve just gotta roll with it. You can’t control everything. Or everyone.’

I rub my hands over my eyes. ‘Yeah, I know that. I know I’m being stupid —’

He nudges my shoulder. ‘Hey, I never said that.’

‘You didn’t have to,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘I realise I’m being ridiculous. But it’s not just Cam and Claire though. It’s everything.’ I tug at a handful of dry grass, rubbing the russet stalks through my fingers. ‘I just really hate this feeling that nothing at all is … permanent. You know?’

I rest my head against his arm with a sigh. Lou tenses slightly beneath me. ‘It’s over, isn’t it,’ I whisper. ‘Cameron and Claire … and the rest of us, too. Nothing is going to be the same, now. Is it?’

A faint chuckle rumbles through Lou’s chest. When I look up at him, I don’t think it’s me he’s laughing at. He looks kind of sad, and resigned. He looks like the same old Lou, pragmatic to the core, rolling with whatever crap life throws his way.

‘Gabrielle,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s kinda scary having the … the rug pulled out from under you, or whatever. I get it, you know I do. Not everyone stays, right? But, you know, not everyone leaves either.’

I blink at him. Lou looks away, hastily fishing out his cigarettes and patting down his pockets for a lighter. I take the pack from his hands before he can light up. ‘Ugh, and speaking of permanent — when are you gonna quit, Louis? Don’t know if you’ve heard this, but these things aren’t exactly extending your lifespan.’

‘Huh. So does that mean you want me to stick around?’

I turn to look at Lou properly, only to find that he is staring down at me, his face close, eyes kind of weirdly dilated.

I swallow. In the dark, Lou isn’t easy to read. His eyebrows are drawn, tight and tense, and if I didn’t know him so well, I’d almost peg that look as dangerous. But I do know Lou, and to me he looks nothing but bewildered. His mouth looks strangely soft, lips slightly parted, even though he barely seems to be breathing.

For the briefest instant I think he’s going to run, or I am. But somehow, insanely, I move forward, not backward, my brain figuring out what is happening just a few moments behind my body.

Kissing Lou is weird, so weird, like adjusting to breathing under the ocean; not instinctive, not at first, but not totally unnatural either. There’s no choir of angels singing, no exploding fireworks; I can feel every touch of his lips and every move of his tongue, ’cause I’m totally here and present in this moment. I open an eye to the sight of one familiar thick eyebrow, and the feel of raspy stubble against my cheek, which is all kinds of odd, and, strangely, kind of nice, too.

Lou pulls away from me. His breathing is heavy, the dusky skin of his cheeks stained pink. He looks away quickly, but then he seems to steel himself. He draws his shoulders back and looks me square in the eye.

‘I’ve wanted to do that for ages, Gabrielle,’ he says. His voice is even huskier than normal.

‘Oh,’ I say quietly. I feel my face crack into a strange, shy smile. ‘For how long?’

Lou’s eyes widen. He grins at me. ‘Since, like, Year 8?’

I straighten my back against the wire-mesh fencing, schooling my face into neutral, even though inside I’m feeling all crazy and buzzy. ‘Oh really? Even with the braces and glam-rock hair?’

Lou chuckles. ‘Yeah. Think it might have been the hair that did it for me. ’Sides, I can’t talk. Remember my blond phase?’ He shudders. ‘Ma said I looked like a Greek Dolly Parton. Can’t believe you stayed friends with me after that, Gabe.’

I nudge him back, leaving my hand resting alongside his. ‘What can I say, Lou? My tastes have always been questionable.’

Lou touches the edge of my fingers, warily, his smile disappearing. He scratches at his stubble with his other hand. ‘Gabe?’ he begins uncertainly. ‘Um, so … what should we do now?’

I glance at the Razaks’ house. I think about my friends scattered somewhere inside; Cameron and Lara and Tommy and Claire, all doing their own thing, wherever they might be. Lou’s question feels like it’s loaded with more than I know how to answer.

I leap to my feet. And then I reach down and I offer him my hand. He stares at it for a moment before grabbing hold and letting me pull him up. This is probably my cue to let go, but I hold on to Lou, winding my fingers through his. Screw letting go. Maybe I’m just a wee bit nervous — okay, make that a wee bit gigantically terrified — but I refuse to let go until he does.

‘Louis? I have no idea what we should do now. But I think — no, I know — that I could really use a cheeseburger.’

Lou smiles at me and squeezes my hand. He leans down and pecks me on the lips, just briefly.

‘You want to go?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. I suppose we should go back for a bit and see who we need to drag with us. But either way — I think I’m ready to leave now.’

4 a.m.

This is how it goes.

We’re walking down the street as the first hint of a watery orange sunrise stains the edge of the sky. Lara is propping up Tommy as they stumble in front of us, her heels in her hands, his glasses lost somewhere in the disaster that is the Razaks’ house. Tommy is using Lara’s entire body as a man-crutch, since he still seems to be incapable of coordinating his legs. Around us, stragglers from the party drag their feet towards the train station, laughter and groans and a few honking cars hustling alongside. We left Cam and Isla catching a ride with one of his friends from the soccer team, Cam’s arm defiantly around Isla’s shoulders. Claire left a while ago; apparently she took off with those girls from the debating team for 7-Eleven slushies and doughnuts hours ago. She’s texted me though; I guess I’ll text her back at a more civilised hour. Lara is still grumbly, although whether it’s caused by the Cam-and-Claire drama, or the fact that her heels are now covered in Tommy’s spew, is anyone’s guess. And Lou is holding my hand. Or I’m holding his. I can’t remember who was responsible for the hand-binding situation, who grabbed on to whom first. I’m not sure if it’s all that relevant.

Every now and then we will catch each other’s eye, a surreptitious sideways glance that makes Lou blush and my stomach tumble. Every now and then, Tommy will turn around and squint at the two of us, like he needs to keep checking on the continuation of our existence, and Lara will cast a glance over her shoulder, this dumb, gleeful smirk on her face.

Lou squeezes my hand. ‘So how long do you reckon we’re going to cop shit for this?’

I shake my head, with a bubble of laughter that I can’t contain. ‘Um, I reckon summer holidays are going to suck? I wouldn’t plan on them letting this go anytime before uni graduation. Maybe keep, oh I dunno — say the next decade free?’ And then I realise what I have said, and my entire face fills with heat.

But Lou just grins and squeezes my hand again. ‘Yeah. Sounds okay to me.’

Then Tommy trips over and face-plants into a bush. Lara stands over him with a sigh.

‘Thomas, I swear to God, you’re like a bloody cautionary ad for underage drinking.’ She grabs the back of his T-shirt and tugs him upright.

I turn my face to the sky. Graffiti covers the fences here; in this crumbly early light it almost looks organic, like it’s grown from the red brick and concrete itself.

I don’t think I’ll ever not feel sad about Cameron and Claire. I’m guessing these last few years of our lives are always going to make me feel wistful; this moment tonight one of the many little pieces of sadness that amass over time like scar tissue.

But I look down at Lou’s rough hand in mine, and I think that, maybe, it’s not just the sad stuff that accumulates. New stuff builds, too. I suppose not all of the unforeseen things that shake your foundations are going to suck.

Lou lets go of me and hurries to rescue Tommy, who is now, for some reason, sitting on the footpath and singing a rousing version of the national anthem. Lara rocks back on her feet with an incredulous laugh. Lou all but throws Tommy over his shoulder, and he looks at me with a weary, happy smile.

Will it last? Who knows? Maybe forever is a ridiculous concept, like wishing for mermaid fins or a life in a magical city under the ocean.

‘So,’ Lou says with a huff as he falls into step beside me, Tommy bobbing happily over his shoulder. ‘Breakfast?’

Oh right. It’s Sunday morning. Still a lazy day, a nothing day.

But I take Lou’s hand again, content for the moment with breakfast and possibilities.