When you stand out in the front yard of your family’s dilapidated white stucco house and look forward, and all you can see is a street view of more dilapidated houses, with a panorama of traffic, and warehouses, and power lines above and beyond that … it’s safe to assume that your home is not what it was anymore.

‘Going for the don’t-give-a-shit look on your first day, eh?’ Mike’s eating a jam sandwich out of one hand, he has a clipboard full of delivery invoices tucked into his armpit and his driver’s shirt is unbuttoned. With his hair sticking up like that, he looks as if he just fell out of bed.

I give my brother the stink-eye. ‘What do you care what I wear to school?’

He scratches his head, which only exacerbates the hair problem. ‘Just sayin’.’

‘I could go in my underwear. Or a wetsuit. Or a toga. It won’t change the fact that I’m going to school.’

‘Jeez, Rachel. Wear whatever you want.’ Mike gives me a meaningful glance. ‘Wear a delivery driver’s outfit.’

‘Oh ha-ha.’

Mum walks over in the old jeans she uses for house-cleaning. Her eyes are on the weedy front-yard lawn as she twists a scrunchie around the hair at the nape of her neck.

‘… and I told your father I’d be getting a ride in to work after we dropped you at school, so I hope he’s remembered to —’ She sees me, and her hands drop. ‘Oh, Rachel. Please tell me you’re not wearing a flannie shirt and cut-offs on your first day. And the knotted hair … You’ve got such lovely hair, sweetheart, why don’t you wear it loose?’

‘Yeah, Rachel,’ Mike says, grinning. ‘Show us yer lovely hair!’

I mouth, ‘Rack. Off.’ at my brother. I’m about to turn and say a highly modified version of that to my mother when there’s a distraction: Dad pulls up in the taxi.

‘All passengers!’ Dad does a very lame-arse impersonation of a train driver out of the rolled-down passenger window. ‘Come on, girls. We don’t want Rachel to be late for class.’

‘You’re turning this whole first-day-of-high-school business into a thing.’ I bundle into the car, with Mum beside me. ‘You’ll give me a complex.’

‘I’m sure your first day will be wonderful,’ Mum says. ‘It’ll be a breath of fresh air after Year 11 distance ed.’

‘Right,’ I say, because there’s such a thing as fresh air in the middle of Melbourne, not to mention in a classroom full of sweaty teenagers.

It’s not like I haven’t seen North Coburg Secondary; I did the tour there with Mum and Dad a week ago. The impressions I got consisted of: halls with lino floors, run-down buildings, concrete lunch benches, and hundreds of people my age, like I’d walked into some sort of Teenager Convention. I’ve never actually been around large groups of people that much — except at the Ouyen Races or the Farm Expos — and it turns out they make me nervous.

Now I’m regretting I ever shared that information with my brother.

‘Don’t stress, sis.’ Mike winks at me as he shuts the car door. ‘You’ll be fine.’ Which is Mike-speak for They’ll rip your head off, I think.

Mike heads for his delivery van, Dad rolls up the windows and turns on the radio, Mum fiddles with her scrunchie and casts glances my way as we drive along Summoner Street towards Sydney Road. And I sit with my satchel on my lap and pretend that I’m anywhere but here, in this huge city, where my world has become infinitely smaller.

‘Hot guys,’ Mai Ng says.

I look back at her. ‘Pardon?’

‘I was just getting your attention. I have to explain the rooms for your classes now, so I figured I’d wait until you were listening.’ She smiles, not unkindly. ‘Although I totally get the desire to zone out when people talk about this stuff. I almost fell asleep during induction when I arrived here.’

My cheeks warm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m listening. I need to know where I’m supposed to be going.’

‘Relax,’ Mai says. ‘You won’t know where you’re going for a while. Everybody gets lost at first.’

We’re walking through one of the lino-floored corridors. Out the window, three junior boys play handball against a brick wall, kids eat their snacks underneath a bunch of straggly trees, and more students chase each other towards someplace I think might be the canteen. People bloody everywhere.

‘I’m just not used to … all this.’ I wave at the view. ‘School, I mean.’

‘You’re from the country, yeah?’ Mai leans forward. ‘What’s that like?’

‘Different,’ I blurt. Then I think about it. ‘I mean, the distances are big, and it’s nowhere near as populated. But we probably do pretty much the same things as city kids.’

‘You hang out, watch a movie, listen to music?’

‘Sure. Or you play games, or text each other if you’ve got reception. Or you can drive around in someone’s car. Go swimming in the dam. Get together and make a bonfire — a twig, we call it.’

Mai raises her eyebrows. ‘We don’t do much of that in the city.’

‘Guess not.’ I look at her sideways. ‘We have hot guys in the country, too. They pop up on occasion.’

She laughs, until she’s distracted by the view outside. ‘Speaking of …’

I follow her line of sight. ‘The blond one? Or the one with the soccer ball?’

‘Soccer ball,’ she replies dreamily. ‘Gus Deng. Incredible shoulders. Smart. Nice — like, really sweet.’

‘Seems perfect.’ I grin.

‘We’re on friendly terms, but yeah. He’s not Vietnamese. My mother would have apoplexy.’ Mai sighs, returns to my paperwork and adjusts her black-framed glasses. ‘Okay, lemme show you where you need to be for your next two classes. And we have English together, so that’s a win.’ She gives me a smile. ‘I think we’re gonna get on well.’

‘Me, too.’ Mai’s smile is open-hearted; mine is more just relieved.

‘Don’t commit too soon,’ Mai warns. ‘You haven’t met my friends, you might hate them.’

‘I’m pretty easygoing.’

She snorts. ‘You haven’t been introduced to Mycroft yet.’

Not everything about school is awful, but still. At least two of my teachers seem to be incapable of modulating their voices above a drone. The bells that ding at unexpected intervals make me jump. And in my biology class, some crazy guy up the back sets fire to his class notes within five minutes of arriving and is immediately bundled out to the principal’s office by the teacher, Miss Paulsen. I catch a glimpse of the guy’s dark hair and hear his fruity accent before his departure, and table him as someone to avoid.

At lunch, Mai ushers me towards a bench seat near the library. She waves to about forty different people along the way. In my entire life in Five Mile, I don’t think I even met forty teenagers.

‘So when’d you move?’ Mai asks, unboxing her food.

‘Two weeks ago.’ I find an apple in my satchel. ‘After the farm went bust, my dad and my older brother came down to organise a rental place and find work, and then we all just … pulled up stumps.’

‘That blows.’

‘Yeah. Can’t say I’m in love with the city experience so far.’ The bench seat we’re on is underneath a big scribbly gum. Leaf litter is scattered around us and the tree’s roots have buckled the concrete, as if trying to escape. Even the trees want out.

‘Melbourne can be fun,’ Mai says. ‘The little cobbled alleyways, the secret cafes … You’ll get the hang of it.’ She scans the area and the roofline beyond, unfazed. This is all normal for her. ‘You just need to find your tribe. The people around you can make a big difference.’

‘You have a tribe?’

‘A sort-of tribe. A small one. A tribelet.’ Sunlight glints off her purple bangles. ‘I get on okay with a lot of people, but my friend Dani moved to Sydney last year, so now I’m mainly tight with Mycroft. He’s the investigative scientist, I’m the punk geek girl — we both speak fluent snark.’

Her black T-shirt has line drawings of a variety of objects — a toaster, a phone, a banana, a llama — with the slogan Not the droids you’re looking for. I grin, pull the knot out of my hair to tidy it. ‘You keep the geek-girl shtick. I’ll be the country bumpkin.’

‘You’re on.’ Her smile transforms into a gasp. ‘Shit, your hair is long. Ever thought about some streaks? There’s this great burnt-orange colour that’d be perfect with your shade of deep blonde —’ Her gaze strays behind me. ‘All right, finally. My tribe approaches.’

I turn my head in time to see a … whoa. Okay, so he’s tall. Lanky, with dark curly hair. No backpack in evidence. Tight, slightly stained black jeans with a white T-shirt and a red trackie jacket, unzipped in front. This guy doesn’t look like the scientist type — more like the dictionary illustration of Urban Boho Chill. This is Mai’s tribe?

I haven’t retied my hair yet, and I probably have apple bits between my teeth. I may not be ready to cope with this guy on my first day. I try to imagine him walking down the street in Five Mile, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, and … nope. Not possible. I take a breath as he swaggers in our direction, and —

There’s a yelp, and a spectacular windmill of flailing limbs, as Mr Urban Boho trips on the stairs and face-plants on the concrete.

‘Oh, crap,’ Mai says.

‘Oh, crap. It’s okay,’ I say, as we both rush over. ‘I have some first-aid training.’

‘Awesome,’ Mai says, ‘because blood makes me sick. Mycroft? Are you still alive?’

A groan — he’s still alive. I kneel on the hard ground at the guy’s shoulder, turn him over. In spite of the gushing red cut on his forehead, his eyes are open. They’re as blue as a Mallee sky.

Mai gags a little at the blood. ‘God, Mycroft, are you okay?’

‘It’s all right. I was saved from an undignified brain injury by my face.’ He’s talking to Mai but looking straight at me. ‘Wow. Hello.’

‘Hi.’ I check the rest of him, but the cut seems to be the biggest issue. ‘You might be concussed, you should stay still.’

‘I’m staying still,’ he points out. ‘I’m lying flat on my back, that’s about as still as it’s possible to be.’

Shit — the fruity accent. This is the bozo from my biology class, the one who set his notes on fire.

My hair falls heavily in front of my eyes and I shove it back. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Perfectly fine. Brilliant.’ He grins through the mask of blood on his face. ‘Mai, would you do the honours?’

‘Oh, God,’ Mai says, tilting her chin up. ‘Mycroft, this is Rachel Watts. Rachel, Mycroft, and Jesus, I think I’m gonna spew.’

‘Don’t spew,’ Mycroft and I say together.

We look at each other for a moment before I yank off my flannie. ‘Better put pressure on that head wound.’

‘My head wound is fine,’ Mycroft says, extending a hand. ‘Let me up.’

‘I don’t think you should —’

‘I’m all good. Let me up.’

I blink at him. ‘Okay.’ This should be entertaining.

I take his hand — large, over-warm — and ease him into a sitting position. He’s heavy, and his face goes predictably white within two seconds of being upright.

‘Ah, no,’ he says. ‘Let me down. Let me down again —’

‘She did warn you,’ Mai says.

‘Shouldn’t we get a teacher?’ I settle her friend back on the concrete, shove at my hair again. ‘Or maybe an ambulance? He’s bleeding a lot.’

Mai rolls her eyes. ‘He always bleeds a lot. Stay here, I’ll go find Mrs Ramen.’

‘Oh no, Mai, come on,’ Mycroft starts. ‘Ramen’s hopeless —’

‘Are you guys okay? Mycroft, what have you done now?’ Gus, of the incredible shoulders, has walked over. His backpack is slung on one strap, and he’s still carrying the soccer ball.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Mycroft says. ‘I was walking along, minding my own business, and the ground jumped up and assaulted me. I’m offended that you think I did this to myself.’

I see Mai straighten her tartan flip skirt as she stands. ‘Oh, hey. Just a bit of an accident.’

‘Accident?’ Mycroft whines from ground level. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’

‘You’re not bleeding to death.’ I look up at Gus. ‘Hi, I’m Rachel.’

‘Hi,’ Gus says. He turns to Mai. ‘Yeah, maybe you should get Mrs Ramen. I can walk up with you, if you like?’ The way he says it, just a little too casually, makes me think she might be in with a shot.

‘Um, lemme check with Rachel.’ I nod, and Mai’s expression glows. She turns back to Gus. ‘That would be great, thank you.’ She glances at Mycroft over her shoulder. ‘We’ll be back in a sec. Hold tight, okay?’

‘Mai —’ he starts again.

Ignoring him, Mai strides away. Gus is sticking to her like glue.

Mycroft groans. ‘Ramen won’t help! She never helps! She has haemophobia!’ But they’re already too elsewhere to hear.

I shift on my knees. ‘What is that, fear of blood?’ I’m surprised this guy’s still accessing higher brain functions, let alone spouting words like ‘haemophobia’.

He sighs. ‘Yes. Although Mrs Ramen’s fear is more to do with getting blood on her clothes, which is different and slightly more misanthropic.’

‘Well, I don’t really give a rat’s about my clothes, and I don’t have haemophobia.’

‘Clearly.’ His eyes, that surreal shade of blue, gaze up at me, and I suddenly feel weird kneeling here — Mycroft must be getting a great view of the underside of my chin.

‘Okay.’ I huff out a laugh. ‘This is kind of an unusual way to meet someone on my first day of high school.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Those eyes again. ‘You’ve already told me you’re not a misanthropist before we’ve even gotten to know each other.’

Mycroft’s breath is soft on my inner arm as I hold my shirt in place. I wet my lips and glance away.

‘Wait, did you say this is your first day of high school?’ When I look back, Mycroft is still pale, but his expression is animated enough. ‘Mai said something about it, but I didn’t think she meant your first actual day of high school ever —’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s my first actual day of high school ever. I moved from the country. I was home-schooled via distance ed before now.’

‘Incredible.’ He shakes my free hand, while lying in that peculiar position. ‘You’ve managed to evade formal education for a significant period of your life. Congratulations and well done.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Good God, no.’

A breeze stirs the leaves of the bench-seat tree, and a couple of other students wander by. I can’t imagine what on earth we look like, with Mycroft lying on the concrete and me sitting next to him, pressing my shirt to his forehead.

‘Are you sure your head’s okay?’

He gazes off somewhere above my shoulder, considering. ‘Well, obviously it hurts.’

‘You could have concussion.’ I frown at him. ‘Recite the alphabet or something so I know you’re still functioning.’

‘Hydrogen. Helium. Carbon …’

‘You’re reciting the periodic table?’

‘It soothes me.’

‘Are you nauseous?’

‘No.’ He tilts his chin a little. ‘Are you always this capable?’

Are you always this odd? I want to ask. But unlike Mycroft, I have a brake pedal attached to my mouth. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, too, ’cause he’s just fallen down and clonked himself, and it’s possible he needs stitches.

‘Was your previous place of residence a total backwater?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you shifted to Melbourne?’

Screw ‘benefit of the doubt’. I glare at him, and wait for Mai to get back.

The upsides of going home are that first, I get to go home. Second, I get to ride the tram. The city looks different out the tram window; more contained, almost manageable. Third, it’s Mai’s tram, too, so we ride together, although she goes a number of stops further on than me.

The downside, I discover, is that Mycroft lives along the same route. He has three butterfly closures over the now blackened gash on his forehead, but he bounded onto the tram along with every other student travelling north along Sydney Road.

‘Okay, what offensive thing did he say to you?’ Mai asks, from the seat opposite mine. ‘Actually, wait, don’t tell me, it doesn’t matter. Mycroft manages to offend everybody at least a few times a day. He’s unbelievably bright, but he has no “off” switch whatsoever. Don’t take it personally.’ She looks sideways just as the tram slows and Mycroft galumphs down the aisle towards the doors. ‘Um, isn’t this your stop?’

Jesus. This just gets better and better.

Mai snags me as I rise. ‘You should come over. Not today, but, y’know, once you’re settled in.’

‘I’d like that,’ I say, smiling back. ‘Oops, gotta go.’

I tumble out of the tram doors and cross the busy road to Summoner Street. Mai said it makes a difference, the people you have around you in the city. I think I’d like to be in Mai’s orbit. I have Carly and the others from distance ed on email, but I’m in the Big Smoke now.

That thought flattens me out a bit.

I sigh when I realise who else is now in my orbit. Mycroft lopes just a little ahead, arms swinging like he hasn’t suffered a recent head trauma. My steps slow; maybe he doesn’t know I’m following. With a bit of luck, we won’t have to converse at all. I said I was easygoing, but the backwater comment still stings.

We pass the electricity pole near the corner, then the scraggy yards in front of various houses. A few metres further on, Mycroft pulls a squashed pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket, pauses to light one. His pause is just long enough for me to catch up. When he spins around, I realise he knew I was following all along.

‘Hello again. Are you stalking me?’

‘What? No.’

‘Really? I was hoping you were stalking me. I’ve never had a stalker before.’

What is it with this guy? ‘I live here.’

‘In this house?’

‘On this street.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Mycroft’s eyes narrow. ‘What number are you?’

My back stiffens. ‘I don’t think I want to tell you.’

He grins. ‘It’s fine, y’know. I’m harmless. Mostly harmless. I mean, I talk a lot. Are you the blue house?’

‘The white one,’ I admit.

‘Excellent! So we’re street-mates.’

I gape for two whole seconds. ‘I think the word you’re looking for is “neighbours”.’

‘Yes, neighbours. Wonderful.’ He sighs happily, waves his cigarette around at the street. The houses are cheap, mostly rentals, and there’s a skip spewing garbage down on the corner. ‘So, you’re poor, then.’

I bite my lip, but there’s no disguising it: this street is a dump. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Excellent,’ Mycroft repeats. ‘We’re neighbours in penury. Here, let me give you the tour.’ He points out houses with his cigarette. ‘Mr and Mrs Ahmuddin — they’re always working, kids in child care down the block. Mrs Gantinas — retiree, grows lovely tomatoes. Those people I don’t know. Mr Sutton — unemployed, sits on the front step a lot in summer, you’ve gotta watch out for his dog. The rest are mostly a revolving door of short-term leases I can never keep up with, including the lovely couple in number twenty-six, who seem to do nothing but argue at high volume …’

He stops at the expression on my face.

‘Oh, hey now.’ He steps closer. ‘C’mon, Watts, it’s not that awful.’

What’s awful is that I’m standing here, close to tears, in front of a guy I’ve just met who doesn’t seem to understand that this is not a game. This is my life now. I’ve exchanged pink dirt and leaf litter and swollen blue skies for this.

‘Thanks for the tour,’ I get out, bolting for my house.

‘Sorry about yesterday,’ Mycroft says, on the tram to school the next day. ‘Didn’t mean to put you off. I was about to invite you to come over and watch YouTube videos with me, but you ran away …’

‘Yeah, sorry, I was a bit tired from school.’ I look at the world outside the tram. Is there a word that’s the opposite of agoraphobic? Like, if you can have a fear of wide-open spaces and huge skies, what’s the name for the fear of busy streets and encroaching buildings? What’s the fear of cities?

‘I have something better, anyway,’ Mycroft says, grinning. ‘I’ve made some sodium acetate, and you should definitely come over and see that. Magic.’

The air here feels canned. I suppose it has something to do with the level of pollution. It’s like you’re breathing in something that’s been recycled a thousand times over, even outside, even when you’re — ‘What?’

‘This afternoon,’ he says conspiratorially. ‘It’s one of my favourite experiments, ’cause the results are so reliably spectacular. You mix it up and pour it out onto a solid surface at room temperature —’

‘This is a science experiment.’ I wriggle up in my seat. ‘You’re talking about a science experiment.’

‘Yes. So the saturated liquid —’

‘You do science experiments in your room?’

‘Regularly. But on this very special occasion, to cheer you up.’ Mycroft gazes out the window. ‘And me. Most days need a bit of cheering up, I reckon. Sodium acetate is highly cheering, because —’

‘Where did you get the British accent?’ I ask suddenly.

‘From the British People factory,’ he shoots back.

I squint at him. ‘You’re a very peculiar person.’

‘And you’re a mystery.’ Mycroft’s eyes aren’t chasing the scenery anymore. They’re bathing me in blue. ‘I quite like mysteries.’

I have to turn my head away. ‘I’m still getting used to being here. In Melbourne, I mean.’

‘Mycroft, did you do the English homework?’ Mai asks, disentangling from her headphones.

‘Yes.’ He twists in the seat to face her. ‘And I’ll look over your maths questions if you’ll correct my spelling.’

Mai pulls a notebook out of her backpack. ‘His spelling is atrocious.’

‘I’d argue that point, but I can’t spell “atrocious”,’ Mycroft says. ‘You’ll get used to it. Melbourne, I mean.’

I realise he’s looking at me again. ‘Everyone keeps saying that.’

‘Everyone is right. I only arrived seven years ago, and look at me now — thriving!’

He throws out his arms in a parody of a city-wide embrace.

We get into the habit of doing homework right after school, while it’s still fresh. If I was doing this as usual, with distance ed, I’d have it staggered at different times of the day, to suit around home stuff, like lambing days, and sheep inoculations, and checking the perimeters in the morning. But I’m not, so I’d better not think about it.

Mycroft hums while we work, and finishes faster than me. He gets up and pokes around in the fridge, like it’s his own house.

‘What’s for tea, then?’

‘Sausages and chips.’ My head is still down, my right hand scrawling. ‘Salad, too.’

‘You’ve got to get some greens in there somewhere, don’t you.’ He sighs.

I sit up and stretch my back, then hear the banging of Mum coming through from the front. She makes straight for the kitchen after she dumps her cleaning gear in the living room. It’s funny how we all head straight for the kitchen, still, even though it’s not as central as it used to be in our old house.

‘Thank God I’m home,’ she says, sounding like she really means it. ‘I thought that last place would never end — three toilets. Hello, Mycroft. What are you doing in our fridge?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ he says.

‘Hello, sweet pea.’ Mum kisses the top of my head, which makes me feel like I’m about five years old.

I turn in my seat so I can side-hug her. ‘I was just about to start the dinner.’

‘Make your old mother a cup of tea first?’

I give Mum my chair, fill the kettle and light the gas on the stove. Mycroft has closed the fridge and, in a burst of helpfulness, popped a teabag into a mug.

He sits back down at the table and starts packing up his books. ‘All right day, then, Mrs Watts?’

‘Oh, you know, dear. So-so.’ Mum looks tired, and smells strongly of Pine O Cleen, where before she used to smell of lanolin and baking bread.

‘D’you want chips and salad, Mum?’ I start defrosting the sausages in a sinkful of water. I try to lift my tone: I sound almost as tired as she does, and I’ve only been at school.

‘Yes, love, that’d be great.’ She stands slowly, like someone who’s spent all day kneeling and bending over. ‘Okay, I’m going for the shower. By the time I get out I might feel human again. Where’s your father?’

‘Outside. He’s digging around the Hills Hoist again.’

Mum makes no comment, just exhales a big breath through her nose as she walks in the direction of the bathroom off the hall.

Mycroft comes over to the kitchen benchtop and leans against it. He doesn’t say anything about Mum, or Dad, or any of it, for which I am profoundly grateful. He takes the iceberg lettuce off the bench and starts stripping leaves into the salad bowl, until I stop him.

‘I’m doing it. It’s fine.’

‘I don’t mind —’

‘No.’ I take the lettuce out of his large hands.

He steps back from the benchtop. ‘Okay.’

For a moment, I’m too miserable to think properly. Then I remember something to say. ‘Tell me about the next article.’

Mycroft rocks on his feet. ‘Well … I’m tossing up between posting the one on bio-LED trees in place of streetlights, like they’re doing in Taiwan, and another one on recovering fingerprints from cold-case evidence by vacuum metal deposition. I could post either of them at Chemistry World.’

‘I like the idea of sparkly tree streetlights.’

‘I like the fingerprints.’ He looks strangely fierce when he says it.

‘Why forensics?’ I ask. ‘I mean, what is it about forensics that you find so …’

‘It’s interesting.’ He looks out the kitchen window, tucks his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway, ’cause they’ll both be pseudonymously posted.’

‘But you’ll know who wrote them.’ My shoulders relax as I look at him. ‘And me.’

‘That’s two people.’ Smiling in a subdued way, he grabs his backpack. ‘Gotta go.’

‘Loads of sausages tonight. I might drop by yours with a plate.’ We both know there’s no ‘might’ about it. It’s been three weeks since I got to know him, and Mycroft’s level of self-neglect still bothers me.

He pauses. ‘Would you like to come to the zoo with me tonight? I mean, y’know, later.’

‘I don’t know if I’d be allowed …’ The lettuce is still in my hands. ‘Won’t the zoo be closed?’

‘Yes. We don’t go inside. Sorry, that sounds weird.’

‘A bit.’

He grins. ‘Come on, Watts. I’m offering the finest park-bench experience available in Melbourne. You’ll meet the cream of the dero elite. We can cadge a ride on the tram.’

‘Now you’re tempting me.’

His smile blooms in full as he hoicks a cigarette out of the pocket of his trackie jacket. A bellow sounds from the living room. My brother, just home from work, barrels into the kitchen and grabs Mycroft in a headlock.

‘Put it away!’

‘I will —’

‘Put it away!’

‘I am! Honestly, look —’

‘No cigs inside. I get enough of that shit at work.’ Mike noogies Mycroft with his free hand. ‘This bloke giving you trouble again?’

I grin as I slice the tomatoes. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Mycroft shakes free and straightens his clothes. ‘Right. I’m leaving now.’

‘See you later.’

‘Cool.’ He bites his lip over a smile; he knows I’m coming to the zoo.

‘Funny guy,’ Mike says, after Mycroft closes the front door. ‘Why doesn’t he just stay for dinner?’

‘Don’t know.’ I shrug. It’s not my business to share.

‘Is Mycroft really his first name?’

His first name is James. I found out when I saw a whole-school photo in the admin corridor. ‘Mm,’ I say.

‘How’re you going, anyway? With school and stuff?’ Mike picks up an apple and chomps into it.

‘Oh, I’m thriving.’ I wipe my hands on a tea towel. ‘Go get Dad out of the garden. Tell him I’ve started cooking and he’s only got an hour and a half before work.’

Four weeks in.

When it gets too much, I go over to Mai’s place, or walk with her and Gus to the park, or visit Mycroft, who makes sodium acetate fairy-tower sculptures on request.

Sometimes I catch the tram up to Fawkner cemetery — it’s quiet there, and there’s trees, and space to breathe.

‘I’ve figured it out,’ Mycroft says, during recess. ‘Watts, you’re a Martian. I googled “west of Ouyen” and found these pictures — it’s all desert and salt lakes and endless flat paddocks. Seriously, it’s a lot like Mars, especially if you use the right filter —’

‘Show me,’ Mai says, grabbing the phone he’s waggling, and I see the photos. Homesickness cuts through me with a stiff, serrated blade.

‘No wonder you’re struggling so much with urban life,’ Mycroft goes on. ‘You’re a stranger in a strange land. If I’d come from … Watts? Watts, where are you off to?’

I don’t really know where I’m going. I just need to go.

‘Watts!’

I hear Mai say, ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ but I’m already halfway towards the school gate. Energy zips around my body. My bones feel like they’re vibrating.

I need to walk. I want to follow my legs to the back paddock, boots crunching past the mallee scrub and the windmill, moving onward. Walking, walking, until I’m walked out. No voices nearby, no noise pollution from traffic, no people, no smells of exhaust. Just the sound of my boots clomping all the way to the dam.

I’ll shed my boots there, and my socks and flannie and tank and cut-offs. I’ll step into the mud on the bank, plunge straight into the cool brown water. This feeling will ease away, float off into the dam like so much oily scum, and my mind will spring back into shape. Everything will be manageable. Everything will be okay.

The rhythm of moving, stretching my legs, actually makes me feel better. The only problem is, no matter how far or how fast I walk, I can’t reach the back paddock or the dam. And I’m on Sydney Road, so voices and noise pollution and traffic exhaust are a given.

I want to get out of here. But no amount of walking is going to get me back home.

I end up in the only place I know will be quiet. By the time I arrive I’m thirsty, and plastered with sweat. I have a drink from a tap, then wander around the rolling green grounds before picking out a plinth to lie down on. Just the fact that I can see trees and sky makes something ease in my chest.

I lie in the sun, try not to think, read a book. After a while, there’s the sound of shoes scuffing gravel, back behind me.

‘When you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?’

I sigh, but I’ve had enough time and space to calm down by now.

‘Cremated.’ I speak up to the clouds. ‘I want my ashes to be scattered on the little hill in the west paddock.’

‘I thought you’d say something like that.’ Mycroft walks over to the side, so I can see him even while I’m lying down. ‘Me, I’ve always thought maybe a sea burial. Everyone standing on the ship, looking out over the waves while they say all the words, then they push your coffin off the side and — plop, you’re gone.’

‘A sea burial?’

‘Yes.’ He leans on a headstone, pulls a cigarette out of the pack stashed in his T-shirt sleeve. ‘D’you think the coffin just sinks straight to the bottom, or would it float around for a while?’

‘You’d know the physics better than me.’

‘I think it’s to do with air pressure.’ He taps the cigarette on the pack, leans to light up, blows smoke as he slips the pack away. ‘Maybe they leave holes for the water to get in, or add weights to the bottom. I guess they must sink reasonably quickly. Otherwise you’d have all these coffins floating around the ocean, like plastic bags …’

‘I think they sink, Mycroft.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘It’s okay.’ I roll on the granite plinth, until I’m sitting up with my legs crossed. ‘But I don’t know why I’m your friend, sometimes.’

‘Is it because I’m your neighbour and you can’t get away from me?’

‘You’re too insightful. You open your mouth and all these razors come tumbling out.’

‘I’m not that insightful, Watts. If I was, I’d have the insight to censor my own bullshit.’ He sits on the plinth beside me. ‘It’s disturbing that you came to a cemetery.’

‘I just needed some time on my own.’

‘Surrounded by all the dead people, yes.’

‘I just needed …’ I pause, but then all the words tumble out. ‘I’m stuck here, y’know? I’m trapped. With thousands of people all living in the one place. And yes, there’s action, and twinkling lights, and things happening, but I feel like I’m watching this endless cycle of people getting up, and eating, and going to work, and watching the same TV shows, and saying the same things, with this backdrop of bitumen, and cement, and all this stuff on repeat, with me standing outside watching it, fighting against it, all the time. Like, where am I? Where the hell am I? And there’s no space to move, and I can’t see the sky, and everything gets this pickled-in-aspic feeling, like you could slice into it and each slice would be the same cross-section, this thick grey jelly …’

I slump on the plinth, exhausted from explaining it all.

‘Christ.’ Mycroft leans his shoulder against mine. ‘It’s fucking depressing, when you put it that way.’

‘You were right.’ I scrub my hands against my cheeks. ‘I feel like an alien here. Or a, a missing person. D’you know what I mean?’

‘I know,’ he says solemnly, and I realise that he does know. I’m the way he was seven years ago.

‘I’m lost in this city,’ I say miserably.

‘It’s okay, Watts. I found you.’ Mycroft puts his arm around me, curls me in. ‘I found you.’