Before the talk, I wanted the holidays to come because Dad would be back from the mine and because I’d be away from everyone at school. On the first day, though, I’m at Max’s place. The quad bikes are awesome, with fat chunky tyres and chrome exhaust pipes. They sound like a chainsaw tearing through a branch when you rev them. The track is flat in most parts, but has some banked curves with old tyres stacked around the edges.

As Max is ripping into a lap to show us how it works, I’m standing there trying to take it all in. Out the back of his house, Max has his own race track. I don’t think I’d do anything else but race quad bikes if that was me. Well, maybe get a motocross bike.

His dad sits me on the second quad bike and takes me through the controls and safety issues.

‘It’s automatic,’ he says, ‘so you don’t have to worry about gear changes. But take it easy, particularly at first. Stay low down and only go up the banked bits when your speed takes you there.’

He checks that I’ve got the helmet fitted right and that I’m comfortable in the seat and can reach everything I need to. Then I’m off, hopping and lurching and then driving across the dirt.

Even with the helmet, the engine’s stupidly loud and I can feel it vibrating up through my body. I set off after Max. I’ve got no chance of catching him, but that’s okay. The wheels are spitting up red earth and I’m buzzing across the ground. I nearly stall on the first bend, but I hold it together. After two laps, I’m starting to get the hang of it and planning how to time the third better.

When I get off to hand over to Ben, my entire body is jangling and my hands are numb. I realise I’ve been gripping the handlebars pretty hard. I pull the helmet off and the breeze feels cool on my sweaty head.

Ben and Harry are most of the way through their turn when a bell rings back at the house.

‘That’s lunch,’ Max says, and his father turns and waves. He signals to the others that they’re on their last lap.

As we walk to the house, I can smell braai smells, and something burning. It turns out to be Max’s mom’s first attempt at roosterkoek. She meets us with a basket of burnt rolls.

‘So, Herschelle,’ she says, ‘do I bin these, or . . .’

‘The insides’ll be okay,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve been at braais where they’ve ended up blacker.’

While we’re having lunch, Harry mentions Lachlan Parkes and Ben says, ‘I wonder what he’s doing these holidays. Practising his handball, maybe.’ He looks in Max’s direction. ‘Hey, Max?’

Max says nothing. He’s gazing back up the hill towards the quad-bike track.

‘Max?’ Ben says again.

Max twitches and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I was . . .’ He searches for exactly the right word. ‘I was in a bit of a dwaal.’ He nods. ‘That’s South African.’

‘Dwaal,’ Ben says. ‘Does that mean staring like a zombie?’

Max throws a chunk of black roosterkoek crust at him. ‘Just the staring part.’

The others laugh, but it’s not at me, not at my language. I’m on the inside, or at least a step closer to it.