I’m in bed, back in Banarang on Monday morning. I’ve barely left this room since we got home yesterday afternoon. Jimmy and Naya came back with his parents, and Trav, Tyson, Leon and I caught the morning train back to Banarang. We barely spoke a word, because we were all crumbs. I guess Shitty made his own way back after his conquest.

Did you know that he has an actual leather belt that he punches a hole in every time he has sex with someone? It’s famous. He wears it to parties.

I don’t care, though. There are bigger issues. I’m finally accepting the painful reality: the trip to Melbourne wasn’t a nightmare, it really happened. My hopes of finding intelligent life on Earth have been crushed. Melbourne may have even more morons than Banarang.

I feel sorry for Naya. She’s clever, but she’s not wise. I Googled her name and found a couple of interviews she’d done with blogs because of her do-gooder kid stuff. It turns out that her parents work for the World Bank, and she’s in something called the ‘UNICEF Youth Ambassador Coalition’. It seems like she has been travelling around talking to other students about poverty and how students can individually ‘make an impact’ on their school and the world.

She’s smart, but not smart enough to realise she’s wasting her time. And, apparently, not smart enough to see through Shitty’s bullshit either. The thought of her having sex with Shitty makes me queasy—but only because of the exchange of bodily fluids and enzymes that would have gone down.

I feel like Naya is due for a moment of cold realisation. Like the one I had in Melbourne. To see the ugly truth. To know that the world doesn’t care about you and you’re not special. You’re just another assortment of atoms delaying your own destruction. Maybe I’ll end up being the one who helps her. Maybe I’ll make her face facts quicker and save her some pain down the line.

There’s not much to get excited about in life anymore, so I’m going to try and savour the little victories. You win some, you lose most, you mostly lose—that’s my new mantra.

Little victories are when life accords to my rules. Like right now, when I get an uninterrupted thirty-nine-degree shower.

I can see the mirror through the shower glass and it’s not long until I’ve got that eerie feeling again. But now’s not the time for pinching my skin and reflecting on the hollowness of all this shit like the other night at the show—it might send me into real depression. I need to stay strong for Mum.

I get out of the shower and slide into my crisp white cotton slippers. Back in my room, I feel grateful. The novelty of having my own space hasn’t worn off. This house may not be home, but at least it’s a house—it has three bedrooms. Fifteen years of bunking with Trav has taken its toll, so it’s brilliant to be able to sleep with both eyes closed in the week we’re with Mum.

It’s almost a pity it won’t last—Mum will move back home with Dad soon and I’ll be back sharing with Trav full time. But it’s all good—I can’t wait to see Mum and Dad cooking in the kitchen together again.

I find my Monday clothes, which Mum has folded and placed on my bed. Monday’s T-shirt is my favourite: a navy one that my uncle gave me, with a small cartoony print on the pocket of black and white hands with gold rings.

Apparently Banarang High once had a blue uniform code, but like any bad law it was poorly enforced so it became no law at all. Now people wear pretty much whatever they want. It’s good and bad. Bad because I only have three decent T-shirts and one pair of jeans, but good because I can—

‘Bohhhhhnseeey, time to go.’

‘Coming, Mum.’

I slap on my hat and pop open the silver pill packet on my desk. Prozac 10mg. Six months of taking these and they haven’t done a thing. To be honest, I don’t really know what they’re supposed to do. If they’re meant to keep me alive, I guess they’re working. Dad hates that I take them. He thinks I can solve my problems by thinking away whatever’s ailing me.

I just know that the shrink said I should take them, and Mum trusts her. And if I stopped now I’d probably crumble into a heap, because once you take these things for a while, your body gets used to them and needs them. Prozac is a part of me now.

I head to the kitchen and pick up my mini pack of Corn Flakes. I press into the perforations of the box and pull open the plastic from the middle. A lot of people don’t know that this is how you’re supposed to eat holiday cereal. Most of them ignore the perforations and just massacre the cardboard, then they pour from the plastic into a regular cereal bowl.

Wrong, so wrong.

I unscrew a mini milk bottle and pour half of it into the box until it covers all of the golden flakes. I pour the other half in the milk jug for everyone else. I get a new plastic spoon and shovel the contents down in nine mouthfuls.

I pick up the lunch boxes from the bench. I put my purple box into my bag. Then I pick up Trav’s black one, but Trav’s claws appear and seize it before I can get it in his bag.

‘Thanks, knobjockey, but Daddy does his own lunch.’ He strides out the door, kicks his slippers off on the verandah and pulls on muddy black runners. I slump down at the table and put my palms over my face to find darkness.

Why can’t he let me have my routines? I breathe deeply. This is life—you win some, you lose most. You mostly lose.

I trudge out the door, slide out of my slippers, squash my feet into my shoes and plod over to the car. Mum bought it in January from Jack & Marn’s Used Car Barn for eight hundred bucks. I assume it was once white all over, but more rust reveals itself every day, and now it looks like one of those scratchie tickets Dad used to buy.

Sure enough, Trav is sitting in the front passenger seat, which he knows is my seat when Mum’s driving. This might be the start of Trav’s retribution for last week, when I poured my toenail clippings into his hair. He started that one too, though, because he called me a snitch and crushed a pack of my Corn Flakes under his foot. This is how it goes with us—it’s always someone’s turn.

‘Mum, he’s doing it again,’ I tell her as she hurries out of the house.

‘Oh, gosh,’ she groans. She goes over to my side and raps on the window. ‘Trav, please get out. Right now, thanks.’

‘Maaaaaaaarm,’ is all I hear, his muffled voice imprisoned in glass. It’d be nice if he walked around with a glass box on his head all the time. I could feed him through a grate like a guinea pig. I promise I wouldn’t abuse the privilege.

Trav opens the door. ‘Mum, this is bullshit. I’m the oldest.’

‘Yes, Travis, but you’re not acting like it, are you?’

I smile. Sweet burn, Mum. He’s the oldest by a year and a bit, but I’m at least three years more mature.

Trav’s mouth drops. His fingers splay out and strangle the air.

‘This has been going on too long,’ he says, sulking. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

I thank him as he passes me on his way to the back seat.

‘You’re a spastic,’ he barks. ‘You know that, yeah?’

‘Yep. Sure.’ I open the door and slide into my seat.