‘Long time, no see, Mr Carter!’ Sally the librarian says, dimples denting her cheeks.

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘Well, have a look around, stranger. We’ve got some great new books in.’

‘Thanks, Sally.’

I pad through the War and Sport sections, and poke my head around the side of a bookcase. I scan the study area. There’s a head cloaked in a blue hijab bent over a book—it’s Aaleyah from school. She’s scanning the lines of her page with one finger, reading softly to herself. I crane my neck around the case further. Naya’s hair is sprouting up above a paperback book like a cactus. She’s sitting on the couch, with two fat textbooks on the table near her knees. Her skirt is bunched up around her thighs, and her legs are folded and rocking gently. I make out the author’s name: Beverley Jenkins.

I backtrack to the desk at the entrance.

‘Hey, Sally, do you have many Beverley Jenkins books in at the moment?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Come with me. That’s so odd that you asked. We got a trilogy of hers in just today. I’d never heard of her before, but one of our new members suggested that we diversify our range. I couldn’t see any reason why not. Here they are.’ She puts two fingers on two book spines. ‘These books are one and three in the Destiny series.’

I pull one of them out.

‘Thanks heaps, Sally. I’ll get started now.’

I scurry back through the bookcases and come at the study area from the other side. I find an armchair and sit down. I open the book in the middle and skim words that turn totally fuzzy immediately because I’m not trying to read them.

‘Bones?’

I pretend to take a second to finish my sentence, then look over at Naya on the couch.

‘Oh. Hi Naya.’

She unfolds her legs and walks over to me.

‘Whatcha reading?’

I raise the open book so she can see the cover.

‘Just another Beverley Jenkins.’

‘No way! She’s my guilty pleasure, too. I’ve never known a guy who reads her. That’s so great.’ She shows me her book. It’s called Destiny’s Surrender, and below the author’s name there’s a Latino man and a black woman. The man’s white shirt is around his elbows, exposing his hairless pecs and thick biceps. He’s holding the pretty girl around her tiny waist and her eyes are closed in ecstasy. Next to the picture it says, ‘A night of passion turns into so much more.’

I turn my book around and look at the cover for the first time. It’s called Destiny’s Captive. There’s a similar image of two people, but with an added ship in the distance. The tagline is, ‘She stole his ship…and his heart.’

Fuck.

I chew on my lip and nod at Naya.

‘Yeah…well…I guess they’re missing out.’

‘Totally.’ She smiles and I feel the skin on my arms prickle. Maybe it’s not so bad.

‘Sorry about that,’ comes a voice. I turn and see Shitty putting his phone in his pocket. ‘It was just the old man spouting the usual at this time of night.’ He peers down at me and nods sternly. ‘Carter.’

I whip my head away towards the bookcases. There must be something on self-combustion in this library. I read once that it doesn’t exist. That it only happened to drunks, because they had alcohol on their clothes that caught fire. But enough people believe the Bible without any proof, so maybe it is real. I wish I could prove it right now.

‘No problem at all, Chase,’ Naya says. ‘Do you want to get back into it?’

Back into what, I wonder. Study or sex?

‘Yeah. Definitely.’

‘I’ll see you soon, Bones.’ She pats my knee. It’s so condescending. But I feel her hand there for the rest of the night.

Walking home from the supermarket, the weight under my ribs returns. If Naya didn’t have sex with Shitty after the concert, she definitely is now. Jimmy was right: Naya is basic. As basic as every other Banarang girl. Same needs. Same schoolgirl crush on a meth-head with a motorbike. I shouldn’t be surprised.

I look at the book I just borrowed with disgust. What am I doing? I’m as dumb as the people on planes.

I pull a stack of letters and catalogues out of the mailbox and sort through it to find Trav and my reports from school. They’re in A4 envelopes.

Stephen and Kate Carter

11 Easey Street

Banarang, Victoria

3985

On the verandah, I slide into my slippers and head to the kitchen. I set down the Corn Flakes boxes and stack two lasagnes in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes. I pull a knife out of the drawer and slash open my report. Scanning over the pages, I can see I mainly got Bs. One C. My grades are finally reflecting what I should have known all along—I’m nothing remarkable.

Catling is famous for giving one-word feedback comments in reports, but he hates me so much he went to the trouble of butchering some Shakespeare poem by adding his own words to it.

We may know what we are, but not what we may be.

To whom doth it matter though?

For how could we be sure treasure had ever been buried

If its riches were never recovered?

William H. Shakespeare & Benedict D. Catling (posthumous collaboration)

I groan aloud at his lameness. I write my own response in rhyme. Maybe I’ll give it to Jimmy if he feels like doing an ironic song sometime.

Committed to excellence

Your boy Bonesy

I am the best at mediocrity

I don’t aim big, but I don’t aim little

And I never cross the road cos I get stuck the middle.

Honestly, though, it’s getting lonely being stuck in the middle.