The next day after school, the crew is waiting in the car park for Tyson’s dad, Kev, to pick us up. Kev is a stick, but the rest of the Grayson family are big. Tyson’s older brothers, Lennox and Lewis, walked home to make room for us, but his younger twin sisters, Mercedes and Alexus, are here with us drinking frozen Cokes from Tezza’s. Tyson tips his cup back into his mouth and taps at the bottom to get the last bits out, and Mercedes and Alexus copy him. It makes for a nice picture: the three Graysons drinking in synchrony with the sun burning behind them.

Tyson’s surprise invite, Naya, is here too. I’ve been ignoring her because she talked to Shitty about me, but she hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

‘Hey, Bones,’ she says, rummaging through her tote bag. ‘Check this out.’ She pulls out one of the Destiny books and pinches her bookmark out of it. It’s a beaten-up photo of two tight-jeaned people with afros leaning into each other on a park bench. The guy has a baby lying across his lap and there’s a wobbly toddler girl standing next to the lady.

‘Seeing as I saw one of your old photos, it’s only fair that you see one of mine.’

I look at her face. Her eyes weird me out. It’s like they harbour a galaxy, with moons and stars and planets all moving around in them. They have these yellow flecks that look like gold in a river. Maybe it’s another symptom of her eye-fluid issues.

I look at the photo and nod once. I’m not talking to her. She puts it back in her book and points to the cover. ‘What do you think of the third book?’

I focus on the concrete below me. I can’t let her see my face burning up.

‘Okay, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We can talk about the books when Jimmy isn’t around. I understand why you wouldn’t want him to know you have a brain. Being a teenager’s tough, hey?’

She’s like a sixty-year-old in a sixteen-year-old’s body. Why does think she can talk to me like I’m a kid? If I don’t change the subject now, she’ll just keep crapping on. I give in and speak.

‘Christmas seems a weird time to come all the way to Australia. Won’t your family miss you?’

‘Well, my Dad lives in Nigeria. He usually comes home for three weeks in January, though he probably isn’t going to this time. My sister Jaya’s at college and Mom works nonstop. They’re fine. I talk to them on WhatsApp, so it’s all good. None of us is particularly rooted to one place. It’s nice, it means we don’t get homesick.’

‘But how do your mum and dad handle being away from each other so much?’

‘Well, they couldn’t. They both work for the World Bank on the same program, but Dad’s needed on the ground in Africa and Mom is based in New York. They did long distance for a couple of years. But they broke up at the end of last year, about the same time as your parents.’ She drops her voice low and gives a devilish grin. ‘We’re not so different…you and I.’

The poor girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry, but we are different. My mum and dad are just living apart for a little while. It’ll be back to normal soon. Definitely by Christmas. Our Christmases are always great.’

‘Oh.’ Naya’s bottom lip juts out. ‘I must have some weak intel.’

I should be nicer to her—she’s still insecure about her broken home.

Jimmy ducks his head to hide behind Leon as a familiar shrill voice rings out.

‘I can see you, Jimmy!’ Sophie’s shrill tone resonates on a trebly wavelength that I wish my ears couldn’t process.

She struts up to Leon. One of her hands is skewered to her hip and the other clasps her glossy handbag.

‘Come out from there, Jimmy. Stop being a child.’

Jimmy steps out with his hands raised.

‘Baby girl, it was an honest mistake. I thought the break-up meant the anniversary ting would have to start fresh.’

She crosses her arms and raises her plucked eyebrows, because she’s learned how to be an infuriated girlfriend from trash TV. ‘Of course the count continues! Unless you’ve been with someone else. Have you been with someone else?!’

‘No, baby, never.’

She huffs and blinks rapidly. ‘I didn’t expect anything today, but I am surprised that you didn’t surprise me—that’s all. You said you loved me last night.’

At this point Jimmy drags her away from us, but they’re only a few steps to the side so we can still hear everything. It’s great.

Jimmy tries to explain that what he meant in bed last night was that he loves sex, not her. That upsets her even more, so he says that she’s the only one he’s had sex with so it must mean he loves having sex with only her. So maybe that means he does love her. Then Sophie starts talking fast and high like she’s swallowed helium, rambling about ‘commitment’ and ‘communication’.

‘This is amazing,’ Naya whispers in my ear. Her hot breath travels through me and gives me shivers. Can I contract any lethal diseases through my ears? No. I can’t. I don’t think.

‘You better get me something incredible for our three-month,’ Sophie says, ‘and something even better for Christmas.’ She dusts Jimmy’s hands off her shoulders and storms off.

There are certain types of people who always need to be upset about something, anything. I reckon Sophie and Naya are kind of similar, in that way. They give all of their distress to whatever is in front of them. And they feel the same passion, the same sense of injustice in something relatively trivial as they would if it was a life or death matter.

‘So you’re in love, Jimmy?’ Leon jabs him.

‘No way! No one cuffs Jimmy. Maybe my dirty-talk game got out of hand when we was banging, but my purp was strong last night, okay? I said a lot of shit I didn’t mean.’ He blows out. ‘Anyway, Christmas? What’s she talking ’bout? That’s not for ages. Like two, three months or something. I’ma break up with her tonight for real, cos she just done come through acting all extra, trying to humiliate a wigga in front of the crew, and that ain’t right.’

Christmas. Is it really that close already?

I wasn’t lying to Naya—the Carter Christmases are usually great. Last year’s was a bit rough, though. Dad had been staying at the Banarang Comfort Inn all week and we had to wait until he arrived to open presents. We woke up before 6 a.m. to our internal Christmas clock, like always. Dad didn’t arrive until after eleven. He brought along a present for each of us, wrapped in several layers of the green-and-white food-tray lining from Muchacho’s. He’d forgotten to label the presents, so he plonked them in a pile on the floor and said, ‘Err, I guess you’ll have to swap if you don’t open the right one.’

Trav opened one first. It was a MIDI keyboard you can plug into a computer to record tracks. I knew it was meant for me. I went to my room. I put a chair against the door knob and pulled the doona over me. I didn’t open my presents from Mum until two days later.

Tyson’s famous family van pulls up in front of us.

‘The hot box!’ Jimmy shouts.

The van is mostly white, but it features a generous peppering of scratches across the body and a heavy smear of brown dirt on the back window. Kev Grayson hops out in his thongs and footy shorts, and pulls the sliding door open.

‘All aboard, kiddlywinks!’

I get in last, after Naya, and put my belt on. I feel a strip of heat from my nipple to waist where the strap is. It’s always hot and dusty in this van. It’s like being trapped in the filter inside a heater. I take my hayfever spray from my pocket and inhale on the sly, and wipe my hands with a refresher towelette.

Naya introduces herself to Kev and I think about how I’m comforted by her smell, or lack thereof. I’ve read that to be attracted to someone, you have to like their smell. And Naya smells like nothing at all, so I could never be attracted to her. I respect the nothingness, though. It’s a welcome change from the Katy Perry and Rihanna signature perfumes that the other girls at school hose down their clothes with.

Tyson’s house has a signature scent too—it smells like old carpet and cat food. The Graysons have never had a cat.

They do, however, have twelve guinea pigs in their backyard. The pigs are split up into three hutches that are rotated around to mow down different areas. They eat, shit and piss until the grass beneath them is dead and yellow, then they’re moved on to do it again somewhere greener. I suppose that sums up humans too.

When we get through the front door, I hear Trish singing over the sizzle of frying pans from the kitchen. The cat-food aroma is quickly vanquished by the incense of garlic and onions.

‘New TV, Kev?’ Jimmy asks as we enter the lounge room.

Kev slips a Victoria Bitter into a tattered foam stubby holder and sits down in his green recliner.

‘Yes indeedy, Jimbob. Hard-rubbish find of the year! It’s barely used. We picked it up in perfect working order from one of your neighbours on the Boulevard, actually.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Naya says. ‘Are all of your household goods reclaimed?’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘Is everything you own from the tip?’ I translate.

‘Oh. Nah, not everything. Some of it we buy, some of it we find. But at the end of the day, it’s all junk.’ He laughs.

‘Do you work in sanitation?’ Naya asks.

‘Not anymore. I used to be a garbo way back, then I got promoted and ran the recycling truck all over Banarang. That smelt a bit better. Sort of. Yeah, I’ve done a few different things in my time.’

‘Now he doesn’t do much of anything!’ Trish hollers from the kitchen. Kev grins.

‘Yeah, I did me back,’ he tells Naya as he slides his free hand around to clarify where a human’s back is located. ‘I got the compo, so I’ve kicked around here for a year. I deserve it. Plus, Tyson is going to be managing that joint one day, so maybe he’ll give me some cushy office work then.’

Tyson nods. ‘You bet, Dad.’

‘But I’ve been getting back into some light work lately. Did a little bit for Barnesy when Ben’s old boy was off too. Little earners here and there. And some stuff with Mick Stones for Country West Water.’

‘So what exactly do you do for Country West?’ I ask. I’ve always feared our water treatment plants aren’t world class. Pollutants could easily slip through if it’s only Banarangatans inspecting it.

‘It’s fun, mate. I go under roads and properties and stuff. It’s complicated: pH levels and that. You young’uns probably wouldn’t get it, but I will tell you one thing. What do you think the item is that gets stuck the most in sewers?’

‘Tampons,’ Jimmy says, and Naya groans.

‘Nah. Good guess.’

‘Condoms,’ Jimmy tries again.

‘Nah. It’s apple stickers. Then cotton tips. Would ya believe it? You know, the ones you clean your ears with?’

‘Tea’s up,’ Trish calls.

‘Ripper!’ Kev creaks up onto his feet and scuttles out of the lounge into the kitchen.

The white fluorescent lights beam down on the dining table. They spotlight every glimmer of grease from the banquet. A casserole dish of orange macaroni bogged in clumps of cheese radiates steam; next to it is a pile of charred rissoles dribbling brown oil onto the mound of paper towels beneath. Trish plops a saucepan onto the table. It’s filled with boiling water and red hot dogs that would taste the same after a nuclear apocalypse. Near Naya, a gang of sauce bottles conspire around a plate of shredded iceberg lettuce, sliced tomatoes, onions and a tower of golden plastic cheese slices.

‘Wow, looks great, Trish, thanks,’ Leon says.

‘Yeah, thank you, Mrs Grayson,’ Naya says. ‘It’s awesome. Reminds me of America.’

Everything is ‘awesome’ or ‘amazing’ to Naya. Even a Banarang bogan feast. Insincerity is a hell of a drug.

‘My pleasure.’ Trish smiles warmly. ‘Get stuck in.’

Naya picks up a paper plate from the stack and spoons a fat ball of macaroni and a handful of chips onto it, then stacks up a burger bun with a meat patty, lettuce, tomato and cheese.

‘Atta girl,’ Kev says. ‘Trish’s burgers are the best in Banarang, even better than Spanner’s.’

Spanner’s Burgers is on Bridge Street, and it sucks, trust me.

Naya takes a bite and nods her head. ‘Ooh, yeah! That’s great,’ she says. ‘Thanks Trish.’

Jimmy rolls his eyes at me. I try to roll mine back, though I never can do it properly. I end up going cross-eyed.

Tyson’s brothers and sisters bundle in and load their plates up. They give Tyson a ‘birthday punch’ on his arm and retreat to the lounge room. Trish opens her plastic pill box and scoops out a handful of pink, blue and white tablets. She slides them down her throat with a big gulp of LA Ice Cola.

Tyson frowns. ‘Ma, I thought we were having Luthers tonight.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Trish gets up and waddles over to the kitchen bench. She is morbidly obese, medically speaking, but I wouldn’t like to use that term with her. She’s too kind. I’d say she’s joyfully obese.

She picks up a long white box off the bench. It’s got a big teal hypnotic swirl on it. It’s a ‘Baker’s Dozen’ doughnut box from DoughBros, the kind that Dad has been leaving around the house a lot lately.

‘Woop woop!’ Tyson plucks out two doughnuts. He delicately places a patty on one, slaps three slices of cheese on top of it and adds some sauce. Then he takes the second doughnut and makes it the roof of his architectural masterpiece.

He heaves it into his mouth and cuts off half of it clean with his razor-sharp dentures. He chews passionately. His mouth opens from the force of the load inside and spittle stretches across the corners of his lips like spider webs.

Anything is interesting if you pay enough attention to it. And gross.

‘Yes,’ he moans, eyes squeezed shut in rapture, ‘Yes!’

I haven’t eaten a thing but I feel queasy.

‘Ever seen one of those burgers, Nay-yah?’ Kev asks, looking admiringly at his son.

‘Yep, some boys did it as a dare at my school a couple of years ago.’

‘Oh, eating competitions, eh?’ Kev sips on his beer. ‘I reckon our Tyse could give ’em a run for their money.’

Everyone else has served themselves but I’m still processing the smells and colours. I can’t take my eyes off a furry glob of tomato sauce that has congealed onto the table. I estimate it to be three days old. It’s probably still moist in the middle, like a tough ball of pus.

‘Eat up, dear,’ Trish orders.

‘Oh, I’m feeling a little bit sick, Trish, thank you.’

‘Sick in the head!’ Jimmy says in between mouthfuls of hot dog.

‘Love, the boy just likes to eat the packet stuff at the moment,’ Kev explains. ‘Chocky bars and cereal and that.’

‘Why’s that, Bones?’ Naya says. ‘Processed foods are not good for you or the environment.’

‘Yes. Well, maybe. But they’re clean.’

‘Clean?!’ she scoffs. ‘You don’t know what goes on in those factories. You’re probably eating cardboard and chemical fillers.’

‘Whatever. It doesn’t have to be from a factory, it just has to be sealed. Protected from the air. I eat heaps of things.’

I won’t take the bait. I try to hypnotise myself with the swirl on the doughnut box.

‘So, do you eat fruit then?’ she asks. Naya may not be trying to piss me off—she sounds genuinely baffled by my sterile nutritional plan.

‘No, of course not.’

‘But fruit can be protected.’

‘No, it can’t. If you want to talk about factory chemicals then you should put the skin of an apple under a microscope.’

‘What about oranges?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘And grapefruits, and, umm, lychees, and kiwi fruits. And bananas. They’re protected by their peel.’

‘Good point there, dear,’ Trish concurs. ‘Pity they don’t taste as good as this stuff.’ She licks the cheese sauce off her knife. ‘Aren’t you a pretty thing, anyway, Naya? Am I saying that right, Nai-ya?’

‘Yes. Thank you, Trish.’

‘Very exotic for this town, aren’t you? Don’t you think Kev?’

‘Yep, definitely.’ Kev’s eyes are cast away through the doorway, zeroed in on the Lotto draw on TV.

‘You’re so well put together, too,’ Trish adds. She stretches her arms out in front of herself. ‘Have you heard of i-so-metrics?’

‘No, I can’t say I have.’ Naya seems wary.

Trish Grayson from Banarang knows something that Naya Kajang from the United Nations doesn’t. Brilliant.

‘Okay, get your palms like this.’ Trish juts her elbows out in a straight line and clasps her hands together. Naya places her knife and fork down and copies her. ‘Now push your hands into each other as hard as you can.’ Trish’s face goes red from the neck up, like a glass being filled with cranberry juice, and Naya plays along. ‘Can you feel that, dear?’ Trish pants. ‘Right in the chest there? That’ll keep your boobs strong and perky forever.’

‘Oh, that’s what it’s for.’ Naya drops her hands into her lap. ‘Thanks Trish, I’ll do it later.’

‘All righty,’ she releases her grip, exhales and gives a flushed smile. ‘Make sure you do about two minutes of those a day. I can teach you one for the glutes too, makes for a tight bum.’

When I get home, I eat two yoghurt-topped muesli bars. I open my Prozac and I think about all the pills Trish took tonight. It seems like she has more every time I go over there.

Parents seem to collect pain. They never seem to get rid of the original complaints completely, they just get new ones that become more urgent. It’s kind of like Tetris. When you’re young you can make the shapes slip in right and tight and they make a line, then disappear. But when you get old, the shit comes at you faster and faster and you can’t stop it stacking up.

Then your grid’s full and you’re finished.

I look at my Prozac and wonder if this pill is just the first of many I’ll be taking as I get older and sicker.

I hug Mum goodnight and go to my room. I lie in my bed and gaze up at the plastic stars stuck to the ceiling. Trav and I had stars like that in our bedroom when we were younger.

I used to look up at them and think that they were real places I was going to explore one day.

But I can’t get away. We haven’t found another planet to destroy yet. So maybe I should start making my life on this one better.

Maybe.