The next day, Naya doesn’t show at the start of lunch. I’m eating a banana and she’s not even here to witness it. It’s furry and dry but still mushy, which is weird. I think I’ll take potassium supplements instead. I wrap the remains of it in its skin and shoot for the bin.

Then, from out of nowhere, something covers my eyes.

‘This is Bones!’ Naya says. She peels her hands off my face, jabs me on the shoulder and moves in between the benches. Aaleyah is standing with her. ‘B, this is Ah-lee-ah. And that’s Tyson, Leon and James. James is from my host family.’

‘Cool down now,’ Jimmy says, ‘we ain’t family.’

‘Hi,’ Aaleyah waves. Her purple lips make a nervous squiggle of a smile. They both sit down next to Tyson. Aaleyah’s thin, plucked eyebrows match the jet black of her long mascara-clotted eyelashes. Her face is framed in a red silk hijab, pinned together on the side of her head by a metallic peacock brooch.

Swathes of navy linen drape over delicate grey robes that glide down to the ground and dangle just above her white Dunlop Volleys. People say Aaleyah wears bedsheets for clothes, but it’s the closest someone has dressed to the uniform code in years and it looks great.

I wonder if she knows she’s Naya’s latest charity project. Maybe she’s just happy to have a friendship on any condition.

I can still feel the impression of Naya’s hands on my face. It’s warm and—

Hold up.

Naya touched my face. Her hands were on my face. A person has touched my naked face. This is another level, beyond touching hands. This is bad.

What else has she touched today before she touched me? She’s touched Aaleyah, for sure. She would have eaten breakfast and touched food, maybe she even brought an orange to her mouth and licked her fingers. I can’t tell if I’m aroused or disgusted. I don’t have anything resembling an erection. I must be disgusted. The microbes could have spread all across my face by now.

This is bad.

No. I’ll be fine. It’s normal. Nothing even happened.

‘Hello, everyone,’ Aaleyah says. ‘And hi, Bones. Naya has told me much about you.’

My heart skips a beat. Then it starts to pound.

‘You sound very funny,’ she finishes.

Then my heart goes quiet. That seems even worse than cute.

‘It is good,’ Aaleyah says. ‘I like to laugh much.’

In trying to wrap her tongue around the ending of “much”, though, Aaleyah sprays a mist of spittle across my face.

‘Oh! Sorry for that. I did not mean to spit on you.’

The warm impression of Naya’s hands is gone and now Aaleyah’s spit feels like acid on my face. When I open my eyes I find Jimmy, Leon and Tyson’s stunned faces gaping at me.

I search my pockets for a refresher towelette. Nothing there. The first day all year I go to school without them and this happens.

I can feel the microscopic bugs from the saliva on my skin. They’re fornicating in my pores and fertilising my sweat glands. I have to move fast.

Trav will have more towelettes. He usually keeps spares for me in his bag.

I get up and skip away from our benches.

‘Bones, where are you going?’ Naya calls.

‘Just have to grab something quick.’

But there’s a thought niggling at the back of my mind. Do I really have to get a towelette? Wouldn’t some paper towel from the canteen do?

No. Paper towels have never worked before, so why would they work now? I need towelettes!

I round the corner of the Madden Wing and approach the bedraggled school footy oval. No footy matches have been played here for years. There are cigarette butts, flattened Coke cans, balls of scrunched-up Gladwrap and other debris strewn across the pasture of potholes and yellowing grass. Yard duty is poorly enforced at Banarang High.

I run past Kane McKnight, who is sitting down in a circle with five girls all looking at him like he’s Jesus. He’s in a punk band and they’ve played two gigs in Melbourne, at real pubs, so he’s a local legend. Jimmy says he’s the only guy in our year who would get more pussy than him.

I spot Trav launching a drop punt into a pack of guys for Marker’s Up. Raj is in there, and a bunch of other Year Ten footy-doofas. The ball hovers in the air and the big boys fly.

Shitty scampers up the back of Tommy and plants his knees on his shoulders. The ball slides through his fingertips and hits the ground.

‘Motherfucker,’ Shitty yells at himself, getting to his feet and grabbing the ball.

I run over to Trav.

‘Trav, can I get a moist towelette?’

‘Heads,’ he groans, his eyelids heavy and bored.

‘Huh?’

BOOF!

I’m struck in the head by the ball. I didn’t see the leather missile coming, but it hits the side of my scalp and coasts on through the air afterwards. I clutch my head with both hands and keel over. The patch of the ball’s impact burns. I’m not going to fall to the ground, though. No way.

‘Maaaaate. Sorry, didn’t see you coming there.’ I look up and Shitty’s peering down at me—those black irises and pupils, those dead malevolent eyes. The skin around them is still splotched purple and sickly yellow. I spin my head away.

‘You shouldn’t run into the danger zone like that, Boner,’ he says. ‘You’ve gotta have your eyes on the pill out here.’

I bite my lip to distract the pain receptors on my head for a second. I puff out my plea to Trav again.

‘Can I have one, please?’

‘What do you want mate?’ Shitty holds out his hands. ‘Maybe I can help ya.’

Trav shakes his head. ‘He wants those little hand cleaner things, like KFC has.’

‘Oh, mate,’ Shitty says. ‘You can’t get those no more. KFC is debunked now.’

‘You mean defunct,’ I mutter. He doesn’t hear it, but it makes me proud to catch his stupidity and raise it as it happens for once. ‘Yeah, them,’ I say louder, ‘but the Muchacho’s ones. You know, the place where Trav works all the time.’

Trav’s face crumples like a crashed car. I knew that would piss him off. Shitty is always telling him that work is for losers and that he should quit so they can go to more parties together.

‘I don’t have any of your stupid towels,’ Trav says. ‘Just go wash your hands in the pisser like everyone else does!’ He walks away to fetch the ball and Shitty skulks back to the pack as the end-of-lunch bell rings.

I haven’t been in the school toilets all year. They’re disgusting. That’s why I try to limit my water intake in the morning, and replenish my fluids more often in the afternoon when I need it most. If I’m really desperate, I’ll piss on a tree. It’s all organic anyway.

Jimmy did tell me that there’s been a new cleaner this term, though. He said that the soap dispenser is always full, the toilets are scrubbed, the paper is soft and three-ply, the floors are mopped every day and the hot water pressure is remarkable. He thinks it’s fit for us to have classes in there. I doubt that, but I do need to scrub my face with soap badly.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

I run to the toilets in Madden Wing. I stop and stare at the entry door. I breathe in my last lungful of clean air and trap it in my mouth. I kick open the door and pounce through before it slams back in my face.

The smell batters me immediately. The concrete bunker is a hot box of human methane. It’s like I’m trapped in the mouth of someone who passed out with a urinal cake stuck under their tongue. Toilet paper is pasted to the floor with congealed, yellowed piss. The bin near the hand-dryer is teeming with soy sauce-stained dim sim paper bags, black banana skins and sandwich wrappers. The mirror is blotted with fingerprints, liquid paper and marker graffiti. Hairy testicles and dicks with bulging veins are scrawled across the glass, accompanied by musings like ‘Fuck Banarang FUCK everything’ and ‘Hamish Simmons loves fat cock’.

Jimmy must have been joking about the toilets being clean, but he was right about one thing: there is ample soap in the dispensers. Though that probably says more about students’ lax personal hygiene than the cleaners’ vigilance.

I elbow the dispensing button and red goo slops into my hands. I lather it up and rub it into my face. The foam gives me a bubble beard. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The reasons that led me here may not sound like progress but the fact that I’m here at all is surely a major breakthrough.

The door behind me creaks open.

‘Aww, little snitch got some pimples?’ It’s Shitty and Raj. ‘Haven’t seen your precious skin in here for a while, Bonesy.’ He stands beside me and looks in the mirror.

‘Don’t worry, mate, I get them too.’ He lifts his head and stretches his neck out to show a cluster of red bumps under his chin. ‘I get ’em from shaving.’

I turn around to walk out but Raj is blocking the doorway. Is this shit real? This is the most clichéd bully scene ever. Do TV shows take their cues from actual bully behaviour or do real-life bullies imitate the stereotypes shown on TV?

‘You’ve fucked up my life once already,’ Shitty says. ‘You don’t get to do it again.’

I should be washing the soap off, but I’ve frozen. The little bubbles pop and fizz on my face like Rice Bubbles.

‘A couple of days ago,’ Shitty says, ‘I told your big sister Naya where a bloke who does work for me dad lives. Matt Armstrong. He’s a good fella, actually. Just ask your mum.’

I want to smash the mirror in front of Shitty so the shards drop onto his hands. I want to make him need stitches.

‘Naya said she had some pamphlets for him,’ he says. ‘I didn’t ask much. You know how she is, always wants to help. But then Matt gets woken up at two in the morning to the sound of his Michelins getting cut up. He goes outside and sees a car skidding away. He also finds a bunch of other crap on the ground, like the licence of the girl everyone knows I’m fucking. So, you can understand why he reckons that bloke bolting with the girl was me. You can understand why he would go to my dad the next day and hand the girl’s bag to him and want an explanation. And you can understand why my dad wouldn’t believe me when I said it wasn’t me.’

He scratches at his mangled eye and winces. ‘Dad tells me I’m lucky I didn’t end up in jail. But I reckon he knows he’s the lucky one—cos he’s got just as many enemies as mates at the cop shop and they’d love to see what he did to me again. So he’s also lucky I’m not a snitch like you.’

There’s no way out of here so I dash into a cubicle. I lock the door with my hand through my shirt.

‘Where’re you going, Bonesy? We’ve gotta get to class. We’ve got your mate Catling, don’t we? You need to wash ya face off.’

I kick the toilet seat down to hide the two fat brown nuggets in the bowl. I’m secure in this cubicle, standing between the door and the toilet. I’m not in contact with anything. I close my eyes and breathe in short bursts through my nose so the smell can’t linger.

‘Snitchy, I’ll make you a deal. You come out of there now, we shake hands, we settle this for good, then I won’t tell Naya that I took that beating for you. I won’t tell her that you know fuckin’ well whose car it was you slashed. Come out and shake with me and it’s over. You got my word. Or you stay in there like a little rat and I’ll keep treating you like one.’

It’s a trap. It’s got to be a trap. A rat trap. Just like when Shitty took the helping hand of Boofa from Warandari.

I try to think of the gross things I’ve touched accidentally in the last week. I tripped over on the nature strip at home once and my hands landed on the grass. I used a cereal bowl that was clean but was in the family rotation. I may have even accidentally drunk out of Trav’s glass of water. I shudder at all those thoughts, but I shudder most at the thought of shaking Shitty’s hand. It’s filthy bacterially, filthy philosophically.

But I’m tired. I’m crumbs. I’m done with this.

I pull my shirt over my hand again and turn the toilet door lock.

I twist it left until it’s almost unlatched, then I stop. I think better of it. I’m not going near that grubby hand.

‘Leave me alone,’ I scream. ‘Leave me alone!’

My shrieks echo off the bunker walls. I must sound insane, like I’m shouting down evil spirits. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a wish for Shitty to disappear.

‘Oh, you are a special case, Carter,’ he says. ‘Oy Raj, last time I checked, this place was for pissing in, yeah?’

A zip releases and I hear a splash on concrete outside my door. I assume Shitty’s doing some territory marking on the floor. He’s a dog. I’ll have to jump over it, like a hero’s leap in an action movie. I’ll probably retch looking at the puddle when I get out, but at least I’ll survive.

‘This is a bit fucked, man,’ Raj says. His steps drift off and the door whooshes shut. I open my eyes and look down to see a yellow stream ricocheting off the concrete floor under the door. It’s spraying onto my shoes and the bottom of my jeans.

I yelp and hop back with both feet, but my shoes catch the porcelain base of the toilet and slip, dumping my body onto the seat.

I am now sitting on a public school toilet. And it is worse than I ever feared.

‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck!’ I shout, my voice squeaking from baritone to chipmunk and back again.

I kick off each piss-stained shoe. I cross my feet and elevate them so they hover above the floor.

‘I’ve got one last present for ya, mate,’ Shitty says. ‘This is as close as you’re ever gonna get to fucking Naya.’ Something sails over the cubicle door and splatters on the floor at my feet. I look down and watch cum ooze out of a condom.

‘That’s mine from last night,’ he shouts, ‘enjoy.’ And he’s gone.

What kind of filthy fuck keeps their own condom? He’s even worse than I thought. Or maybe it’s fake. But what kind of filthy fuck makes fake semen?

I pull my shirt up over my face. The soap has almost dried into my pores. That’s not good for my skin at all. None of this is good for me. I breathe into the shirt fabric. The inside of it must be clean.

I want to leave this school right now. Forever.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there are places better than here. I just need to go further than Melbourne. Singapore, maybe. Dubai. Somewhere hygienic and respectful.

Or maybe I should stay in this cubicle forever. Starve to death. Maybe then everyone will realise what an arsehole Shitty is.

I wallow for a few more minutes, trying hard to think of all my options. My mind fills up with static noise, clashing thoughts trying to fight each other. I’m a mess.

‘Oh my goodness. It’s positively malodorous in here.’

It’s Catling. Fuck.

‘Carter?’ He knocks on the door. I hold my breath. ‘Carter. I can see your feet.’ I pull my feet up higher. ‘Carter, I saw your feet move. No use pretending. I’ve trousers and a pair of cobblers for you here.’

The navy slacks and beaten up black school shoes dangle over the cubicle door. I pull them down.

‘This floor is ghastly. What happened here, Carter?’

‘The cleaners aren’t paid enough,’ I say.

‘What really happened? I’m not sure I believe Chase.’

I’m back to not breathing, playing dead. Catling sighs. ‘I’ll see you in class. Please make haste.’

I pull the blue pants on. They’re crisp and new; they still have tissue paper between the folds. But the shoes look like a Chihuahua’s chew toy, with little scrapes and abrasions covering every inch. They’re gross, but I’m in the most brutal beggars-can’t-be-choosers moment of my life, so I grit my teeth and slip into them.

I abandon my old clothes on the toilet floor.

Sixty eyes gawk at me when I trudge into Catling’s class. It’s like walking into a house of creepy dolls. They stare at my pants and shoes. Everyone is attempting to hide their grins, but they can’t. It’s too funny. Too weird. I’m probably the first Year Ten kid to wear uniform in a decade.

Shitty is sitting next to Naya. She’s giving me the pity look. But it doesn’t feel good this time. I can’t look at either of them. I take my seat. I’ve given up on spontaneous combustion. Hell is a place on Earth.