Trixie was getting used to me and I was getting used to her. Agnes turned down the offer of a walk when I rocked up at the aged-care apartments, citing breathlessness and a visit from her daughter due that afternoon. I had a cunning plan, so that was fine by me.

Well, it wasn’t really a plan and it certainly wasn’t cunning, so that’s a generous description. I had the crazy idea that if Mum and Dad actually saw Trixie, and understood she was the size of a cockroach, but slightly cuter, their reservations about adopting her as a pet would magically disappear. That was assuming Trixie didn’t dump a loaf on the kitchen floor (her bowels played up, I knew, when she was stressed) or try to bite Dad on the grounds he’s big and therefore asking for it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained was my motto.

But before taking her home, I wanted to give her a couple of circuits round the park, so she was tired and therefore (maybe) better behaved than normal.

It wasn’t my intention to run into Destry Camberwick. It just happened that way.

I sat at a park bench, watching people pass. It amuses me sometimes to people-watch; I guess their occupations – that one looks like a teacher, or maybe a bank worker. That one is almost certainly a nurse. I could make up entire stories around them. She was returning home to her partner who’d been critical of her dress-sense and the steely glint in her eye spoke volumes; she’d had enough and was giving him the old heave-ho. That man was going back to a lonely house, a microwave meal and an evening of watching The Bachelor.

Okay. Stop being judgemental. We’re all weird in some way or other.

I think.

‘Hello, Rob.’

I looked up. It was Destry Camberwick and she wasn’t alone. The Hound of the Baskervilles hunched at her side, glancing down at Trixie and drooling slightly. For once, Trixie was not frothing at the mouth with hatred. Maybe she’d woken up and smelled the canine coffee. Maybe she was just tired of being macho.

Destry Camberwick wasn’t alone, but Destry Camberwick and her dog weren’t alone either. A boy stood next to her; a boy I didn’t recognise from school, and I know nearly everyone enrolled at Milltown, by sight if not by name. He was good looking in a way that everyone would recognise, regardless of gender. Girls would say he was gorgeous. Boys would know he was gorgeous even if they wouldn’t say it out loud.

‘Hi,’ I said. Even in pressure situations, Rob Fitzgerald finds exactly the right word.

‘How are you?’ she said.

‘Good. And you?’ I don’t think I’d ever hit such heights of brilliant conversation. It should be on YouTube.

‘This is Justin,’ she said, indicating the piece of gorgeousness next to her. ‘Justin, this is Rob. We’re at school together.’

I stood and shook Justin by the hand. Justin? Of course his name was Justin. I’d bet his last name was something double-barrelled. ‘Justin Freakin-Thyme’ or ‘Justin a’Different-League’.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘Destry has told me a lot about you.’ He turned to Destry. ‘This is the Rob you’ve been going on about?’

Destry smiled. ‘The very one.’

Why would Destry talk about me, especially to gorgeous Justin? You’d think they’d spend all their time gazing into gorgeous eyes, locking gorgeous lips, wrapped up in their own gorgeousness. It was a mystery. Luckily Justin de-mystified it quickly.

‘Destry told me about your canteen protest,’ he said. ‘That’s great. Standing up for what you believe in. Suspended, right?’ I nodded. ‘And then something about a talent contest and you gave this really individual performance.’

I was starting to like Justin, despite the fact he obviously liked Destry.

‘What else?’ He turned to Destry.

‘Rob is a brilliant goalkeeper, it seems,’ she said. ‘I missed the game, but I heard all about it.’

I shrugged in what I think was a hopeless attempt at modesty. I could feel myself blushing.

‘It’s great to meet you,’ said Justin.

‘Yeah,’ said Destry. ‘We’ve got to go. See you Monday, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ I said. And then I couldn’t resist it. Maybe my ego was so stoked I had to fan it some more. ‘Maybe I’ll see you guys tomorrow if you happen to be walking down Mitchell Street at midday.’ I tried for a casual tone and then upped the stakes into a dramatic pause. ‘I’ll be the one chained to the railings,’ I added.

Mum and Dad didn’t fall in love with Trixie.

But they didn’t hate her either.

She didn’t try to rip Dad’s throat out and she didn’t take a dump on the kitchen floor. These were huge bonuses and, all in all, I was pleased.

Dad watched as she sniffed around the kitchen. He rubbed his chin.

‘She could be a useful addition to the household,’ he said.

My heart leaped.

‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘As a guard dog?’

‘No,’ said Dad. ‘But you could stick your hand up her bum and she’d make a great oven glove.’

I hate Dad sometimes.

‘That’s animal cruelty,’ I sniffed.

*

‘Grandad?’ I said. I’d dropped Trixie off at Agnes’s apartment and then popped in to see him before I went home for dinner.

He grunted.

‘I’m protesting animal cruelty in the town centre tomorrow.’

I’m not sure why I told him. I hadn’t intended to. But I was inexperienced in these matters – Pop wasn’t. I suspected he’d been involved in countless protests on issues of conscience. I don’t know why I thought this either. When it comes to discussing his past, Grandad is tighter than an octopus’s bumhole. But I felt better after I told him.

‘When?’ he said.

‘Twelve noon. Outside the supermarket.’

‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

I knew he would.