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they very rarely become your friends. Plus it’s really hard to form satisfying relationships in jail because everyone’s depressed and tired from tunnelling.
    Then I saw it.
    An ad on the opposite page for a golf tournament. FEATURING INTERSTATE PROS it said in big letters.
    I went over and pulled Dad’s head out of the laundry basket.
    â€˜There’s a really good golf tournament on Sunday,’ I told him.
    He stared at me.
    â€˜It’s only two hours drive away and it’ll be really good fun to watch.’
    He continued to stare at me.
    â€˜There’ll be interstate pros,’ I said, trying to sound as if I knew what they were.
    â€˜I hate golf,’ said Dad.
    â€˜I want to go,’ I said.
    â€˜You hate golf,’ said Dad.
    â€˜I know,’ I said, ‘but I like the coloured umbrellas.’
    OK, it was a pathetic attempt, I know, but you do things like that when you’re desperate.
    Dad frowned, which he does when he’s thinking, then his eyes lit up and he made the sign for a lightbulb going on.
    â€˜Tonto,’ he said, and put his hand on his chest, ‘cross my heart and hope to lose my singing voice, I promise not to start a ruckus with cheese-brain Cosgrove on Sunday arvo. OK? Now, let’s get these fritters done.’
    I felt pretty relieved, I can tell you.
    Well, fairly relieved.
    Well, I did when he said it.
    We’ve just passed Mr Cosgrove’s shop on the way to school and Dad’s stuck his head out the truck and blown a big raspberry at the window display and suddenly I don’t feel very relieved at all.

I made myself stop thinking about Dad as I walked into school this morning with the plate of apple fritters because I wanted to look as relaxed and friendly and approachable as possible.
    All the kids rushed over, excited and curious to see what was on the plate, and I gave them a fritter each, and they gobbled them up, and they all said how yummy they were, and about six kids begged me to teach them the recipe, either at their places after school or on holiday with their families in luxury hotel suites with private kitchens at Disneyland.
    That’s what happened in my head.
    What actually happened was that all the kids ignored me except Megan O’Donnell, who sits next to me in class.
    Megan came over chewing her hair and peered at the plate. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
    I showed her. I’d known someone would ask, so I’d written what they were on the plate.
    Megan stared at the words for ages, her lips moving silently.
    Then she looked up at me.
    â€˜Apple fritters,’ she said.
    I smiled and nodded and wished Megan spoke sign language so I could help her improve her reading. It must be really tough being a slow reader. Plus, I admit, I had a quick vision of Megan winning the Nobel Prize for Reading and being my devoted friend for ever.
    â€˜I hate apple fritters,’ said Megan. ‘I don’t like anything with apples in. My dad works at the abattoir and he reckons apples give you cancer. He’s seen it in pigs.’
    I decided it probably wasn’t a good idea having a best friend who would get Dad overexcited, and that Ms Dunning probably had Megan’s reading under control with the extra lessons each after-noon.
    I smiled at Megan and turned to look for someone else with a better appreciation of apples, and nearly bumped into someone standing right behind me.
    Darryn Peck.
    â€˜Frog fritters!’ he yelled. ‘Batts has got frog fritters!’
    He started dancing round me, his mouth bigger and redder than an elephant’s bum on a cold day.
    â€˜Frog fritters! Frog fritters! Frog fritters!’ he chanted.
    I tried to look bored, and waited for the more sensible kids to shut him up.
    They must all have been away sick because the other kids in the playground started chanting too.
    â€˜Frog fritters! Frog fritters! Frog fritters!’
    The only one who didn’t