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‘What about Carl?’
    Wayne shrugs. ‘I don’t know,’ he says sheepishly. ‘At the time — I’m sorry, but I thought he was dead. In fact …’ — Wayne frowns, remembering the scene — ‘it was raining real hard when they got him out and I didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t like he was mangled or nothing, it’s just he looked so big and old. I swear I thought he was about twenty-five or something. I didn’t even realise it was Carl and JD. They wouldn’t let us get too close — the cops and stuff were there, cutting them out. It was pretty bad.’
    Wayne stops speaking and puts his head down. Lucy can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or upset, and realises it’s the latter when she sees him surreptitiously wipe his eyes.
    The bell sounds for their last period and everyone moves more swiftly than usual.
    Lucy is heading towards the car park to meet her mum, when Ben stops her.
    â€˜Hey, we’re trying to get in to see JD when they’ll let us. Do you want to come too?’
    She nods gratefully. ‘I would really like to come,’ she says.
    Ben pulls out his mobile. ‘Gimme your number and I’ll text you.’
    Neither one acknowledges that, in all the time she and Carl have been going out, his friends have never contacted her.

11
    That night Lucy texts Lydia and Georgia to say that she won’t be online. She can’t think about anything, not until she knows where things are with Carl — and JD. She hopes it’s soon. Lydia and Georgia haven’t probed her about what happened the night of the ball. She is glad she didn’t tell them the details of her argument with Carl: that she hadn’t been able to answer his question. And neither does she want to acknowledge to them that her plan yesterday had been to split up with him for good. It makes her feel so guilty, such a bitch.
    She calls his parents and gets Mrs Kapuletti.
    â€˜Lucinda, cara mia,’ Mrs K says. ‘How are you?’
    Unlike Mr K, who was born in Melbourne, Mrs Kcame to Australia when she was twenty-one, a friend of the Kapuletti family and, from all photographic evidence, model material. Her English was good, although Mrs K would occasionally lapse into a hybrid of Aussie-Italian. Particularly when she was stressed.
    â€˜Okay. Any news?’
    â€˜He sleeps, like an angel,’ Mrs K says. ‘I worry. I hope his head is not changed.’
    Lucy knows she’s referring to brain damage, and hates this thought. ‘It won’t be, Mrs K — he’ll be fine. Dad said so.’
    â€˜Your father, he is a knowledgeable and wise man, no? I put my faith in Jesus. He will watch my Carlo. He will bring him back, like before he was.’ Mrs K sounds close to tears. Lucy wants to rush around there right now and comfort her.
    She’d loved Carl’s mother from the first day she’d been invited to their house. Mrs K had embraced her warmly. ‘Lucinda,’ she’d said, even though Lucy’s name was just Lucy. ‘She is very beautiful, Carlo. You look after this girl. Yes? You treat her like the princess.’
    And he always had. Every month, flowers and acard declaring his love.
    Ever since, Mrs K had made a fuss of her, piling her plate with food, more food — her way of showing love. ‘You eat, Lucinda. You eat like the sparrows.’ Her back garden was a mix of vegetables, herbs and flowers, and she loved tending to her plants. ‘It remind me of home,’ she’d sometimes say rather wistfully.
    Lucy clutches the phone, swallowing tears.
    â€˜Will you call me if — when — Carl wakes up?’
    â€˜As soon as he’s opened brown eyes, I will call,’ Mrs K promises before ringing off.
    Lucy doesn’t know what to do. She should study, but that seems impossible. Anyway, if she doesn’t know her subjects now, she never will. She considers