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Then he came over to my desk and did the same thing, except I don’t think he was trying to look down my front. Then he went out. He hadn’t said a word, not one.
    And there we were, alone, just the two of us again.
    I guess a lot of people who think they know me don’t know me too well. A lot of people think I’m some total mongrel who couldn’t give a shit about anyone: who’d pick up a cat and give it the helicopter treatment on top of a fifty-storey building, then let it go.
    I reckon I’d do that, too. I don’t like cats. And face it, I’ve done worse. Remember Clint Eastwood in that movie: ‘I’ve killed just about everything that walks and crawls, at one time or another.’ I’ve killed mice and frogs and lizards and birds, and even a dog once, except that was an accident. But one thing I just can’t hack, one thing I can’t stand, even for a minute, is seeing a girl cry. It makes me feel so damn bad. I can’t sit there and listen to it. So in case you’ve ever wondered, that’s why I tried again after you’d pissed me off so bad the first time.
    I think I said something like, ‘What the fuck’s the big problem anyway?’ which I guess didn’t sound too sympathetic and you didn’t even bother to answer. Which was fair enough. But at the time I didn’t think that; I got the shits with you and said, ‘You reckon you’re so bloody tough and now you’re carrying on like a fucking wimp.’
    See, I just couldn’t stand to see you crying, like I said, so I was saying anything that I thought might shut you up.
    Boy, you really cracked then. ‘WHAT THE FUCK WOULD YOU KNOW?’ That’s when you started chucking the books. I was ducking and dodging, and at the same time trying to look out the window to see if Fishbum was coming. I thought, If he comes, we’re dead. I was counting on you running out of books. But I guess I must have miscounted because, just as I took one more quick look out the window, you got me fair and square on the side of the head with your fucking mobile phone. Geez, I was pissed off. It wasn’t one of those little wussy phones that most people have; no, not this baby: it was a thing called The Brick and it felt like one, too. ‘Geez, you’re a fucking bitch,’ I was going to say, but I couldn’t even finish the sentence, because you started crying full-on then, like you were totally out of control. Scary stuff. I went over to where you were sitting and you had your head right down on the desk and I didn’t even know if you could tell I was there. I wanted to touch you but I was nervous about it and I had blood running down the side of my face—it was pretty funny, I guess, when you look back on it, but at the time it wasn’t. I thought if I touched you, there was every chance you’d belt me again or else you’d get Fishbum and have me charged with assault or harassment or something. Still, I couldn’t help myself. I put out a finger and gave your hair a bit of the old stroke stroke treatment and when you didn’t shove your pencil case down my throat I got a bit more daring and went for the shoulder. And next thing you’re holding me like I’m your best friend, and you’re sobbing all over my shirt.
    So that’s how it started. Last thing I expected when I went in for the det. I’ve never had anything good come out of a det before. And it wasn’t all good—Fishbum cracked the shits when he saw how little work we’d done, and on Monday he dobbed us in to Paspaley. But I’d been there and done that enough times before. And Paspaley’s such a weak bastard. I seen him playing table tennis with the Year 12s and he was bloody pathetic, doing all these wussy little shots and they were smashing the crap out of the ball, smashing it right at him, and you could see they were doing it deliberately, and he