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brushed stainless steel fittings. Dan reckons it’s a house for looking at, not living in, but I’ve never heard him complain about the plasma TV that takes up most of the wall in the living room.
    â€œOh,” says Dr Phil when he opens the door, looking over my shoulder in case there’s someone more interesting standing behind me. “Daniel’s in his room, as usual. Go on up.”
    Despite Dr Phil’s book giving Mum the idea in the first place, there are no rules about having people of the opposite sex in your bedroom at Dan’s house. He also has a TV, a games console and a computer in there. If Mum knew what a hypocrite Dr Phil is, she’d probably throw his book out the window. I’ve been tempted to tell her, but the fleeting satisfaction of informing her that her idol is a sham isn’t worth her banning me from ever coming here again.
    Dan is lying on his bed, playing a shoot-’em-up zombie game. “I’ll be done in five,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Make yourself comfortable.”
    There are only three places to sit in Dan’s room: the floor; the chair at his desk, which is always piled with laundry; or his bed. I perch on the edge of the bed. Unlike my room, Dan has no sentimental knick-knacks or photos on display. Aside from the teetering stack of CDs next to his stereo, a couple of books on his bedside table and the overflowing laundry basket, there’s not much to see at all. I stare out the window at next door’s roof, where a pigeon with his chest puffed up like one of the body builders in Zig’s posters is cooing to his would-be mate. I try to imagine a scenario where I can just work Mum’s news into the conversation casually. I come up blank.
    â€œThat showed those undead suckers,” Dan says ten minutes later, when I’m no closer to finding the right words and the pigeon is no closer to his goal either. (At least Dr Phil is making some progress; his date arrived just after me and they left straightaway. From what I could hear, I’ve deduced that she is a giggler and wears clickety high heels.)
    Dan tosses the controller onto the floor with one hand and pulls me back towards him with the other. He shifts so we’re side by side and pushes his fringe back from his face. I still get a little buzz when I see those intensely blue eyes.
    â€œWhat shall we do now that Dr Phil’s out of the way?” he asks, kissing me before I can answer. “Watch a DVD?” Kiss. “Listen to music?” Kiss. “Go for a ride?” Kiss. “Or we could just stay here and do this.”
    He kisses me again and runs his fingertips lightly down my spine. The dull ache that’s been nagging at my stomach all day dissolves at his touch, but I know it’ll return the instant I tell him about Mum. I murmur my agreement with his suggestion.
    I lose myself in the feeling of Dan’s lips against mine, the warmth of his back when I slide my hand under his T-shirt, the way my skin tingles where he’s touched it. A couple of times my mind wanders and I get mental flashes of Mum lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, like Pop was at the end. I try to concentrate on Dan to block it out, but after a while that stops working. It takes him a minute to realise I’m crying.
    â€œFray, what’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing,” I whisper, turning my face towards the quilt.
    He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. “It’s not
nothing
. Did I do something wrong? Did you not want to–”
    â€œIt’s not that.” I take a couple of deep breaths, preparing myself to blurt it out, but as soon as I open my mouth to speak the tears start again. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the comforting Dan-and-laundry-powder smell of his T-shirt. He wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.
    After a few minutes, my breathing returns to normal and