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done something exciting on the weekend to brag about. The other girls clamoured around me in the morning to hear the latest stories and to see the freshest love bites.
    â€˜What time didja get home?’
    â€˜Whadja Mum say?’
    â€˜Then what did he do?’
    And it never stopped. Even when the bell rang, the surfie saga continued.

8
frankly, i’m disgusted
    â€˜NOW, who can tell me the adverb in this understated clause? Larkham? Basin?’
    â€˜Oh, Mr Fairburn, you haven’t told us about your fishing trip yet …’
    â€˜Yeah!’ chorused the second form English class.
    â€˜Oh … ho … you don’t want to hear about that.’
    â€˜Pleeease, sir,’ cried Larkham.
    â€˜Ah go on, sir,’ whined Basin.
    â€˜All right, all right …’
    Phew. The class sat back for a bludge. Once we got him going he’d talk away at least half the period.
    I scratched out a note to Sue, wrapped it around my rubber and dropped it in the aisle between us.
    â€˜Psst.’
    Sue, nodding attentively at Mr Fairburn’s story, reached down to pull up her sock, scooping up the rubber at the same time. She put it in her lap and read it.
    â€˜Sue—Bruce wants me to meet him down the creek this arvo. Don’t think I’m slack, but do you reckon I should let him again? I don’t want to get a bad name. I don’t reckon he really likes me.’
    Sue looked at Mr Fairburn, her eyes wide with attention and waited till the teacher cast his imaginary rod out of the window to scribble back a note to me. She put it into her pencil case and passed it across.
    â€˜Look Debbie—Kim told me that Bruce’s wrapped in ya,’ it said. ‘Meet him but don’t let him use you. Lend us your ruler?’
    I smiled at Mr Fairburn encouragingly, and passed another note, under the table and across the aisle. Sue propped it up behind her English book and read it.
    â€˜I don’t want him to go round with me just for what he can get. I don’t want him to think that I’m just a rooting machine. Debbie and Bruce forever.’
    There was no more room to write anything. The slip of paper was crammed with scribbled messages and hearts and old maths equations.
    The bell went just as Mr Fairburn was hauling in his ‘whopper’.
    Susan chucked the screwed up note into the bin as we went to meet the gang for lunch.
    I did meet Bruce after school. We shared a cigarette and blew smoke rings behind the lantana.
    Â 
    Next afternoon I was daydreaming out of the window, when a messenger from the office came in.
    â€˜Deborah,’ said Mr Fairburn, ‘Deborah Vickers, you’re wanted in the headmaster’s office immediately.’
    I nearly choked. A wave of fear rushed through me. ‘What have I done?’ I thought. The whole class looked around at me. Was it smoking or nicking off? I couldn’t think of anything. The school was deadly quiet as I walked across the quadrangle. The sun glared down on the grey, bare asphalt. Used meat-pie wrappers and lunch bags blew about the bins, and I wished Sue was with me.
    I knocked timidly on Mr Bishop’s door. His bald head looked up. ‘Come in, lassie.’
    I entered.
    â€˜Take a seat.’
    I sat.
    He ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ and sighed. He rubbed his wrinkled temples and drummed his hairy fingers on the desk.
    â€˜I’m disappointed in you, lassie … Frankly, I’m disgusted!’ A little bit of spit shot across the table. ‘Tch, tch, tch …’ For a moment he was overcome.
    I clutched the sides of my seat. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a ragged piece of paper. He waved it in my face. I still didn’t know what he was talking about.
    â€˜Maybe this will refresh your memory … I-don’t-want-him-to-go-round-with-me-just-for-what-he-can-get … I-don’t-want-him-to-think-I’m-just-a- rooting -machine.’ I sat