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ingredients seemed always to play their part; they almost never burned or curdled or spilled.
    When Gordana baked, it was another story. Frankie believed the utensils and ingredients became instantly anxious when Gordana entered the kitchen. The beater stalled and coughed and sprayed the walls; bowls shattered inexplicably; eggs imploded; a burning odor prevailed. Gordana banged and crashed a great deal while she was baking. She slammed pans and cupboard doors. She stomped about in a cloud of flour and sugar and baking soda. She swore at biscuit mix when it stuck to her fingers. It was no wonder, Frankie thought, that her afghans and peanut cookies had a shrunken look about them. They were born frightened, and they never recovered.
    He figured his own baking style was somewhere between Ma’s and Gordana’s. The kitchen wasn’t a train wreck or anything, but he did seem to walk an agitated tightrope, darting between bowls, checking and rechecking the recipe nervously, remembering things at the last minute. These days, he could do a decent carrot cake and Anzac biscuits, but only if all the planets were in alignment.
    Frankie pinched a spoonful of chopped walnuts from one of the china bowls lined up in front of Ma.
    She moved the bowl away from him. “School okay?” She kissed his cheek.
    “Not bad,” said Frankie. “Started new book project. New partners. New girl and me. New cricket practice time.” He usually gave Ma the day in shorthand. It was simpler.
    “Sydney, the new girl?”
    “And her sisters are called Galway and Calcutta. Can you believe that? What’s for dinner?” There was a competing savory smell in the kitchen but he couldn’t pin it down.
    “Chicken pie,” said Ma. She sprinkled walnuts on the filo. “Galway and Calcutta!”
    “They were born there,” said Frankie. “Like Sydney was born in Sydney. Can we have mashed potatoes? Louie’s favorite. And he prefers canned peas.” Conveniently, this was also what Frankie preferred with his chicken pie.
    He began assembling the ingredients for a massive banana smoothie and thought back yet again to Wednesday a fortnight ago. Just now, it was his favorite default memory.
    “Your mate’s in a pet,” Sydney had said at lunchtime. She was following Frankie to the canteen, though he hadn’t asked her.
    “A pet?” said Frankie.
    “A big fat sulk,” said Sydney. She bought a bagel with cream cheese and jam and waited while Frankie got an apple juice. “He doesn’t like me,” she said. Since this was obviously true, Frankie said nothing. The puzzle was
why.
Sydney was certainly different, but that was a good thing, surely? Apart from Vienna, who Frankie had known forever because her father was a friend of Uncle George’s, and maybe Renee, the other newish girl who seemed passable, the rest of the girls in the class, if not the entire school, were exceptionally silly.
    They were always feuding or having hysterics about project deadlines. Or they were trying to match each other up with different boys in Year Eight. Frankie had spent weeks last year worrying about what to do every time a girl rang him up. He hadn’t wanted to be rude, but he also strenuously had not wanted to go to the movies or The Mall with them. That was the other thing: all the girls in his class ever did was go to The Mall. He and Gigs had had many a conversation about the crucifying boringness of The Mall and the complete tedium of having to go there with any of the girls from their class. They’d rather score an own goal, they decided, than go to The Mall.
    Frankie poured milk into the blender and broke two eggs into the liquid from a great height. He enjoyed the wet sucking sound that it produced. He peeled two bananas, sliced them carefully down the middle, and chopped them into thirds.
    Sydney, he thought, was very much
not
a Mall girl. For a start, she wore very un-Mall-like clothes. Plus, her hair was dreaded and this had already caused a minor sensation in room