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    I rest my plate of food and water by my right thigh and try to cross my legs, but it hurts my knees, pulls the skin so tight that it stings. So I sit like a bloke with a stubby of beer hanging between his legs. It’s a position I’d like to stop sitting in, but it’s the most comfortable.
    When I was skinny, this position looked sexy. I had attitude; the boys drooled. Well … I like to think they drooled, especially when I licked ciggie papers, pinched my tobacco, and lit them, tautly rolled, with one eye half-squinted. But now I just look like a desperate, attention-seeking fat girl.
    How did I let myself get like this? What was I trying to prove?
    A tear escapes the corner of my eye. It tickles my cheek. I wipe it away, checking that Dad isn’t spying on me through the back window.
    I slip the Ziploc bag of caffeine pills out of my back pocket and fiddle with them like beads in plastic. If I take one now, will I stay up all night and burn some hard-core calories? You know, just to give the whole process a decent kick start, then I’ll be good. If I can stay awake as much as possible, it’s only logical that the weight should start dropping off. Right?
    I don’t know, man. Honestly? What if I’m allergic?
    I put the pills back in my pocket and stare at my plate, at the chicken fillet balancing on the edge. I pick it up, sniff it. Its salty fragrance makes my mouth water. But I shouldn’t. So I squeeze my eyes shut and fling it behind my shoulders and over the fig tree. A flock of birds fly away as it hits the back fence.
    I shove in a few mouthfuls of salad and chew quickly. One of the lettuce stalks tickles the back of my throat and makes my gag.
    Should I see what Kimi is doing tonight? I don’t wanna come off clingy. Maybe it would be better to wait till tomorrow. Now that I’ve lost my popularity, I don’t have my posse. I know they weren’t real friends, but at least it looked like I had some. I feel like Kimi is the only chance I have left at finding out what a real friend is.
    I close my eyes. The rustle of leaves and the light breeze brushes over my skin.
    I can do this. I have the willpower.
    I stand, walk over to the compost heap near back fence, and dump the rest of my salad into it.
    No food.
    I know. It’s a stupid idea. But just one night. I need a decent head start to boost my confidence.
    I pull the bag of pills out of my pocket again, sit down, and pop one into my mouth.
    Just a kick start. A few days.
    I promise not to become a statistic.

Chapter 15
    Nash: If only parents had a bedroom.
    I sit outside at Dexter’s despite the wind picking up speed. I light a pre-rolled cigarette, take a long drag, and nod a thank-you as the waiter brings me my double Maker’s Mark. Neat.
    I reckon the café bar is pretty quiet for a Thursday night. The weather is off-kilter, but what’s new for Melbourne?
    On the opposite side of the street, I spot a young dude drinking from a VB stubby, and smoking. It looks too thick for a cigarette. Probably a joint. His dirty fluoro-green baseball cap hides his eyes. On the corner of the block is a cop car. Waiting. Eyeing the dude. The fluoro-dude spits, drags, breathes, swigs, paces. Spits, drags, breathes, swigs, pulls a knife out of his pocket, inspects it, smiles, puts it back in his pocket. Paces. The cops don’t seem to notice as he pisses off around the corner.
    His gait and build remind me of Ibrahim at that age. My stomach tenses up. To think he almost convinced me to be a partner in his new “business” venture. Crikey. I can only imagine what would have become of me. If I’d’ve become anything at all. I reckon I’d be dead in a ditch. Or someone’s back yard. Or maybe I’d have been done on Sonia’s back porch.
    “Did you talk to her?”
    Sonia’s voice snaps me out of my trance. She steps onto the curb and pulls out her seat. It scrapes on the concrete. She winces, shivers, then rubs her bare goose-bumpy arms. As she sits down,