SPLINTER BANGS THE front door with his paw, making the windows rattle and the numbers fall out of my head. I stand at the letter box and watch the snuffle-snort of his giant nose squishing under the wood. I check the letter box. Splinter whines. I snap at him to shush. There’s nothing but the usual scatter of pizza leaflets and a gas bill. I lean against the letter box. The sun pushes through the last of the leaves and warms my face a little. I close my eyes.

My hair follicles prickle with the tingle of almost touched. I snap my eyes open: a kid about my age, arm stretched out, about to tap me on the shoulder. He jumps.

“Oh.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. I’ve seen him around; he moved in up the street a couple of months ago. We go to different schools.

I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”

“I, ah—” His ears are turning red. I feel a bit sorry for him. But only a bit.

“You, ah, what?” I widen my eyes, mimicking him. Then I twist my lips into a smile. “You like invading other people’s personal space and creeping up on them like a stalker?”

He steps back, glancing over his shoulder. “No, I, ah. You dropped this.” He thrusts something toward me. I look at it. It’s the parent-teacher notice.

“Oh.” I slip my bag off my shoulder. The zip’s undone. I wonder what else might have fallen out.

“It fell out on the corner.”

I stare at him.

“I was coming back from the playground?” He points back up the street, the red from his ears creeping down his neck. “I saw it fall out of your bag when you changed shoulders?” I frown. “When you swapped your bag to the other shoulder, I mean. I mean that’s when it fell out. On the corner. It was just that. I didn’t see anything else fall out, if that’s what you were wondering. When you looked at your bag, I mean.”

I take the paper from his fingers. “Thanks.” I turn away, so he’ll know we’re done.

“I’m Oscar,” he blurts.

I glance back. He’s got his hand stuck out again. I think he expects me to shake it.

“Right.” I nod and move to walk away.

“Like the writer?” This kid does not shut up.

“My name.” He’s still going. “It’s after the writer.”

This is the point when you’d say, Is he on drugs? and then snort at your own joke. Splinter starts barking behind the front door. I stand on the footpath, my feet pointing toward our house, my fingers making the parent-teacher notice damp. Will talking to him make him go away faster? Or is it like feeding the seagulls? Before I can decide, he starts talking again.

“Oscar Wilde?”