‘Hey, that’s neat,’ Dad said as a girl glided along the footpath on her skateboard.

‘Yeah.’ I noticed a few kids riding their longboards and trendy bikes. Usually the streets of The Village looked so empty: apart from old people walking their dogs, hardly a person or a car passed by. Now kids were popping up everywhere. There were even cars lined up at the T-section that led to the school.

‘You don’t have to come with me any further,’ I pleaded as we reached the school fence.

‘Yeah, I get it,’ Dad said with a smile.

‘We’ll just wait here for the rose ceremony,’ Caitlin said. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘Hey Phoebe,’ Dad began, and I knew I was in for another of his big speeches, something else I had to get used to since he met Caitlin. ‘You know that I’m sorry about what your mum did to you the other day. And I’m really sorry that I yelled at you.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know, I can’t help but get angry when she drinks and lets you down. I feel sad for you and that’s why it’s even more shameful that I get angry with you when I’m really upset with your mum.’

‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I told him, even though I was still really hurt by it all.

Dad assessed my new school, the clean rammed earth walls and earthy gardens with a weeping willow hanging over an arty bench made of twisted logs. ‘It’s a bit different to Wattleside High, isn’t it?’

I nodded and Dad seemed really sad. His eyes were tearing up. He placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope you know that Caitlin and I are trying our best.’

‘Dad, before you say anything else,’ I jumped in, ‘please don’t hug me. I mean, you can hug me anytime, but not here, now.’

He laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re in Year Eleven now, right?’ And then both of Dad’s hands were on my shoulders and I thought he was going to hug me. Instead he leaned back and took a good long look at me. ‘Go easy on ’em, bub.’

When I started walking away, he called out, ‘Hey, Pheebs! I love you!’

So embarrassing. I glanced around to make sure no one saw or heard.

I reported to reception and the white woman with the dreadlocks and nose ring sitting behind the counter smiled at me. ‘Take a seat, Ingrid will be with you in a moment.’ Dad had spent time in Jamaica and white people with dreads was one of his pet hates. He reckons using parts of people’s culture that suit you to try and be cool isn’t cool at all.

While I waited, I scanned the office for the trophy cabinets. I wanted to see how many premierships the girls’ basketball team had won. But there was no trophy cabinet. There were only pastel artworks created by the Year Five kids, which were like the work of professionals. I hate art. I’m hopeless at it. I have no idea how my mob paint all of them dots and patterns and things.