What kind of thing?

‘I’m fine. The dal is great,’ I added, trying to divert the conversation.

‘You like it?’ Caitlin gave a satisfied smile.

I nodded, then refused to eat anymore, to keep her guessing.

‘Well, I’m full,’ I told them.

‘You can’t possibly be,’ Dad said, knowing I was taking the piss.

‘Nah, I am.’

His face started to form a scowl. ‘And how much crap did you eat with your mum last week?’

‘Don’t know. You were pretty quick to tear me away from her.’

Caitlin raised her hands. ‘Let’s not get into a fight,’ she said. ‘We understand that you’re disappointed, Phoebe. We only want things to be okay for you.’

I took a breath. ‘Things are okay for me,’ I answered calmly. ‘I’ve just had enough and I wouldn’t mind chilling.’

Caitlin looked at Dad, who looked back at me. He said, ‘That’s fine. But before you do, I wanted to let you know that we don’t want you to think that the way your mum keeps standing you up is okay. When you get a boyfriend or girlfriend—’

‘Boyfriend,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

‘When you have a partner in the future,’ Dad continued, ‘we don’t want you to think that it’s okay for them to stand you up, to rock up late and things like that.’

Hypocrite, I thought. What about all the times you were marking, or writing a paper? Mum is there when I need her to be. Not all the time, but when it matters.

I nodded and held back the tears. ‘I’m going to chill.’

I flopped on my bed and tried taking a few deep breaths. I could feel my pulse racing as if I was going to boil over. I knew I had to move to shake off how I felt. It was still hot as hell outside, and I had to get out. I threw on some shorts, kicks and a T-shirt, grabbed my ball and walked through the house, determined to walk out without a word. After all, Caitlin had sold The Village to me by saying, ‘You’ll be able to walk and ride anywhere, whenever you want.’

Dad was stacking the dishes in the washer when I walked past. ‘Where you going?’ I flashed him the ball and cruised out the door.

‘Be home by the time it gets dark,’ Dad called after me.

I made my way across the oval to the sad basketball court, an old bitumen court.

It must have been about seven thirty, and being daylight savings, the sun hadn’t set. A flock of cockatoos started squawking and I started shooting. At first I tried to hit three-pointers and then a whole lot of lay-ups, practising crossovers and then jump shots. Man it was hot, and I was lathered in sweat in no time.

I slowed things down for a bit and noticed a fella running on the other side of the oval.

I didn’t think much of it and stood at the free throw line to do my usual thing of seeing how many I could hit in a row. After a while, I heard someone say, ‘You’re pretty good at that.’