Amanda made choices. Left us behind in her shadow, chose to be with men. Followed them. Send a letter north and it gets returned then she rings you from the south. She went south for Rory, west for Ron, north for Mick. Followed them—left us. Never said nothing—just wasn’t there no more and when people ask why—we say nothing too. Nothing to say about that.

SQUID goes.

TAMARA at the GOLO discount store.

TAMARA: Thursday night. Fluoro lights buzz—Elton John for the third fucking time in two hours—hate him, depressing old fuck—stuck on the register.

Washing powder in big boxes walking out the door and fake sheepskin ugg boots, Dezzie’s got the shits.

What time you on till, Dezzie?

Dezzie?

sms fight with her boyfriend, manager’s on another break—slobbing in the food court.

Indian woman with three young kids staring at me so I turn my back.

Two hours ten minutes left.

Hag behind me asking if we sell jam.

Jam? I dunno.

Dezzie. We sell jam?

DEZZIE: Dunno.

TAMARA: We dunno.

You go to your formal, Dezzie?

DEZZIE: Yeah.

TAMARA: Where was it?

DEZZIE: Some rusty boat. Went round and round the same bit of water while they played shit eighties music. Fed us burnt rissoles. There was a coleslaw fight, got on the dresses.

TAMARA: You still vego?

DEZZIE: Yeah. Na.

TAMARA: Did you make up with ya boyfriend?

DEZZIE checks her phone.

DEZZIE: Na.

TAMARA: You miss school, Dezzie?

DEZZIE: Na.

TAMARA: How do you cope working here full-time, doesn’t it shit you?

DEZZIE: Can’t be bothered looking for another job. Was going to sell this organic make-up like what Natalie Bassingthwaighte wears. Really good commission.

TAMARA: Commission?

DEZZIE: Yeah.

TAMARA: What happened?

DEZZIE: They gave me some to take home and try and it gave me a rash.

TAMARA: Maths teacher from school in the shop. Look, it’s Mrs Brain. That her son?

DEZZIE: Looks like her—the chin and shit.

TAMARA: Looks like he hates her.

DEZZIE: He hates her for sure.

TAMARA: Hello Tamara, Dezzie she says.

DEZZIE/TAMARA: Hi Miss.

TAMARA: How do they do that? Know names?

Her kid looks away. His mum being called Miss. ’Cause she’s not—a Miss. That’s for someone younger, nicer.

Some smell. Some perfume she’s wearing something reminds me of my mum—Dezzie serving her, me staring at her kid, he’s pretty ugly big and weird—all in black—some emo loser.

DEZZIE: See the look she gave us? Teachers are bitches.

TAMARA: Some are okay.

DEZZIE: No they’re not. Did you see his arm?

TAMARA: No.

DEZZIE: Had a cut on it, here.

TAMARA: What you doing looking at his arms?

DEZZIE: You reckon he cuts himself?

TAMARA: Don’t care, ay?

DEZZIE: Yeah, but.

TAMARA: You ever go shopping with your mum?

DEZZIE: My mum?