It was in the spirit of giving up, which was a kind of hobby, that I left the scarf behind me and went with Dan and Lachlan to our planned Saturday activity, which was going to the gym above the Fitzroy Pool. Dan had convinced me it was not that far from home – it wasn’t, just a mid-length walk, then the 96, then more walking – and also a nice way that we could hang out and be friends, and, what a dog I was, of course I had said yes. I also planned to buy a bike roughly as soon as possible, once I had got my summer job, or autumn job, whatever. I had come to like the sound of many of these changes, but it seemed unwise to say so, almost an admission. Something told me I should keep my defeat close to my chest, that to let it go prematurely was a material risk. It seemed right for this to be a time of wound-licking.

But the pool reached out with its fat claw and pulled me in with its fit hand. We got changed in the changing rooms and then walked up to the gym. We went through all of the annoying motions.

The temperature was thirty-six degrees, and the industrial fans were helpless. If I hadn’t previously known what real sweat smelled like I did now, alternately stale and very pungent.

Finally we were done, and Lachlan, like a flash, was in his swimmers, towel in hand, this time a sensible beach towel, out the doors and scaling the ever-crowded bleachers.

‘Coming?’ said Dan.

‘I reallllly can’t go out there,’ I said. ‘It’s just way too social and I hate it and I’m scared.’

‘Nobody else thinks that! I promise you,’ he said.

‘Dan,’ I said, ‘don’t gaslight me. You’re part of the problem.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, ‘it’s a pool.’

I looked out the glass doors that separated gym from pool and tried to see the bleachers the way he apparently did. It was just a pool. There were a lot of boys out there, there really was a lot of sweat and not a lot of room.

‘I don’t know Dan,’ I said. ‘I just don’t really want to.’

‘You’re gaslighting yourself,’ he said. ‘Keep looking.’