I march over to the wall and flip on the fan before the smoke alarm starts beeping.

‘I don’t want you to call Gary, Dad. I want you to tell me what I should do about it.’

‘Huh.’ Dad gives it actual thought. The kitchen is an utter mess around him and he forgot to put an apron on and has turmeric smeared down his front.

‘So this photo is an important personal statement, right?’ I nod.

‘And you’ve been silenced from making this statement.’ You can almost see his mind rewinding to his radical university days, as he likes to call them. Apparently even Gary was a socialist back then, which is impossible to believe.

‘I think a petition is a good place to start.’ He slides spring onions into a pan. ‘Get the support of your fellow students first. And try to get some teachers to sign.’

‘Dad, please. That’s not going to happen. The teachers don’t care about anything but keeping their jobs.’

‘Yeah, fair point.’ He bats the onions around the pan with an egg flipper. ‘Still. You can ask, to make your point. Make it obvious what you’re doing and if anyone questions you, say you’re exercising your democratic rights.’

‘But what about an actual protest? Hanging a banner over the school, or staging a walkout…or a sit-in. Or a hunger strike?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’ Dad’s eyes are shining and it’s not just chilli and steam and wine. ‘First, create awareness around the issue. It might be enough. Your posse will help you, right?’

I roll my eyes. Posse.

‘They might.’ I already know awareness won’t be enough to fix this, not at Balmoral. Something more extreme is in order.

‘Maybe ask Sarah? I haven’t seen her over here for a while. Are you two still tight?’

‘Dad, just because I asked you for your opinion doesn’t mean you get to mess with my social life.’

He holds his hands up in surrender.

‘Okay, point taken. My only condition is that you don’t get yourself suspended. Know your limits and try to exercise some judgement.’

‘Sure. Judgement.’

Dad takes the coriander off my hands. ‘Did I tell you I’m taking a few weeks off?’

He didn’t.

‘Your mother is stressed out of her mind with that Baker-Hill contract,’ he says. ‘I’m going to stay home to cook and be around for her. And you, of course. Give you lifts, help you with your homework.’

Mum is always stressed out over some project so it’s not an excuse. I look at Dad’s tired face, the pan smoking on the stove behind him, and I feel bad for ever doubting him, for wondering about the nights he comes home late, for thinking the police might be onto something.