I squeeze past him and creep along close to the tree ferns that Dad planted to give the side of the new house some shade. I see a green ceramic frog peeping out at us from a sea of succulents. It survived the fire only because it was down the back of the garden. Dad must’ve moved it closer to the house. I bought the frog for Mum at my first Mother’s Day stall at school. I spent all of my coins but I broke it on the way home when I dropped my schoolbag and the frog’s head cracked off. Dad glued it back and Mum pretended she liked it better with a wrinkly glue scar around its neck. Now, I don’t want it looking at me, so I close my eyes, making a pact with myself that when I open them I’ll pretend this is just a random house I’ve never seen before.

Matt bumps into me. ‘You having second thoughts?’

‘No,’ I say, opening my eyes and edging around the corner to where the laundry is.

‘How will we climb up?’ I ask him.

He answers by pulling a potted cumquat tree closer and standing on the lip of the ceramic pot. He balances on the edge and stretches up, wedging his foot into the window ledge. I watch him reach for the drain and silently cross my fingers and hope it holds. Then he pushes off and crawls up and out of sight.

‘Come on,’ he whispers from the roof. He waves at me and I climb after him. I stretch up on tiptoes, my fingertips grazing the cold metal of the drain, but I can’t quite reach the top to pull myself up.

‘Take my hands, Clem,’ says Matt. He’s lying on the corrugated metal, his arms reaching down towards me.

I slide my hands into his and feel his grip tighten. His fingers are warm and strong and they start to pull me up. I’m halfway there, my stomach dragging across the lip of the drain, when I swing my leg over and onto the roof, making sure I don’t scrape my sore knee on the gutter. Once I’m up, I realise he’s still holding my hands. I’m not sure who pulls away first, but it takes me a second to be able to look at him again. My skin is tingling and I rub my hands against my legs, trying to remove the strange feeling.

‘Biscuit? Chip?’ he says, unzipping his backpack and showing off his stash.

‘Both.’

He tosses me the bag of chips and I don’t wait to open them.

‘Great view,’ he says, wriggling closer so he can reach the chips, too.

I look around. I see the washing on Jack’s clothesline next door: a row of five pairs of matching white undies and three white t-shirts. They flutter in the summer breeze. I shiver.