There didn’t seem any reason not to. Thomo was caught up, and the girls were talking about Target and two-for-one dresses. So I opened the pack, shuffled it and selected three cards. Then I studied them, lifted my hand and chanted a few times. ‘This is bizarre,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘The Lovers.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah?’

‘Someone’s entered your life, and he needs something from you.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘No?’

‘Not long-term, you know? Something, quick.’

She clung to Curtis’s arm. ‘You sure?’

‘And this card. Strength. This indicates self-control. It’s like they’re saying, Don’t give in to your weaknesses.’

‘Lift up thy voice of gold!’ Curtis said.

I drew a few more cards until I reached the Fool. ‘Of course, the Fool. A spirit in search of experience.’

‘What experience?’ she said.

‘I’m trying … they don’t want to tell me.’

The Blessed strained to escape. Curtis kept checking. I guessed his heart rate was up, and he was red in the face, and sweating. He’d given up on the portrait, adding a body and legs and splayed feet. Then, a glowing knob. She said, ‘That’s disgusting.’

Thomo overheard. ‘What is?’

‘Nothing,’ Curtis said.

I thought we were in for a repeat of the AV room encounter: Wendy and Lars in the dark as the projector flickered and Mr McGarry explained how they made aluminium. Lars reclining, as it was offered, and accepted, as the whole mystery of human life was summarised in dot point. As a small head bobbed in counterpoint to the marvels of mineral discovery and refinement.

Thomo stood, strolled over, and Curtis screwed up his picture. Thomo took it, flattened it and smiled. ‘A portrait?’

‘Should I start again?’

‘If you think it’ll do any good.’

‘It can’t do any harm.’

Then he noticed my cards. ‘How things looking?’

‘Pretty good.’ I showed him my devil. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘You taking this serious?’ he said.

‘Yeah. Nick, Mr Andrews, he reckoned I was a good drawer. Mr Bulljaw, we had him all over the art building.’

‘Who’s Mr Bulljaw?’

‘That’s open to interpretation.’

Then he noticed Tracey’s picture, but didn’t say a word. Apparently, being piss-weak was better than being a smart-arse.

Later, as we walked across the compound, Tracey said, ‘Where’d you learn to do cards, Clem?’

‘I borrowed them from my sister. I reckon I could make a bita money. Two dollars a go.’

‘Any takers?’

I described home room, most of the girls lined up, shiny dollars in their palms, as I spouted shit about the Empress (Mother, creator, nurturer—I can see children, lots of them … How many? … Lots, and wait, there’s someone you’ve met … Go on … He’s tall, with brown hair, or is it blonde?)

‘That’s such a load of shit,’ Curtis said, walking normally, after a difficult start.

‘It is not,’ Tracey said.