‘So without further ado, This Excellent Machine, by talented Year Twelve student, Clem Weeland.’

Dwayne gave me the thumbs-up. He shared the delusion that this place could be improved. The food scattered over the ground after lunch, the crows picking at old salami; the girls tattooing their legs with stolen markers so the grunters would look at them. Mr Hunt, on yard duty, studying the form for the Harold Park trots as he scratched his arse and shouted, Youse kids piss off outa there. Dwayne was wandering Datsunland in search of a new Volvo, but there’d never been a Volvo, and anyway, he couldn’t afford one.

I thought it best to get it over with. ‘Barry Ruge looked at his grandson, Arnold, and said, I remember you. Arnold was surprised. Barry said, You used to deliver the milk, didn’t yer? Arnold said, No, Pop, I never delivered milk.’

Curtis had settled back. He was talking to Dwayne. Dwayne who would’ve and should’ve been Head Boy at St Andrew’s Grammar School. Curtis had put him on his list (number 41), with the comment: Pretentious twat who hasn’t accepted his lot in life. Cicero will save him apparently.

I finished in a sprint, and Masharin started a book review.

Curtis and I wandered the yard. There were a few comments. Loved yer stuff, Clemmy. Gotta getta copy when it comes out. But even the bile didn’t last. Netball practice was underway, and a dozen short skirts were some consolation. Curtis said, ‘Ah, a bear in its natural habitat.’

‘A Studebaker.’

1979. The Blacks Road drive-in. Mum had taken me, Jen and Curtis to see The Muppet Movie. It was a hot night, so we’d sat on the bonnet, and I’d said, ‘Not bad, Kermit,’ and Curtis had said, ‘It’s not Star Wars, Fozzie,’ and Jen had told us to shut up and Mum (sitting in the car reading) had said, ‘Any arguing and we’ll go straight home.’ Then we’d sang, ‘Opportunity knocks once let’s reach out and grab it, together we’ll nab it …’

Twelve years old, under the stars, thinking it would go on forever. As it had, in a way, the short skirts flying up, revealing California’s promised palm trees.

‘How’d it go, Fozzie?’ Curtis asked.

‘Movin’ right along …’

And it was like it had been, and not so long ago.

Crackle. Mrs Masharin’s voice trailed across the car park. ‘And now for our final book review of the day.’ Then there was a more familiar voice. Tracey. Mrs M asked her what she’d been reading.

‘Glory Days,’ she said. ‘It’s about a young girl, and she stupidly falls for a boy called Curtis.’

Curtis’s mouth formed a little o, and his eyes narrowed.

‘Anyway, it’s quite involved, but eventually she falls pregnant.’

‘Please, begin.’

‘In today’s world a girl needs to be careful. As this book shows, many boys care only for one thing. Curtis Durell is such a boy.’