Nick examined my final sketch. ‘Why’s it pissing on you?’

‘That’s good luck.’

‘How?’

I’d painted DOG on the side of the mongrel. I showed Nick how the word reflected on the 120Y parked in the drive. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘It’s a religious painting?’

Pencils on timber; Nick waited, hid his smoke as another teacher walked past.

Curtis was getting braver. He’d elected Nick a minor saint. He had that book, too, stolen from the school library. When we were in Year Eight (some time after his conversion to Adulthood) he’d started sticking saints on his wall. Every day a new one appeared, cut out of The Lives of Saints. Saint Scholastica, Our Lady of Lourdes. By May he’d covered half a wall. Anne had protested, but Gary had said, Let him go. John had called him a freak, and defaced Saints Fabian and Agnes before losing interest. But Curtis was unperturbed. Every day: snip, snip, Clag, smooth, and the appropriate prayer. I’d asked him why. He’d said, They musta done something right. I’d said, But you don’t believe in God. He’d said, The saints were human. So instead of Status Quo, Curtis had Timothy and Titus. This phase had lasted until September, when he’d seen a documentary about Darwin and stolen a copy of Origin of Species and, a few days later, asked Gary if he could get some paint from the shed.

Curtis turned to Nick and asked, ‘Who are your favourite teachers?’

Nick was only so stupid. ‘They’re all pretty decent.’

‘What about Mr Moore?’

‘What about him?’

‘He got sent here from another school. Mum read about it in the paper.’

We all waited. Even saints didn’t kill themselves on purpose.

‘I heard he got drunk, and there was this Year Twelve …’

‘Righto, let’s stick to the art,’ Nick said.

‘And she got pregnant.’

‘No!’ Nick said, turning on him.

Silence. Curtis knew what he’d done, and it was bad. Nick knew what he was trying to do, and looked disappointed. ‘Whatever Mr Moore did’s his business.’

I finished my sketch and asked for paint. Nick inspected it, and agreed. I went inside, squeezed a tub of skin colour, found a brush and returned. Curtis, apparently, was making amends. ‘Day was departing and dusk drew on …’

‘He’s remembered all of Canto II,’ I said. ‘Believes it will give him some sort of intellectual—’

‘Fuck off, Whelan.’

I started painting Mr Glasson’s arse.

Nick said, ‘This kid reckoned he got her pregnant, but he didn’t.’

We all waited.

‘See, that’s the thing, Curtis. You believe everything you read.’

‘I don’t.’

‘There was a hearing. She’d never liked him, and she’d set out to get him. But Mr Moore, he’s the nicest—’

Miss White appeared from behind the change rooms. Maybe she’d been hiding, listening, although she often patrolled during lessons. ‘He is nice, isn’t he, Mr Andrews?’ she said.

He tried his best. ‘Yes.’

Regardless, she stood back and studied the sketches. ‘It was nice of Mr Meadows to agree.’