The first story we all read in class gave me confidence, because it wasn’t good at all, and I was relieved—thank god, I’m the best here just like at school—but then the next story we read was great. It was surprising and dark and interesting and mature in a way I knew I could never write, and even though it was great, PJ still had a lot to critique about it, and all that confidence I had went slipping away. Then the next one was even better. How were my peers, half of them who looked like they had never grocery-shopped for themselves or booked their own doctor appointments, writing these incisive, deep stories about the meaning of life? Ruby says her mum not only does all her washing but sometimes still lays an outfit for her out on her bed if she knows Ruby is going out, and then brings her breakfast in bed the next morning, and yet Ruby is confidently writing a gritty story filled with hard drugs and violence.

I walk into the kitchen to help Harper.

‘I told you to pick something easy,’ I say to her.

‘No one is impressed by easy.’ Harper sits on the kitchen floor and puts her head in her hands. ‘I thought I could just kind of wing it, but there are a lot of teaspoons of spices in the recipe and we have no baking equipment and I thought I could just shake it in there or use a regular spoon and estimate but maybe not. I’m spiralling, Brooke. I’m spiralling.’

‘Okay, let’s just clean up a bit so we can see what we’re doing here,’ I say gently, but secretly I’m excited. This is my moment to shine.

‘I hate cooking.’

‘I know you do.’

‘I’ll just order takeaway. I attempted to cook, that counts for something.’ Harper has a running list of reasons for ordering takeaway that she likes to say out loud to anyone in earshot, mostly as a way to justify it to herself, I think, which includes: had a bad day at uni and need to cheer up, had a good day at uni and need to celebrate, ate lunch at home, it’s cold, it’s hot, tired from cleaning up the kitchen, tired from going to the supermarket, hungover, got too stressed when reading the recipe, about to get period, has period, just had period.

‘I’ll cook it for you,’ I say.

‘I can’t let you do that,’ Harper says, in the hopeful voice of someone who wants to let you do that, very badly.

‘Yes you can.’ This is my friendship brand, my love language. Doing things for someone else, especially domestic things. I am the friend who will cook the dinner for you, who will show you how to get stains out of your top, who will proofread your assignment.