I get back to the Emporium with exactly zero seconds before my shift starts. My plan, once I’ve safely snuck in, is to switch onto autopilot so I can churn out kebabs while concentrating on figuring out who beat up Xavier.

What was it that poet dude said? Best laid plans always get fucked up. Something like that.

I burst through the front door and I’m knocked over by the force of Vinnie’s death stare.

‘Don’t give me that look.’ I’m breathing hard from all the running it took me to get here, running while yelling apologies over the phone to Cara. ‘I’m exactly on time.’

I hurry behind the counter, dumping my bag and shrugging off my jacket. Other than a pissed-off aunt, there’s no one else in the shop.

‘Your session with Daniel ended hours ago.’ Vinnie’s eyes follow me everywhere I go like a furious Mona Lisa. I don’t know what colour her nails are today, but it looks like she’s been finger painting in blood.

‘Relax. I went –’

Vinnie grabs my chin. Not in the cutesy way she does when she’s about to call me her princess, but in a way that makes me drop the knife I just picked up and gasp. She pulls me around until I’m facing her, eyes glinting like Buttons right before he carves up my leg. Oh dear god, I forgot about the vodka. Busted.

‘You seem to have forgotten that you are grounded, Francesca Vega. You seem to have forgotten the rules. You will keep up with your schoolwork. You will leave the house only when I say so and only for pre-approved activities: counselling, grocery shopping, visiting your nonna. You will return home immediately after. You will keep your nose out of trouble and you will grovel your way back into that school. I’ve had it up to here with you, Frankie. And when I say “here” I mean high up an astronaut’s arse. Are you feeling me?’

I nod. She drops my chin.

‘That’s a contract of good behaviour right there,’ she says. ‘Don’t make me sign it in blood.’ She eyeballs me for a few more seconds and then sighs, her death stare replaced by tired, sad eyes. ‘You know I don’t like getting heavy with you.’

I pick up the knife and stab a tomato. ‘I know.’

Plan B: In between churning out kebabs, I will write a practice essay on Nineteen Eighty-Four, recite Italian verbs, memorise the inner workings of a volcano, list five causes of the October Revolution and compare thee to a summer’s day. Oh, and think real hard about how to stop disappointing Vinnie.

Simple.

But, hey, at least I got away with the stolen booze.

Vinnie slings her handbag over her shoulder, her coat already on. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve got an appointment to get to. I don’t like leaving you here on your own but . . .’ Her coat rustles.

‘Appointment? At five pm?’ I look at her feet and gasp. She’s wearing her red ‘Special K’ heels. ‘Oh my god, you’re going on a date?’

‘It’s not a date.’

I wait for her to tell me what ‘it’ is, but she just frowns at her shoes and then heads for the door.

‘Make sure he’s suitable. I don’t want a cult leader for uncle number four.’

‘Just be good and don’t burn the place down,’ she says. ‘We have a contract now.’ She’s almost out the door but she stops, leans back in. ‘Oh, and you owe me a bottle of vodka and three more months of being grounded.’ She blows me a kiss and then slips out the door, into the cold.

Shit.

Vinnie raps her fingers against the front window and then hurries up the street. Gone.

So I can’t sneak out and visit a racist fisherman but she can go on secret dates with a cult leader?

I glower at the empty Emporium.

Is this my life? A humming fridge and a garlick-y stench?

At least it’s Monday. No one wants to buy a kebab on a Monday. It’s like a law or something.

This is a good thing – I can’t get into any trouble on my own at the Emporium and I can’t disappoint Vinnie. I can just sit here, bring down my homework and really get Plan B underway. Forget this whole Xavier thing because it’s way too complicated.

But first: salad.

I cut the tomatoes and then the onions. It makes me cry.

My phone vibrates. I sniff and wipe my eyes. The back of my hand comes away with a large black smudge so I check my reflection in the stainless steel flume. Stupid onions: now I look like a goth clown.

It’s a text from Cara: Don’t hate me :)

I text back: Why would I hate you? My phone buzzes again.

On way to you now . . .

I frown. Why would I hate Cara for dropping by? Okay, so Plan B might need to take a back seat for a bit. Catching up with the BFF trumps homework. Sorry, Vinnie, but it does.

I text back: Cara coming over equals happy Frankie.

But before I can press send another text comes through that changes everything.

Ran into some peeps. Bringing them too :)

Peeps? Peeps?! I don’t like regular people let alone peeps. I start dialling Cara to get a proper explanation but that bitch is way smarter than I give her credit for.

I get one measly ring in before Cara presses her nose to the front window of the Emporium and waves at me, phone in hand.

Technically she sent me a warning text but she didn’t leave enough time for me to call and talk her out of it.

Sneaky.

Evil.

The door jangles.

‘Heya, Frankie babe,’ she says. Is the flush in her cheeks from the cold or guilt? ‘Got room for three?’

Three?

Again, I’m not given a whole heap of time to lodge a complaint. Loping in straight after Cara is . . .

Poo, bum, crap, shit.

‘Hey, Frankie,’ says Mark. He offers a sheepish smile and a small wave. One of his mates – PopAsia – trips in after him.

Cara smiles. ‘Isn’t this great?’

Super.

__________

Cara’s got an ink forest growing along her hands and up her arm. Obviously she hasn’t been home since school ended because she’s still wearing her uniform, an oversized hoodie swamping most of her summer dress, sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a little badge over her left breast that says ‘Joe’s Rock ’n’ Roll diner’.

‘You hate me, don’t you?’ she whispers.

I glance at Mark and his disciple sitting at a table by the window, pretending they don’t know we’re talking about them. That’s cool, because I’m pretending they don’t exist.

I know this is payback for me not bringing her with me to Ted’s house but seriously. These things are not, in any way, equal.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I say, piling onions, garlic sauce and chilli onto Cara’s kebab.

She points at the kebab. ‘I’ll never be able to kiss anyone ever again.’

I go back for more onions. ‘Who are you hoping to snog? Scrawny boy-band dude with zits?’

She grins, leaning in to me. ‘His name is Truc and he might not be much to look at now but you haven’t heard him play guitar. Trust me. This one’s a long-term investment.’

My fingers hover over the jalapeños. ‘But did you have to bring him here? With his friend?’

At least she has the decency to look guilty. ‘Sorry, but dickhead was standing there when I asked Truc out and he invited himself along. It’s not my fault he’s got a hard-on for you. Just grin and bear it. Please? For me?’

I leave the jalapeños be and start wrapping the kebabs. Mark is folding his napkin into a swan. He used to make them for me all the time, which led to the Great Paper Swan Fire a week after we broke up; maybe I should try origami with the kebabs. A giant middle finger?

‘Eat and leave,’ I tell her. ‘I will not be pimped out for your benefit.’

‘Why? You got a racist fisherman you’d rather hang out with?’ She sticks out her tongue as she scoops up the kebabs, sashaying over to Truc and Mark. ‘Table service,’ she says. ‘How fancy is that?’ She hands them each a kebab and takes a seat. The one closest to Truc.

‘Kebabs are awesome,’ says Truc.

Kill me now.

I’m not being mean; Cara deserves to be in love but this is only going to end badly. Like Winston the violinist who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And Ollie the drummer who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And Axel the trainee tattoo artist who, surprise surprise, couldn’t keep it in his pants. If I can discourage her now, I’ll save both of us a night in the rain painting Truc is a lying scumbag with a small cock on the art block wall, and all the tears and repeat watching of The Notebook.

I file this moment away as a down payment on a future serving of revenge and trudge out from behind the counter. I guess it’s okay for me to leave my post when there’s no one else in the shop. And if Vinnie comes back now it won’t just be me she kills. Totally worth it.

I drag a chair close to Cara and sit. I do not care if I cock-block her; I will not sit within punching distance of Mark. For both our sakes.

I stare unsociably at the scuffed table, remembering the first time I met Mark. He was lanky, black fringe flopping across his eyes, with the cheekbones of my music idols. He walked right up to me with his hand thrust out. He asked me my name but I lost my voice. Not because he was so cute I couldn’t talk – I’m not that pathetic – but I couldn’t get over the balls it took to walk up to someone you didn’t know and just start talking. ‘You’re going to have to tell me your name,’ he said, grinning, ‘or I’m going to give you a nickname. And my best mate’s called Stinko.’

‘So what’s the plan?’ asks Truc through a mouthful of the magpie special. I do not understand how Cara is giving him gooey eyes while he’s massacring his food like that.

I reach for Mark’s swan napkin when he’s done making it. Even through all the meat and garlic and chip fat I can smell the chlorine wafting from his skin.

‘What plan?’

‘I know,’ says Cara, ‘when Vinnie gets here we’ll all go to the movies.’

‘Cool,’ says Truc. ‘It’s cheap night at Nova.’

This guy’s the best one yet.

‘I’m working till closing,’ I say. ‘Oh, and I’m grounded for all eternity.’

‘Then we’ll hang out here.’ Cara pinches my thigh under the table. I make the swan peck at her kebab. She slaps my hand.

‘We better not,’ says Mark. He finally tears open his kebab. ‘If Frankie’s working we should –’

‘Poo-y,’ say Cara, sinking into her chair. ‘I never get to see her anymore. She’s either working or running around with cute burglars.’

The entire inside of Mark’s kebab goes splat onto the floor.

Truc laughs so hard he spits lettuce across the table.

‘Sorry.’ Mark looks between his legs at the mess.

‘It’s fine.’ I stand and give Cara my best attempt at The Nonna Sofia. ‘Cara has that effect on people.’

She gnaws on her lip but not out of guilt – she’s trying to contain a smile.

I head behind the counter and pull out the cleaning tray from under the sink. Vinnie only specified I wasn’t to burn the place down while she was out, but I think she’d have fairly strong views on food spillage as well.

‘Did you say burglar?’ asks Mark, two red patches on his cheeks.

Cara wiggles her pinky at him. ‘Sorry, Marky Mark, but you missed the boat. There’s a new guy on the scene and he’s hot. Hot in appearance and hot for Frankie.’

I dump the cleaning tray on the table. ‘He is not interested in me. Friday night was just a –’

‘Friday night?’ Cara’s jaw drops – and she hasn’t even tasted my kiss-me-not kebab. ‘But you were with me on Friday! You never told me you saw him.’

I wring out the sponge, drips splattering all over the table. ‘It was after and, anyway, I’m kind of busy here, C. Someone has to clean this mess up.’

‘I’ll help,’ Mark says. He dumps the soggy pita into the tray. He starts to get up, but I hold out a hand.

‘Forget it. You guys go to the movies without me.’ I get down on hands and knees, armed with my sponge and a resolute scowl. I’m way too close to Mark’s crotch for my liking.

‘Seriously. Get out of here,’ I say.

I scoop kebab innards into a handful of paper towel. If I ever need a metaphor for my life . . . I don’t look up but I know they’ve heard me when chairs start squeaking, bags start rustling and boots start clomping. I rub the floor in slow circles.

‘Thanks for the kebab,’ says Truc.

I salute him but I guess he can’t see me.

Mark’s feet hover in my periphery. Expensive-looking sneakers. Brand-new. I’ve missed an opportunity here, haven’t I? Could have tied his laces together under the table.

Turquoise hair falls across my shoulder as Cara leans over me, lips brushing my ear. ‘You will tell me about Friday night. Text me.’ She plants a kiss on my cheek and straightens. ‘C’mon, guys. We can probs catch the late showing if we hurry.’

‘I’m in,’ says Truc. He slings his arm around Cara.

‘Bye, Frankie babe,’ says Cara, but her eyes say ‘He’s got his arm around me! Squee!’

I sit back on my butt and watch them leave.

Mark’s the last to go, giving me the old laser light show with his eyes as the door wobbles shut behind him.

My shoulders slump. I reek of garlic and I’m sitting on a sticky floor with a spongeful of mushy kebab. I’m a seventeen-year-old orphan with a missing brother. Talk about a hard-knock life.

But Plan B is still a goer. I really need to orchestrate it so that I’m nose deep in a schoolbook when Vinnie gets back. That would be some seriously good PR. I need –

The door opens with a jingle jangle.

Shit. I need a Plan C.

I scrub the floor madly. ‘How was your “appointment”, Vin? Should we be getting ready for the apocalypse?’

Except it’s not Vinnie who walks in. It’s not even a random customer.

It’s a pair of ridiculously expensive sneakers. Brand-new.

‘Sorry,’ says Mark. He holds the door ajar and hovers there like he can’t decide if he wants to come in or not.

‘Mark?’

He nods. Okay. Good. We’ve established that he’s Mark and not some kind of pod person.

‘Did you forget something?’

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

I fidget with the sponge. Well, this is going swimmingly.

His mouth gets another couple of test runs before he finally blurts out: ‘I forgot to tell you how much I miss you.’

Plan C: Find a way to rewind time and play that back again. Because I mean really. What. The. Fuck.

He looks down. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to vomit that.’

I slowly scoop the last of the lettuce and garlic sauce into my palm, dumping it into the cleaning tray. I grip the edge of the table and pull myself to standing. I am so cool, calm and collected I may need to check my pulse to make sure I’m still alive.

‘I miss you,’ he says, a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘I wish I never . . . I wish none of that stuff happened and we could have just . . .’

I’ve never seen this Mark who doesn’t know what to say, what to do with his hands, how to look me in the eye without blushing.

I remind myself that this is the guy who cheated on me and broke my heart.

But he’s also the guy who sent me a note a few weeks into Year Nine: Do you want to be my girlfriend: circle yes or no. He’s the first time guy. The first love guy.

‘There’s nothing between me and Ava,’ he says, hovering by the door. ‘I’m done hooking up with her. She’s just not into the same stuff as me, you know.’

‘Like you’re into origami and she’s more into baby sacrificing?’

A shy grin sweeps across his face. ‘That was supposed to be your gig, wasn’t it?’

I really want to smile, but then I remember what it was like – Year Eleven. I remember people whispering and laughing, catching the words: ‘Mark’, ‘Ava’, ‘science block’, ‘kissing’. I remember walking up to him and cracking my palm across his face. Him saying: ‘What did you expect, Frankie? I’ve tried. You won’t talk to me. And you’re so angry all the time.’

So I don’t smile.

I just stand there watching him, remembering.

‘Can I ask you out or are you going to break my nose for trying?’ he says. He hasn’t registered the change in my expression because he’s still smiling, cheeks flushed red.

I swallow a few times, trying to get some moisture back in my mouth.

‘Mark, I –’

He bounds over to the counter. ‘We can check out a band.’ He grabs the order pad and a pen. ‘I’ve got a new number. It’s totally your decision. Call me. Or don’t.’

He rips off the corner with his number scrawled on it and holds it out for me. ‘I really want to see you again, Frankie,’ he says. The laser eyes switch on for an encore performance.

I can’t decide what I want to remember: the note in Year Nine or Year Eleven behind the science block.

He frowns when I don’t say anything, when I don’t reach out and take his number. But he forces a grin as he shoves the scrap of paper under the order spike and heads to the door.

‘I hope you call,’ he says. ‘I really do.’

The door closes behind him.

Do I have a Plan D?