I ring the front doorbell.

There’s a tumble of thumping and shouting as Cara’s brothers rush to answer the door.

Lawrence gets there first, elbowing Aaron as he flings it open.

He looks excited for all of about three seconds and then his face crumples. ‘It’s only Freakie,’ he yells.

Aaron shoots me a glare. ‘We’re waiting on pizza,’ he says.

‘Take a look in the mirror,’ I tell him.

Lawrence grabs his gut and laughs. ‘Oh my god. Burn.’

Aaron kicks Lawrence in the shins. ‘Shut up. At least I don’t have a pizza arse.’

‘Do not!’

Cara appears halfway down the entrance hall, coming from the lounge. Her smile is wiped the second she sees me.

I’ve seen her give that look to Ava about a billion times and it’s always made me laugh. Because I wasn’t on the receiving end. Because she was giving that look to Ava out of loyalty to me. Having her death stare turned on me is a massive kick in the guts.

This isn’t going to be easy.

‘You two, get back in the lounge,’ she snaps. The twins are kicking and punching each other. Cara boots one of them up the behind, I can’t tell which from here. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘You said you’re a loser.’

‘You said we could read your diary. Oh wait, we already did.’

She kicks out, but they’re already running for the lounge, snorting with laughter.

‘Boys, huh?’ I say with a plastered-on grin.

Cara juts out her chin. ‘What do you want?’

Okay, Frankie. You never expected this to be easy. Just do it. I shift my weight and chew on my lip.

‘I’m here to say sorry.’

‘You said that already. I wasn’t impressed the first time.’

‘I know. But this time I’m saying sorry with Spanish donuts.’ I hold out the paper bag. It’s almost completely translucent, the fat having seeped through the paper. Most of the sugar is shuffling round the bottom of the bag.

‘And I’ve got another lead. About Xavier. I thought we could go together. I’m not really supposed to leave the house without asking Vinnie first but if we hurry . . .’

She leans against the doorframe and watches me, arms folded, paying no attention to my bribe. She’s kind of frowning, kind of pissed off, kind of worried.

‘What’s the name of the guy my mum’s dating?’ she asks.

‘Huh?’ I open the bag to make sure the donut-y smell can waft seductively up to her nose.

She blinks, slowly enough that her eyes are closed for a couple of seconds. Blotting me out of her vision, I guess. When she speaks there’s a pause between each of her words. The way you talk to someone you think is mentally challenged. ‘What’s the name of the guy my mum’s dating?’

‘Your mum’s dating someone?’

‘What happened to Paul at work a week ago?’

‘Your older brother?’

She nods. Again, it’s slow and deliberate. ‘You know, six foot, shoulder-length black hair, you’ve met him about a hundred times.’

‘I don’t know what happened to him.’

‘How about me? Do you know how my date with Truc went?’

‘You had a date?’

She looks away. ‘Exactly.’

I shuffle from foot to foot. Waiting. I don’t think this is going very well.

‘You don’t know anything because you haven’t asked,’ says Cara.

‘I’ve been distracted but –’

‘Yeah, Frankie. I know you’ve had a shit time of it, but seriously. Get over it. We’ve all got sob stories. Yours isn’t even the worst one around.’

I step back. I guess the depth of her anger has caught me off guard. Even when she’s standing on the top step and I’m at the bottom, I’m still taller. So how come I feel so damn small?

‘You could just tell me stuff,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to wait for me to ask.’

She laughs. ‘If I waited I’d be wetting myself in an old people’s home before you took an interest in my life. But it isn’t even about that.’ She folds her arms. ‘I can get over the fact that you’re self-absorbed. You always have been. I can even forgive you flaking on me over a boy but I don’t think I can get over you lying to me. You lied to me. I thought we were in it together.’

I lower the donuts, my cheeks burning. How stupid am I? This isn’t like the time I spilt coke on her favourite t-shirt after borrowing it without asking first. That took me ten Spanish donuts and two English essays to fix. And here I am with a bag of donuts – cold now – and a bunch of half-arsed excuses.

‘I mean, you’re not even going to tell me what you and that burglar were really doing, are you?’

I grip the bag tightly. The only sounds are passing traffic, a really loud cartoon blaring from inside the house, and Lawrence and Aaron screaming insults at each other. The perfect soundtrack to a perfect moment.

‘I’m so bored with this. You never tell me anything. You won’t even tell me why you hit Steve and I’m supposed to be your best friend.’

I drop the donuts at her feet and stick up my finger. I’ve never done that to Cara but there’s a first time for everything. ‘Screw you,’ I say. ‘I don’t need this.’ I stomp on the donuts.

‘Real mature, Frankie.’

I charge down the front path and wrestle with the front gate. ‘If everything about me is so damn annoying then I don’t know why you even bother.’

‘That makes two of us.’

I finally win the war with the gate, slamming it shut behind me and stalking up the street. I don’t look over my shoulder even though all I want to do is go running back, begging for a second shot. A third shot. A gazillionth shot.

‘Call me when you’ve had a personality transplant,’ Cara shouts. The front door slams shut behind her.

I hurry up the street, holding myself together for half a block.

That did not go according to plan.

That just took a shit on top of my best-laid plans.

I crouch in the middle of the footpath and cry. I’ve just made things about a thousand times worse, haven’t I? I can’t even really wrap my head around how bad I’ve just screwed up. Bigger than any number of Spanish donuts can fix.

__________

I go to the river without her. Which is stupid because it’s getting late and even stupider because I’m on the world’s strictest curfew.

Why am I still looking? Because I’m worried? Because I care? Or maybe I just need to find him so this will all make sense, so I can show Cara, Vinnie, Nate: See? It was worth it. I’ve found him. The scary part is I know exactly why I’m still looking: the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach won’t let me forget it.

The concrete wall runs for a good chunk of the path along the river. All the way along the right-hand side, leading up to an overpass. Steve was right – it’s perfect for graffiti and about fifty million graffiti artist have worked that out already. The path cuts under the bridge and that’s where I’m headed until I stop dead in my tracks.

I almost don’t see him at first.

I was walking with my head turned, trying to spot Xavier’s piece. X marks the spot.

But Dave’s impossible to miss, his long puffer jacket and his shock of white hair.

‘Don’t cheat me,’ he says.

The sound of his voice brings the bile up from my stomach.

He’s under the bridge, pacing back and forth. I step off the path, behind the hanging branches of a tree.

Some twitchy looking guy is standing in front of him. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Nah, I wouldn’t. Not you, Dave. I’ve got the money.’

‘So go and get it.’

Twitchy kid runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Can’t you just spot me a gram?’

Dave hisses and then there’s a flash of something silver, something metal, and the twitchy kid is backing away, hands out front.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll get it.’

My hand goes to my neck. I back away too. Slowly.

‘Get me my money, shithead,’ says Dave.

The twitchy kid runs. As soon as he’s out of sight, Dave lets out a roar. He turns, beating his hands against the concrete wall. He’s muttering; nothing intelligible, nothing I want to hear.

When the knife-wielding psycho is having an episode, that’s your cue to run, Frankie.

For once, I listen to my brain.