It’s late when I hear the first knock. I ignore it because I’m lying under my doona with Joy Division blaring and my nose stuck in one of Vinnie’s romance novels. There’re plenty of bulging man parts and sighing ladies. If I’d stolen the vodka from under Vinnie’s bed and played the euphemism drinking game I’d be dead by now.

Actually, even if I wasn’t living vicariously through trashy romance fiction I’d still ignore the knocking. It can’t be Cara because I’m grounded. I’m not even allowed to call Cara because she’s grounded too and, according to her mum, it’s my fault. What Cara chooses to do with a compass and Steve Sparrow’s penis is totally on her. Besides she only threatened to do it. And how can that be my fault if I wasn’t even there?

There’s another quick succession of taps. I’m ready to shout at Vinnie to go away when it dawns on me that what I’m hearing is tapping at my window. My window on the second storey of Terry’s Kebab Emporium.

I lay the book flat on the top of my bed and silence Ian Curtis.

There’s a long pause, a very long pause, and then – tap.

I edge off the bed and scurry across the floor like a proper spy. When I reach the wall, I slowly peek my head over the windowsill until I can see outside. A soft spray of light spills from the Emporium’s back window, illuminating the alley beside the shop.

I recognise him by his bright-blue high-tops.

I straighten and open the window, cursing as it creaks. I stick my head out and hiss. ‘What the hell, Xavier? You could have broken my window.’

He’s wearing a peaked cap under his grey hoodie and skinny jeans so tight they have to be for girls. His arm is raised, poised to throw another rock. ‘Throw down your hair?’

I try not to grin. I do not want to get sucked into this. Vinnie’s told me, in no uncertain terms, to keep away from God Knows Who. And I’m so far out of Vinnie’s good books as it is. What’s he doing here, anyway? How come he knows this is my window? I didn’t tell him I lived here. Dimples or no dimples, I’m still watching this kid for signs of demonic possession.

He juggles the rock. ‘So what’s up?’

‘Grounded, bored, pissed off and hungry. The usual. How about you? Just passing through the neighbourhood?’

He shrugs. ‘You coming down or what?’ He drops the rock. I can tell he’s grinning. He clasps his hands together in a prayer-pose. ‘Aw c’mon, you’re not going to make me beg, are you?’

Sigh. ‘Five minutes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m already in the shit.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ he says with a laugh. ‘And hurry up. My balls are freezing off.’

Nice.

__________

The gate clicks shut behind me. Xavier leans against the brick wall, tapping his foot.

‘Most people call first,’ I say.

‘Do most people bring dumplings?’

He stoops to pick up a plastic bag and grins. ‘Might be cold now, hey.’

That is definitely the way to my heart.

I grab the bag out of his hands and slide down the brick wall. We sit there, freezing our arses off in the alley, eating cold dumplings. I could get used to this.

I last four and a half minutes of small talk before I ask, ‘Are you going to tell me how you know where I live?’

He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. ‘What do you want me to say? I followed you?’

I stop chewing, mouth full of pork dumpling. ‘Wow.’

He grins. ‘Kidding. You told me you worked at the shop with the worst kebabs in Collingwood and, according to the net, this is it. So I hung out front for a bit, but Vinnie was inside and I didn’t want to talk to her because she looks scary. I came round here for a smoke and saw you through the window.’

‘You smoke?’

‘I’m quitting.’ He yanks the thread clean off. ‘Why are you grounded?’

‘There might have been an incident. I might have lost my temper.’

He laughs. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘Almost always.’

He shoves a dumpling in his mouth. ‘Last year I got suspended for punching some dickhead on the footy field. Teachers have got zero sense of humour, hey.’

‘Exactly. They shove a violent book like Macbeth down our throats but then get all antsy when you break a dickhead’s nose with it.’

He almost chokes. ‘You did what?’

‘The details aren’t important. The point is, I can categorically say that the pen really is mightier than the sword.’

He laughs. It starts me off too. Pretty soon we’re snorting dumplings and trying not to choke with laughter.

And I have to admit it feels pretty good. Not the choking part. That’s kind of uncomfortable. But the part where I get to trade stories with someone who gets where I’ve been and why I am the way I am. Because he’s that way too. That’s the really cool part.

Actually, the really cool part is that Xavier’s head hasn’t spun 360 degrees this whole time so I doubt he’s possessed. Yay.

Behind his un-possessed head is a high brick wall separating the alley from our neighbours. It used to be a Victorian terrace. Now it’s four storeys of yuppies living in dog boxes. Someone called ‘Jackknife’ has staked his claim on the wall, writing his name in bright-red paint. There used to be graffiti of a woman there: purple skin, large brown eyes, hair fanning around her in wild Medusa snakes of green, blue, orange and pink. I see glimpses of her beneath the red.

‘That’s a shame,’ I say.

He follows my gaze.

‘Used to be a really cool painting there. They should make it so you have to get a licence to do graf.’

‘It’s illegal, Frankie. They can’t give out a licence to commit a crime.’

Aw, bless his moral little heart.

‘So I got something else for you,’ he says.

‘Dessert?’

He pulls a white plastic bag out of his satchel and hands it to me. ‘It made me think of you.’

Whatever’s in the bag is thin but square. Like a big square of cardboard. I slide the plastic bag down and pull out something worth more than gold.

The picture on the front is black and white, maybe a print, maybe a drawing. A chisel-featured young man in shorts and a shirt has got his arms raised, captured right in the middle of beating the large drum he’s got strapped to his chest. The name of the band is written in gothic lettering along the top. The name of the record, An Ideal for Living, runs vertically down the right-hand side, like it’s dripping from the ‘n’ in the band’s name. I’m holding in my hands the debut EP from Joy Division. Released all the way back in 1978, not long after they changed their name from Warsaw. Twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds of pure fuzzy punk beauty.

It’s gorgeous. Perfect. I’m certain it’s ridiculously expensive.

‘No way.’ I stare at the black-and-white drummer boy with my mouth open. I’ve been drooling over this exact record in The Vinyl Underground for ages. Phil, the guy who runs the shop, kicks me out for wasting his time on a regular basis. One time I worked up the courage to ask him how much it cost. He said, ‘More than you can afford, kid.’

‘S’posed to be rare or something,’ says Xavier. ‘Just a piece of plastic as far as I can tell.’

‘Are you kidding? They only pressed like a thousand of these so it’s ultra rare. Still bleeding it’s so rare. How the hell did you afford it?’

He looks down at his knees, hugged to his chest. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘A mate had it. He picked it up at some garage sale. Don’t reckon he knows how much it’s worth cos he traded it for four Eminem CDs. What a dickhead.’

I flip the vinyl over. It’s not like I don’t already have these songs but this is different. It’s a seriously awesome musical moment forever cast in vinyl goodness.

‘Your friend’s going to be pissed if he ever finds out how much this is worth. I mean, it must be hundreds.’

‘We could listen to it,’ says Xavier.

‘I don’t have a player.’

‘Then I guess I know what I’m getting for your birthday, hey.’ He’s watching me, shyness in the tilt of his head.

My birthday’s in December, months away. I try to picture what Xavier and I will be like by then. Once the newness has worn off and we start acting like real siblings – fighting, swearing at each other, dobbing each other in, arguing over trivial shit. I might actually enjoy it.

‘What?’ he says. Because I’m staring at him.

I pull out my phone and hold it at arm’s length. ‘Just smile.’

‘Hate photos,’ he says, but when I lean closer, our shoulders pressed against each other’s, he doesn’t flinch or move out of shot.

My phone makes a fake camera noise and flashes.

It’s not a great photo – too dark and Xavier’s eyes are kind of half closed – but then family photos are supposed to be crappy.

I show him.

‘Great,’ he says. ‘I look like a serial killer.’

‘You look like Uncle Terry.’

‘Cool,’ he says.

I laugh. He doesn’t know that Uncle Terry’s a low-life armed robber.

‘What?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing. I mean, thanks. For the dumplings and . . .’ I hold up the vinyl and wiggle it. ‘I mean it. Thanks.’

He grins. Dimples. ‘No problem. I mean, you do kind of owe me four Eminem CDs, but . . .’

I elbow him. ‘You seriously need a musical overhaul.’

He laughs. It brings a grin to my face.

Being grounded isn’t so bad after all.