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like a whisky. She shakes her head, then smiles and goes off to the kitchen. I comb my hair into shape and go out into the lounge room.
    â€“Why are you wearing that stupid badge? I ignore Alex and go grab my whisky and sit down in the kitchen with Mum. What are you going to do tonight? I ask her.
    â€“Depends if your dad comes home early from the kafenio . Maybe we’ll visit your aunt. I cradle the glass in my hand. It bothers me that Mum has to wait for Dad before she goes out, as if she’s not an adult and can’t make a decision on her own. But she won’t listen to me so I decide not to push the issue. I think you should go on your own, is all I can say. She touches my hand and takes a hit of whisky from her glass. What are you up to tonight?
    Dumb question. She knows I’m only going to sketch in a few details for her. I’ll go out with Joe, meet some people. I change the conversation.
    â€“Mum, I want to go to Greece.
    â€“With what money? Hers and Dad’s, of course. I don’t have any. But I don’t say that.
    â€“With whatever I can scrounge up. Don’t you want me to go? Dad would want me to go.
    â€“Your father would want to go with you. She pours herself another drink and lights a cigarette. I grab one from her pack. Mum, I’ve been thinking about it. I’d really like to go, don’t you want me to go?
    â€“Of course I’d like you to go. But when, how, where you going to get your money, manoula mou ? You have to get a job first. I’m not put off by her mentioning work. I’m enjoying our chat. When I’m speeding, when Mum’s drinking,we can converse like normal people, without getting heated and uptight with each other.
    â€“Mum, there’s no work here. Maybe I can get work in Greece. My mother looks sad. Please, Ari mou , don’t say that. I don’t want the family to split up. I couldn’t stop worrying if you were in Greece forever. It wouldn’t be forever, I answer. I cannot envisage forever, I’m thinking more a couple of years living in a different country, meeting new people, getting excited about unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Also a couple of years away from the family and all their hang-ups and expectations. I can’t say that of course. It wouldn’t be forever, I answer. Just a year or so.
    â€“Ari, why don’t you go back to school. You are going to be twenty next year. An adult and you still don’t have a plan for your life.
    I butt out my cigarette and sit back in the kitchen chair looking at my mother. I don’t know what to answer her. I could go back to school, I could try and get some shit job cleaning toilets in a hospital somewhere, or disappear in some office labyrinth in the city somewhere, doing a job that a computer could do faster and better than me anyway. A computer wouldn’t have an attitude problem. I try to put some words together, and though I know what I want to say, I can’t make my lips move. I don’t want a life like she has. And I don’t want the life she wants for me. I hear Alex in the next room trying to find a song on an old record. She lands the needle on the vinyl with a small scratch. If you’re going to play my records, take care of them, I yell at her. She ignores me and turns up the volume. Mum finishes her glass and gets up, humming to the song. Tom Waits. I sing along with her. I sit on the kitchen bench and take up the telephone, dialling and listening to my mother sing in her deep tone, and Alex’s voice, shrill in the background.
    â€“ Australeza , I tease my mum. She hits me lightly across my legs. Wog, she calls me.

It is night outside the kitchen window and with the warm whisky in my stomach, the speed in my veins, I’m keen to move from the house and into the big world outside. Joe sounds half-asleep on the phone so I keep the conversation short and simple. What time should I come over? I ask. Ten, he says.