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Perry-Moore. (The newspaper headline: Caring For Tomorrow’s Bigwigs .) His mum and his gran had come along as well, and the whole thing had just felt massively dumb and awkward. Jack couldn’t imagine doing that kind of thing week in, week out, the way Piers Blain seemed to. Maybe that was why Piers Blain had his own apartment and Jack didn’t.
    Since when did fourteen-year-olds acquire patches of prime beachfront real estate, anyway? It was hard enough growing a visible patch of pubic hair .
    Jack wondered if any of the other ex- Bigwigs who’d found fame and fortune had even tried to go back to a normal life again. Maybe trying to be normal, like Jack had done, was the total opposite of normal.
    He closed the laptop. He was none the wiser about this ‘bringing back past contestants’ thing. Which, if he was honest, was kind of a relief. As small as he felt now, going anywhere near Bigwigs again was guaranteed to make him feel even smaller.
    ‘Jack, you’re home.’
    Jack looked up and saw his mum stepping over his backpack. She usually came home for a few hours in the afternoon before heading off to the golf club to set up for some party or event. She dumped her handbag on the bench, spilling keys, tissues, mints and loyalty cards everywhere.
    ‘Hi, Mum.’ Jack drummed his fingers on the laptop. ‘Weird question, but you’d tell me if the Bigwigs people had been in touch, right?’
    Adele opened the fridge and reached into the crisper for an apple. ‘ Bigwigs ? Of course. Why? Is there extra prize money they forgot to give us? Please let it be that.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Speaking of money, I saw your sister down the street. Looks like she’s started hanging out with one of Bruno Distagio’s girls.’
    ‘I know,’ said Jack.
    Adele bit into the apple. ‘You could marry into the family and make us rich.’
    Jack’s hand tightened around the empty juice bottle. ‘Why does everyone think that’s so goddamn funny ?’
    Adele paused, then shut the fridge door. ‘It wasn’t meant to be – Jack, is something the matter?’
    ‘Oh, nothing.’ He slammed the Sultana World bottle down on the bench and crossed his arms. ‘Obviously it’s just hilarious that I’m the smallest guy in Year 8 – and everyone knows it. Do you realise how much of a loser that makes me? Half of the Year 8 guys look like freaking bushrangers .’
    ‘You’re not a loser, Jack.’
    ‘Well, I lost Bigwigs , didn’t I? And now I’m losing at everything else.’
    His mum frowned at him. ‘Is that really what you think?’ she said quietly. ‘That you lost Bigwigs ?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jack muttered.
    ‘This isn’t why you were avoiding Vivi and the others over the break, is it?’
    ‘I wasn’t avoiding them. They were avoiding me .’
    ‘I’m sure they weren’t.’
    Jack gave her a look.
    ‘Well, if you really want to show everyone how mature you are, just let them know how you’re feeling. There’s nothing more grown-up than that.’
    Easier said than done , thought Jack. Hallie was the only one in the Sprigley household who seemed okay with telling everyone how she was feeling – but hers was more of a megaphone-and-skywriting approach, which was just as bad.
    His mum must have noticed the sceptical look on his face. ‘All I’m saying is, it’s got to be better than getting yourself into a panic and assuming the worst.’
    ‘Uh-huh,’ said Jack. His mum didn’t get it. He’d already spent the first day back at school trying to convince everyone he was a fully paid-up member of the reproductive organs brigade. He couldn’t just confess that he’d committed perjury with respect to the status of his pubes.
    And anyway, he was pretty sure that real men didn’t take advice from their mums. If a real man needed advice, he’d get it from a manlier source. He’d get it from … well, a man.
    Or at least someone who was considerably closer to being a man than Jack could claim to be.

Jack got