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in the rain. It’s cold, and she stands as close as she dares—I’m her brother , after all, and she’s generally busy creating the impression that my mere existence embarrasses her.
    ‘Did you see her?’ Morgan asks, balling her hands inside her jumper sleeves.
    ‘Lauren? Yeah. Not for long.’
    ‘Why’d she come back?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    I’m not sure if we were really expecting her to come back. She took off so abruptly, only called home once, and didn’t send a single postcard. It was like she’d finally escaped from a place she hated. Which makes me really wonder, now that she’s back.
    ‘Maybe she ran out of money,’ Anthony comments, not looking up from his laptop.
    ‘Maybe.’ I’m not convinced, though. Nothing my older sister does is ever that simple.
    He looks up at me, holding the laptop so I can see the screen. There’s a large photo of a muddy river with pale-skinned tourists in conical hats teetering in wooden canoes. ‘Vietnam for schoolies. Contiki. My brother met his girlfriend on a tour. What do you reckon?’
    Anthony talks big but if a girl so much as sneezed in his direction I reckon he’d probably wet his pants in terror. Not that I can judge. My stomach knots at the prospect of heading out into a great unknown. I scan the oval in front of us, as if the expanse of muddy grass will give me answers. ‘I don’t have any money.’ It’s a lame excuse.
    ‘Get a job. We’ve got a few months, you can save up enough.’
    ‘Mum won’t let me. Not during the HSC.’ Another excuse. Mum probably wouldn’t even notice. Lauren worked murderous hours throughout her HSC and still came third in her grade.
    Anthony sighs, tapping the screen longingly with his index finger. ‘Maybe I can talk Jimmy into it.’
    Kierkegaard said that to venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self. The first time I read that I knew it was meant for me, but even knowing that isn’t enough to overcome the sheer dread I start to feel at the thought of stepping out. I don’t know why. I’ve thought about it—too much, probably, with my habit of overanalysing. Maybe because when my father left us I was permanently deprived of a sense of security. Maybe because I feel some twisted sense of obligation, as the only male in the household, to stay. Maybe I’m just a pathetic pussy.
    The story about the racehorse always bothered me. A child’s mind is different from an adult’s. A child might dream of being great, but those are safe dreams, tucked up tightly in the future. There’s an element of desperation about adult ambitions. Maybe because when they’re grown up and they haven’t fulfilled any of their grand ideals, they begin to feel as though time is running out on them. Bigger risks, higher stakes.
    I write too. I can’t help myself. But I don’t let it become an obsession, all I care about. That just seems wrong. The thing I’ve never understood about Mum is the same thing I’ve never understood about the horse story. Why would you want glory if the cost is everything else?

before
after
later
     
    Friday. Get busted doing Sudoku instead of writing up my biology prac. Mrs Williams hits the roof and the whole class gets a lecture. It takes her ten minutes to say, ‘Do your work or don’t come to my classroom.’ Then the stupid cow keeps me in at lunch. Makes me wash out the beakers from her year eight science classes.
    It’s not that I’m not interested in biology. But this stuff is tame; I’ve known it all for years, from books and journals and websites and documentaries. Mrs Williams doesn’t get that. I used to pester her to let us do more interesting stuff, like dissecting a brain, and she just got annoyed.
    ‘We’re following the syllabus.’ That was her argument in total. Stupid narrow-minded bitch. Seriously.

     
    Izzy grabs my arm as she passes me on the way out of school. ‘I’ve got us hooked up for tonight, I’ll text you the address. It’s gonna