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normal person would offer help, take his arm while he steadies himself. I don’t. I can’t. I pretend I don’t even notice the obvious pain he is in. I think both of us prefer it that way.

FIVE
    Names the Clones called me:
    *Pig dog
    *Lesbian
    *Lesbefriends
    *Han the man
    *Smart-arse bitch
    PE. My own personal hell. My reasons for hating PE are far too many to list here, but you can probably guess the basics: the uniform, the change rooms, the fact that on dry land I have the coordination of a brain-damaged, three-legged baby cow.
    I’ve hated PE since kindergarten, when we had to do a ridiculous exercise called The Barrel. The teacher would stand this big plastic barrel up and the kids would gather around it, holding it to keep it steady. Then each kid, one at a time, would be put in the barrel. The idea was you had to try to get back out by somehow climbing up the sides and hoisting yourself out of the top. You did this while the others laughed and occasionally pinched the backs of your hands while the teacher wasn’t looking. The whole thing seemed designed to torment students, rather than actually teach them anything. Like, at least if you don’t learn anything else at school, if you ever get trapped in a barrel, you’ll know how to get out. I understand that it was supposed to be fun and character building or something, but when I was five the whole barrel exercise was scary to the point I never wanted to go to school on PE day.
    Ten years later I still get the same twist in my stomach at the start of every PE lesson, when we all have to sit on the basketball courts while the teacher reveals what variety of humiliation we are about to be subjected to. Going from the darkly familiar shape of the equipment bags that lie before us, it seems today’s special treat is cricket. I pray my team will be fielding.
    â€˜Listen up, guys!’ Ms Thorne bellows. ‘There’s some information you need to hear about next week’s program.’
    Further along from me sit Tara Metcalf and Amy Brooks. They both wear tiny shorts that blur the line between underwear and outerwear and sit with their legs outstretched so the guys can get a really clear view. They are discussing how pale they are, despite both of them having smooth golden skin.
    Ms Thorne stops talking and looks at them pointedly. They are oblivious.
    â€˜Amy, Tara, is there something you’d like to share?’
    Ms Thorne is about five foot tall and the colour of a nicely roasted chicken. She used to be a sprinter and was headed for the Olympics until an injury forced her to retire to teaching. That’s how the story goes anyway. Tara especially likes to ask her lots of questions about her sprinting career, punctuated loudly with comments like, ‘Wow, miss, you must have been really fit before you were a teacher. Like, you must have been heaps skinny before.’
    Now, Tara smiles and says, ‘Sorry, miss!’ in a sing-song voice.
    Ms Thorne narrows her eyes but continues. ‘The swimming carnival is coming up in six weeks’ time,’ she says.
    No, no, no, no.
    â€˜You will all be swimming. Starting next week we will be heading to the pool to train. I’ll have the sheet then, so you can sign up for your events.’
    I will not be heading to the pool to train. They can expel me, they can do what they like. But I will not be heading to the pool.
    And here I was thinking I’d never have to get out of that barrel again.
    ***
    We grouped up at the end of the lane, caps and goggles off, hair slick from the water, steam playing on the pool surface. Our coach called out the names of people who’d improved their PB times at that morning’s training session. For the first time in six months my name was on the list. Katie wrapped her slippery fish arms around my neck and jumped on my back. ‘Span-nah! Smashing it.’
    Later in the change rooms she was as effortless as usual getting