Page 5 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Mmmm. I’m sure,’ Jesse says.

‘Anyway. The plan. We’re nice to each other when we’re around Harper, and we get through this year—’

‘I told you my real name was Jeremy,’ he interrupts.

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Yes I did. We were sitting together on the bus, and you said if you ever published a book, you wanted it to be under your nanna’s name, which I’m pretty sure you said was Evelyn or something like that, because you don’t like your name, even though you have a perfectly fine name, and I said if I ever did, I would publish it under my real name, Jeremy.’

He’s right. The memory floods back instantly. I remember not just the conversation, but the way we were sitting, turned towards each other, elbows bumping, and that it was afternoon and we were heading home. We were fourteen, and our friendship was new and exciting in the way it is when you suddenly and unexpectedly click with someone and you feel like you could talk forever.

I push the memory away as fast as possible. ‘I don’t remember that,’ I say, looking away.

‘Okay,’ he says.

I’m not sure he believes me.

‘So what about when we’re not around Harper?’ he adds.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said we act friendly to each other around Harper. How do we act when we’re not around her, when we’re just on our own?’ he asks. We look at each other, and for a second, just a second, I feel, absurdly, like I might cry. I push my fingernails into my palms, and the feeling passes.

I frown at him. ‘We ignore each other,’ I say.

He nods, and tucks his hair behind his ears.

‘All right. So if you’re home, and I’m home, but Harper’s out, and I walk into the kitchen, do I literally pretend you’re not there or can I say something?’ he says.

‘It depends,’ I say.

‘On what?’

‘On what you might say.’

‘I will probably say “hi”. Or, “excuse me”, if I need to reach around you to get to the fridge. Or, “how was your day?”, if I’m feeling really bold,’ he says, and his face is serious but I can see his eyes twinkling a little. This is a joke to him. I’m a joke to him.

‘They’re acceptable options,’ I say, keeping my face impassive. ‘But no follow-up questions. If you ask me how my day was, and I say “good”, that’s it.’

‘Should I submit a full list to you of things I might say, for you to approve ahead of time?’ he says.

‘Yes. You should,’ I say, still not giving him a hint of a smile. Let him worry I am being serious. Let him worry how far over the edge I have gone. Let him sweat.

He gives a short laugh, and shakes his head. ‘Come on, Brooke,’ he says.

‘Come on, what?’ I say. I will not let him weasel his way back into my life. We are not friends.

‘Fine. Sounds good. We will silently endure living together and stay out of each other’s way as much as possible,’ he says, sighing and standing up.

I stand up too, because I don’t like the imbalance of him standing and me sitting, even though he still towers over me when we’re both standing. We hold eye contact for a beat longer than is comfortable. Is this a power play? Am I winning or losing? I need to have the last word in this conversation.

‘Shake on it,’ I say, holding out my hand, which I immediately regret, because he could refuse to shake it, and then what will I do? Oh god.

But he doesn’t refuse. He reaches out and shakes my hand, lets it go, and then we turn and walk into our separate bedrooms.

5

Jesse and I met when we were fourteen. It was the middle of term three in year eight and my homeroom teacher asked me to show a new student around. This was the kind of job often given to me—look after the new kid, read the book out loud while the teacher had to duck out and get something, collect all the assignments off the desks and bring them to the front.