He was Australian they said and wore shorts that touched his knees. She couldn’t remember his name but today she watched her friend’s hands moving quickly over the kitchen and thought of him. He had only stayed at her school for a year. And his very tall friend used to walk behind her to the new school after they left that place. It had been made of grey tin or something like it and the pipes that ran around the cloakroom and corridors were fat and hot. Did they huddle together on those pipes? She liked the comfort and intimacy of that word; huddle. It reassured her.
So today she could notice the length of her friend’s thumb and sense its capability, its industry. And she could glimpse ( because she was not looking straight ahead) the long, steep walk to High School with a boy just behind her, smiling because he was not Australian and had never seen the Barrier Reef. He had big feet and read books about planets.
Perhaps the shiny wet word was belief. Or was it openness? The hand swept past her and tousled her hair.Somewhere beyond the fridge her friend was laughing. She could build a shrine to that hand. With small matches, slowly like a prisoner coming back to life. The hand carried a pink cloth to her face.
‘Blow on the bubbles and make a wish.’