THE closest I ever came to being some sort of prostitute was late one afternoon in Year 5, after I arrived at my bus-stop.
It’s a small shed at a junction in the bush.
The quiet sort of place where random men will offer us Buffalo Bills and Red Skins, and promise to drive us to school in their Kombi vans.
My friends like Shari, Joel and Leah live far enough away that after school their mothers will pick them up – or in Shari’s case, foster mother.
But Maggie and I walk home because it’s walking distance. She lives at the next house. I live two doors down. We’re basically neighbours.
I am usually able to avoid talking to her during the day. So she saves the awkward questions for when we’re walking the last 500 metres on the dirt road. Like;
“Chris, will you go out with me for my Super Nintendo?”
Cool. I’ve always wanted a Nintendo. “Do you have Mario?”