No need to correct him.
“Rivers out west have a mind of their own,” I explain.
“One minute they're dry as a bone. Days later, they're flooding half the county.”
“This one burst its banks a few years ago.” Porter points back toward the dock. “I had an after school job at the plaza. It was ages ago, before I became a commis. My friend's dad used to work there. Probably the only reason I got the job,” he laughs.
“And it flooded?”
“Big time. We lost months worth of ingredients because our cooling rooms were stored underground. Entire basement filled with water. Thick brown sludge. I'll never forget the smell. Drains blocked for miles. Plates and cups floating. You ever been in a flood?”
“When I was nine,” I nod. “Only interesting thing to happen in our town.”
I hush suddenly, fearing that I’ve said too much.
I'm from Longreach, I remind myself.
I'm from Longreach.
Technically, it’s true.
I’ve lived there.
For eleven weeks, anyway.
My new legal guardian lives there.
Nobody needs to know anything beyond that.
My eyes veer south to Porter's crotch.
Again.
A generous package beneath paper thin shorts.
I wonder if he’s taken a peek at mine.
The thought makes me giddy.
Time to find a distraction.
What else can I talk about?
“You're a commis?” I ask.
He must do the same kind of stuff that Rocco does in Beth's kitchen.
“Thought you were a kitchen hand like me.”
“I was at first,” he shrugs. “But now I'm enrolled at TAFE. Almost nine months in.”
“So you're seventeen?”
“Nearly eighteen.”
“You're a year older than me,” I smile.
“When’s your birthday?”
