‘I don’t have time for love,’ I say, a tad too dramatically. ‘I’m in mourning.’
‘And it’s the actual morning,’ says Kira, ‘and one of the last few days of summer! I think we need to go outside and you need to see the sun.’
I grab my phone and turn up the volume, so Rose Conrad’s ‘I Loved You Like That’ plays out louder.
‘Okay,’ says Kira, getting off the bed and grabbing my phone. ‘That’s enough Rose Conrad for now.’
‘Guys . . .’ says Faye, from the bed.
‘But she sees into my soul,’ I say, waving my arms around but still not getting up.
‘Guys!’ says Faye, shouting, which is unlike her. ‘Someone is moving into Ollie’s house.’
I’m up so fast I could break the world record for standing up, if there is one. All three of us kneel on the bed, our noses pressed against the window.
There is a black people-carrier in the drive of Ollie’s house, and a large white van parked behind that. Suitcases are being wheeled along the driveway by men in overalls.
An older white man in chinos and a shirt is pacing the front of the house, speaking on the phone, with his other hand in his pocket.
A Black woman dressed in an expensive-looking summer dress comes out of the house and taps on the car back door.
The window rolls down, she bends over it.
‘God, I wish this had audio,’ says Kira.
‘Do you think we should open the window?’ I say.
‘Shhh, look,’ says Faye.
The door of the car slides open and a mixed-race boy gets out, heavily side-eying his mother. He barely looks at her as he saunters into the house.
‘How do you get all the fit neighbours?’ says Faye. ‘I have two grandmas on either side of my house!’
‘We don’t know he’s fit,’ I say. ‘We can barely see him.’
‘He has fit energy,’ says Kira. ‘You can tell by the way he walks,’ she adds seriously.
‘We’re really showing that we go to an all-girls’ school,’ I say. ‘You’re acting as if you’ve never seen a boy before!’
A younger boy gets out of the car and says something to themother, looking apologetic, before following the older boy into the house.
The mother throws up her hands into the air in exasperation, then follows him inside. The older boy may be fit, but it looks like he may be a bit of a dick.
One thing is clear, though. These are definitely my new neighbours.
***
It’s been a week since the new neighbours moved in, and I’m dying to know more.
‘Have you met the new people next door?’ I ask Mum, as nonchalantly as I can. Which is hard because we’re trying to put up a metre-long painting on our living room wall and I’m breaking out in a sweat.
‘I’ve seen them walk in and out. Think there’s another boy your age there,’ she says, looking at me knowingly.
‘Whatever,’ I say, as we finally catch the back of it onto the nail. ‘They’re no Pointers.’
We stand back, and Mum adjusts the painting.
‘Where did you even get this from?’ I say. It’s an abstract painting of people in various positions.
