For a moment she turned and watched him.
“Hey, boy!” called one of the boxers.
“Hey, boys,” but quiet, to Carey.
* * *
—
The next time he was on the roof, it was warm and close to darkness, and he climbed back down to meet her; she was standing alone on the footpath.
“Hey, Carey.”
“Hi, Clay Dunbar.”
The air twitched.
“You know my last name?”
Again, he noted the teeth of her; the not-quite-straight and sea glass.
“Oh yeah, people know you Dunbar boys, you know.” She almost laughed. “Is it true you’re harboring a mule?”
“Harboring?”
“You’re not deaf, are you?”
She was giving him a hiding!
But a small one, a happy one, and one he was willing to answer.
“No.”
“You’re not harboring a mule?”
“No,” he said, “I’m not deaf—we’ve had the mule for a while. We’ve also got a border collie, a cat, a pigeon, and a goldfish.”
“A pigeon?”
He struck back. “You’re not deaf, are you? He’s called Telemachus—our animals have got the worst names you ever heard, except maybe Rosy, or Achilles. Achilles is a beautiful name.”
“Is Achilles the name of the mule?”
He nodded; the girl was closer.
She’d turned outwards, toward the suburbs.
Without thought, they both started walking.
* * *
—
When they got to the mouth of Archer Street, Clay looked at her legs in her jeans; he was a boy, after all, he noticed. He also saw the tapering at her ankles, the worn-out sandshoes—the Volleys. He was aware when she moved, of the singlet she wore, and materials he glimpsed beneath.
“It’s pretty great,” she said at the corner, “to end up living on Archer Street.” She was lit by the glow of the streetlight. “First horse who ever won it: the Race That Stops the Nation.”
Clay then tried to impress her. “Twice. The first and the second.”