During the follow-up meeting, our school principal, Ms. Knight, commented that “the greatest concern is the fact that she hasn’t even shown any remorse.” I told her that, to the contrary, all I felt was relief, because it could have been so much worse.

I knew that in that moment, I could have killed someone.

* * *

I arrive at the Botanic Gardens at quarter to twelve, fifteen minutes before my scheduled date with Wally. I’d planned to use the extra time to secure a spot in the shade, lay out the blanket I’d brought from home, and unpack the sandwiches. I packed honey for myself, as usual, and one honey and one Vegemite for Wally, in case he doesn’t care for honey. But as I enter through the east gate, I am alarmed to find that Wally is already here, sitting on a blanket in the shade of a tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re early!” I exclaim.

“I always try to arrive a quarter of an hour early, if I can.”

“Really?” I say in wonderment. “So do I.”

“Who doesn’t value punctuality?” he says, shrugging.

“A lot of people, actually,” I say. “I think you’d be surprised.”

I arrange myself comfortably on the blanket, which is adequately sized for the two of us and not at all scratchy, which is often the case with picnic blankets. Our date had been fairly straightforward to organize, once I’d explained to Wally what a date was.

“You’re asking me on a date?” he said, after I’d asked him. It was a surprise, since he’d clearly heard, and I couldn’t see how he would need any further clarification.

“Yes,” I said, as slowly and clearly as I could.

Still, he looked bewildered. So much so that for the barest second, he looked me directly in the eyes. “A … date?”

At this point I was starting to doubt his professed IQ. Wally was silent for long enough that I started wondering if he’d had a medical episode. Had I made a social faux pas? The brief research I’d done on the computers had confirmed that girls did this sort of thing nowadays—asked boys on dates—and yet the poor boy seemed utterly perplexed. It occurred to me that it might be the word “date” throwing him off.

“According to Urban Dictionary, a date is where two people get together for an activity when the possibility of romance between them has been broached but not ruled out,” I explained.

Wally’s face remained blank. I sighed. This was the exact reason I favored planning over spontaneity. Normally, when I did something outside of the ordinary—like competing in a karate tournament or attending a librarians’ convention at the state library—I spent a lot of time planning for it. Familiarizing myself with the best route to take, checking the train timetable, making sure the medical provider was running on time. But this day, it seemed, I’d gone off half-cocked. I decided to offer Wally one further explanation I’d sourced from Urban Dictionary before giving up.

“An activity between two mutually attracted people which very often ends in one or both leaving sexually frustrated.”

Finally, bizarrely, he laughed. A funny half laugh that seemed like he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or clearing his throat. Then he threw up his hands and said, “You know what … sure. I’m free Saturday.”

“Me too, after karate.”

He nods. “What would you like to do?”

I realized a picnic was the only real option for our date, considering I don’t go to restaurants or shopping malls and the movies can be troubling if the sound is too loud or the smell of popcorn too strong. Wally agreed to the picnic and then, as if the heavens had been smiling upon us (a ridiculous expression, as heaven surely doesn’t have a face, let alone a mouth to smile with), the printer burst into life and started working and I was able to excuse myself and dash away before anyone else could ask for assistance.

Now, here we are. Fifteen minutes early.

I notice Wally is wearing the same black-framed glasses and buffalo flannelette button-down shirt with jeans and, of course, that same ridiculous hat. I have to admit, I find the sameness of him soothing. It’s always been unsettling to me, the way people change their appearance. Linda from the library, for example, changes her hair with frightening frequency. Not just the color, but the style—some days straight, other days curled, other days scraped back to her scalp and glistening as if wet. Linda, of course, is an extreme example, but most people tend to change, at the very least, their clothes on a daily basis. A new pair of earrings or a brighter lipstick than normal. A change is as good as a holiday, the saying goes, but I’ve never found change or holidays appealing. For this reason, I am wearing my favorite sun-yellow skirt and rainbow T-shirt with comfortable sneakers. My only discomfort is that my lips feel tacky because this morning—after reading online that one should put effort into one’s appearance for a date—I’d applied lip gloss. I’d dearly love to remove it but find myself without anything in the way of a tissue or napkin.

“What is it?” Wally says.

“What is what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am I?” I consider this a moment. Then I wonder how he even knows this, since his gaze appears to be over my left shoulder, as usual. “Staring competition?” I venture. It seems as good an icebreaker as any. But after a promising start where Wally’s eyes widen slightly, he just gazes back over my shoulder. I wonder if he has an issue with his eyes.

“Beat you!” I exclaim.

His expression morphs into that funny smile-frown.

“You’re no good at staring competitions,” I remark, pulling my sandwiches out of my tote. As I offer Wally the sandwich I brought for him, he opens his own bag and pulls out an impressive haul—an artisan loaf, a wheel of Brie, a bag of grapes, even a block of dark chocolate. “My goodness!”

“What?”

“You’ve brought a veritable feast. Where did you get all of this?”

“All this?” he says, gesturing to the food. “I stole it.”

My mouth opens. “You stole it?”

He snorts. “Of course I didn’t steal it. What kind of person do you think I am? I got it from the supermarket!”

I am skeptical. “Why did you spend so much money, when you can’t even afford to live in a flat or a house?”