Free I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant

problem, my friend,” he says. “I get the picture in full color, and in 3-D. No problem. So you’re near Memento Park?”
    â€œI have to go,” I say.
    â€œYou know,” he says. “I bet you live in one of the season streets. You’re not in Summer Street are you? I used to have a really good friend in Summer Street.”
    â€œNo,” I say.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he says. “No you don’t live in Summer Street, or no you don’t live in the seasons streets?”
    â€œI’m going to hang up,” I say. “My mom is standing behind me. She wants to use the phone.”
    â€œOh, I understand,” he says. “I completely understand. Here, why don’t you leave your name and number, and I’ll call you back.”
    I take the phone away from my hand. Just before I put my hand over the earpiece, I hear his voice but not what he says. I put the handset back on its cradle.
    I take a long breath with my eyes shut. How could I be so stupid? I might as well have told him everything. He probably has caller ID. He knows my number. I stare at the phone a while longer. If he calls back I want to pick up right away. But he doesn’t call back. Maybe if he’s drunk he won’t remember the call. I back away from the phone as if it’s an unpredictable dog. I get halfway up the stairs. I turn again. Still it doesn’t ring.
    I was wrong. Zack was right. Trying to give back the bass is just a waste of time.
    Finally, I get back to my room and take out the note again. It could easily be fake. It could even have been written by the bloke I was just speaking to. The thought makes my stomach turn.
    I take out my copy of Fahrenheit 451 and turn to the title page.
    Written in neat blue ink are the words: Katrina Morgan. I hold the note next to Katrina’s handwriting.
    Totally different.

9
    September last year
    It was the final evening of the summer holidays last year and I was standing on Katrina’s doorstep. I had my back to the door and the whole of Port Jackson in front of me.
    I breathed in the cool air, and strode across the front lawn. Her parents preferred me to use the path, but it wound around the flower beds a little too much for my liking, and I was feeling in a direct kind of mood that evening.
    As I stepped gingerly between the stalks of lilies and chrysanthemums, I pondered some of the things Katrina had told me. Apparently being sex-obsessed was only
the tip of the iceberg. I was also rude, mean, selfish, and dishonest. In short, I was a bad, bad person, and that is why I had been dumped.
    Having just been dumped, I didn’t really feel in the mood to sit in my room and do homework, so I headed toward the downtown area, which was almost ninety degrees to my route home.
    I took Denmark Street, which goes all the way into the shopping district. The only problem with Denmark Street was that it went past school. I’d been to school enough times already today, and I had enough bad memories to keep me going for one evening, so I took a detour that looked like it went in the right direction. Ombard Street, the sign said, although it looked like some of it might have been broken off. It was a side road I’d never been on before. According to my sense of direction, Ombard Street should have allowed me to bypass the school by a couple of blocks, then get back onto Denmark Street. Naturally this was not my night, and Ombard Street turned sharply and immediately came to a dead end. But at the dead end, with all its lights spilling out onto the dark street, was a music shop.
    I had a bass. It was my brother’s, and I’d been playing it for a year or so while he was away. I’d always thought I should have my own instrument. Maybe that was a sign of my selfishness, that I was happy to play someone else’s guitar rather than provide my own. I crossed the narrow street and went inside.
    The door pinged once as I opened it,