I looked at my nails, which were chewed and sore. *What do you suppose that guy was so nervous about today?'

*Nervous?'

*You know, the guy in Echo Park. Hank. The way he freaked out when we knocked on the door, it was like he was hiding something.'

Benji didn't look up from the screen. *I dunno. Maybe he's got some unpaid bills. You know they can't turn off your electricity unless they tell you in person. They have to make sure you're not on dialysis or something. An electricity company once cut off the supply to this old woman's house in winter, and she froze to death in her chair.'

*No...It was something else. He seemed really scared, like he was expecting someone else.'

*Maybe he's the Unabomber. Or a serial killer. Maybe he had pieces of dead bodies in his fridge.'

*I doubt he has the strength for anything like that. He looked pretty old.'

*What do you care? He was just a stupid kook.'

*We should have at least stayed for a bit. He seemed lonely.'

Benji didn't respond. I looked over again at his collection of artefacts, the stones from Sharon Tate's fireplace in a little zip-lock bag on a shelf by themselves. I stood up and walked across to examine its contents.

*I saw an episode of *Ghost Chasers' last week,' I said, holding the stones in the palm of my hand. *A woman bought a piano that turned out to be haunted. From the moment they had it in the house all sorts of strange stuff started to happen. They think the piano belonged to a gangster who used to slam people's fingers in it.'

*So?'

*So maybe having all this stuff in our houses is bad luck.'

*Hey Hilda,' Benji said, turning back to his computer. *You should see this video. It's a guy getting screwed to death by a horse.'

I am the first to admit that my interests border on the macabre, but Benji's obsessions were without boundaries. I put the stones down and grabbed my bag.

*I'm out of here,' I said, and Benji waved to me half-heartedly. As I walked to the door I heard the sound of a guy moaning in ecstasy, then the moans became groans, then screams. I closed the door behind me, and smiled at Mrs Connor on my way out.

FOUR.

The day Benji and I became friends was the day the cat died.

Stanley Dale was the first to notice it. No one saw it happen but we all heard the sound, the sickening squeal of tyres as the car slammed on its brakes then sped off again.

*You guys! You've gotta come and see this!' Stanley yelled, gesturing towards the road. A small crowd gathered around him, screaming and pointing. I was on my way to the library when I heard the shouts. I followed the sounds, convinced Stanley was going to show us a dead bird or rat, or something equally disgusting. What he showed us was much worse.

The cat was still moving, flopping around on the roadside like a fish out of water. I couldn't tell if it was still alive or in the last throes of muscle spasm: its body was literally jumping into the air, blood flying in thin spurts onto the asphalt. I squealed and put my hand to my mouth. Stanley hung over the fence like a monkey, and soon a large group of kids had gathered to see what the fuss was all about.

*Somebody do something!' I heard someone scream.

*What do you want me to do?' another kid yelled. *I'm not going to pick it up!'

The cat was jerking so violently that there was no way anyone could have caught it. All we could do was hang over the side of the fence and stare.

*This is so awesome!' Stanley yelled. Someone punched him on the shoulder.

*Shut up, you retard. It's not funny!'

I looked around. Half the kids were laughing and pointing, the other half gazed on in shock.

*Look at the blood!'

*Is it dead?'

*Holy shit. Its guts are on the road.'

*Should we get a teacher?'

Then I saw Benji. He was standing quietly at the edge of the crowd, his hands on his head, a look of horror on his face. We were in the same classes but had never spoken to each other. Benji was quiet and mopey, and would sit up the back on his own and stare out the window, only speaking when called on. For the first year of high school he skulked in the background. He didn't stand out in his tight jeans and Morrissey T-shirts, but he didn't fit in either.

I had my own problems. Everyone thought I was strange. I was the tragic girl whose parents had died suddenly, the one everyone whispered about but didn't know how to talk to. I wasn't interested in making friends, and spent my lunchtimes in the library, reading Nathanael West and staying away from groups and conversations, not revealing anything about myself and what had happened to me. So Benji and I sailed past each other week after week, oblivious to each other's presence, until today.

The cat started to tire, its flops becoming heavier, until finally it lay on its side in the dirt, took a few shallow gasps of air, and died. I looked back at Benji. Two fat teardrops were making their way down his cheeks. Everyone quietened down, an eerie silence descending on the scene. Suddenly Mr Barrett appeared, blowing his whistle and trying to disperse the crowd. Mr Barrett was a gym teacher who always wore short shorts, even in winter, and was known for picking students up by their sideburns.

*What's going on over here?' he bellowed. *Get away from the fence, all of you!'

*There's a dead cat on the road!' someone yelled.

Mr Barrett made his way to the fence and peered over. Without a word he strode off in the direction of the teachers' lounge, returning minutes later with a black garbage bag.

*Okay, show's over,' he shouted as he walked out the gate. *All of you get out of here. Now!'

We began to wander off, a few of us lagging behind to take one last look at the carcass on the road. Mr Barrett picked the cat up with his bare hands and threw it in the garbage bag. Benji didn't move. I heard some of the other kids chatting excitedly as they walked away.

*I've never seen anything dead,' one of them said.

*I saw my grandma.'

*I saw my uncle in a coma.'

*Yeah, but he wasn't dead, was he? Doesn't really count.'

Mr Barrett swung the bag over his shoulder and strolled off towards the dumpsters without a glance in our direction. I walked over and stood beside Benji, the tears now streaming silently down his face. I felt bad. Not because he was upset, but because he was doing what I desperately wanted to do. I wanted to curl in a little ball on the ground and cry for that poor cat, its beautiful tabby fur now hardened with dry blood. But I couldn't bring myself to. I had cried so much over the past few years I was empty. But Benji cried. He cried openly and without fear. He cried as if he were alone.

*Are you okay?' I finally asked.

He didn't say anything. He turned around to look at me, his eyes glistening. Then he ran off.

Lying in bed that night, all I could think about was the dead cat. I thrashed about in the heat, a tiny fan blowing ineffectually into my face. I thought about the dumpster, how hot it was in there during summer. One day the other kids had thrown me in, amused by my indifference to their taunts and my refusal to fight back. They had closed the lid and suddenly everything was silent, black and hot, like the inside of an oven. On an excursion to the Holocaust museum, an old lady had told us about the furnaces, the places where they burned children alive, and I pictured that rustic green dumpster at the back of the schoolyard, crouched in the sun, its mouth open.

I imagined now what would happen when the trash was collected, how the cat's body would be compacted with soda cans and candy bar wrappers until it was all one compressed block of rubbish. I wondered who its owners were, and whether someone was tapping on the side of a tin with a spoon, calling its name. I remembered that dumpster collection only happened once a week, and that the next collection was days away. I still had time.

The next day under a blistering hot sun I relayed my plan to Benji. We stood in the middle of the oval watching our classmates play baseball. Mr Barrett always sent the worst players as far away from the diamond as possible, where there was nothing to do but run after balls hit so far out that it didn't matter how slowly we threw them back. I was more than happy with this arrangement.

I sat on the grass, patted the ground next to me, and Benji reluctantly sauntered over, squatting beside me amongst the dandelions. We didn't say anything, just watched the players run in circles and picked at the flowers. Then Benji started to scratch at his face. Under the sun his pale skin was turning lobster red.

Someone hit a ball out of field and everyone cheered. The boys ran to the fence and started climbing it. Mr Barrett chased from behind and yelled at them to get down.

*That was horrible yesterday,' I said to Benji. *You know, what happened to that cat.'

He waited, and for a while I thought he wasn't going to say anything. Then he spoke.

*I have a cat,' he said. *Freddie Prinze.'

*Freddie Prinze? That actor? The one who killed himself?'

Benji nodded. A loud chock sound echoed across the field and another ball sailed over our heads. Neither of us made any attempt to get up. Mr Barrett yelled in our direction. I gave him a wave and, defeated, he went to get another ball from his gym bag. Benji laughed. He tore at the dandelions in the ground and crushed them between his fingers.

*I hate Mr Barrett,' he said, his voice cold. *He deserves a bullet in the head.'

*Teachers like him make you understand why Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris did what they did,' I replied, not even thinking before the words tumbled out. *Columbine wasn't a very nice place to begin with, from what I've heard. I mean, killers aren't made in a vacuum, you know? I'm not saying what they did was right. It wasn't. I just hate how people call them evil and don't think about why they did it.'

I didn't know whether he was going to call me a lunatic or crazy for sympathising with the Columbine killers.

*Columbine had a history of bullying and repression,' he said as if reciting from a textbook. *The teachers had established a hierarchy that kept the jocks at the top, and everyone else on the bottom. What they did-Dylan and Eric-was a political act, like in the French revolution.'

I was stunned, and kind of relieved. I had never heard anyone say something like that about Columbine. My Aunt Lynette always said the world was a better place now that *those sociopathic monsters' had blown their own heads off.

*This place is just as bad,' Benji continued. *Nothing but a bunch of jocks and cheerleaders.'

I thought again of the cat baking in its metal coffin. *Would you be interested in coming on an expedition?' I asked.

Benji looked suspicious. *What kind of expedition?'

*I'm going to help the cat that got hit by the car,' I said. *I'm going to save it.'

*How can you save it? It's dead.'

This was true. Still, I believed that dead things were not beyond dignity. And I was alive, and could do something about it. The whole incident had made me feel indescribably dirty, like a rubbernecker at the site of a car crash. I wanted nothing more than to get clean.

*Are you in or are you out?' I asked. Benji looked across at his classmates, all the jocks and princesses and people we would never be like.

*I guess I'll help you,' he muttered, as if he were doing me an enormous favour. *There's nothing on TV tonight anyway. '

Benji met me at the dumpster after class. We waited until the other students had left and the school was deserted. The dumpster was hot to touch, but luckily the handles had been in the shadow of the towering oaks above it. I took this as a sign that the natural world was pleased with my plan, that it too knew the importance of setting things right.

If Benji was nervous he didn't show it. As I struggled to lift the side of the lid, he took the other end without being asked, and together we hoisted the dumpster open and let the top bang noisily against the classroom wall. Immediately we smelt the cat, a cloying, decaying stench that slapped our faces. I covered my mouth with my hand. Benji heaved himself over the side and stuck his head in.

*I can see it,' he yelled. *Its paw's sticking out of the bag. I'm going in.'

He threw his legs over and disappeared into the darkness. I waited in the cool breeze until the garbage bag appeared over the side, wet and torn, fur poking from a hole. I took the bag from Benji and gently laid it on the ground, trying not to look at the contents. Benji vaulted over the side of the dumpster and landed with a thud in the dirt.

*Careful,' I said as he steadied himself inches from the bag. *You nearly jumped on it.'

*My cousin accidentally jumped on a puppy once. He was on the top of his bunk bed and the puppy was on the floor and he didn't see it. He landed right on its stomach and its guts came out of its mouth.'

*Benji! That's horrible.'

He frowned. *Well, it happened. Just 'cause you don't wanna hear about bad stuff doesn't mean it doesn't happen.'

I knelt and opened the bag carefully, sticking my hand inside. The cat's head lolled out, limp and lifeless. I jumped back and shrieked.

*Geez, what a girl,' Benji said. *Give it to me.'

He pushed me aside and crouched over the cat, lifting the head gently. Its eyes were closed and it looked peaceful, like it was asleep. I'd had nightmares about its eyes being open, and was terrified that if I tore apart the bag it would be staring at me. Benji felt around its neck for a collar and discovered a small blue nametag.

*Oscar,' he read. *Twelve Paige Street.'

We spoke little as we walked, the cat in the bag swinging between us. I started to feel like I worked for the government, and was going to tell someone that their son had died at war. We arrived at the address to find a cosy little bungalow with a small front yard and no fence. As we walked up the path to the front door my heart sank. On the stairs was a plastic water dish, kitty litter and a ceramic food bowl, some tuna still in it. I rang the bell. The door opened and a young woman stood in front of us, a friendly smile on her face.

*Yes?' she said politely. *Can I help you?'

*Do you have a cat called Oscar?' I asked.

*Sure do. Didn't come home last night. Don't tell me he's been pestering you for food? He's such a cheeky boy.'

I handed her the bag. I explained how Oscar had been hit by a car, and told her he had not suffered.

The woman cried but she was brave and tried to hide her tears by smiling through them. She stepped forward and hugged me, then Benji, who cringed.

*You are both such good kids,' she said. *Good kids. Thank you so much for bringing home my baby.'

She closed the door, and Benji and I started the long walk home. I didn't feel like a good kid. I knew we had done the right thing, but something was niggling inside, a worm burrowing its way through my core. I hated to admit how exciting it had been to stand outside that dumpster, breathing the fetid stench of the cat's remains. The smell was familiar, comforting, like something I'd lost but never knew I had in the first place.

It could have been my imagination but I was sure Benji had lingered a while in the darkness of that dumpster, taking his time before returning to the fading sunlight of the afternoon. I watched him as we walked together. He was immersed in thought, staring at his sneakers as they hit the pavement. Like archaeologists excavating a tomb, Benji and I had crossed over an unspoken boundary, and emerged forever changed by the experience. He looked at me, eyes ablaze, and somewhere a dog howled in the distance. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.

FIVE.

After saying goodbye to Mrs Connor, I left their house and made my way home. The warm air coupled with the start of summer vacation had brought people out of their houses. Across the road a couple walked a teacup poodle on a thin lead. A group of kids skated past me, the wheels of their boards making a long, rolling sound like an incoming wave, building to a crescendo then disappearing as they sped away into the shadows.