I should be happy. After all, I have met real city teenagers and their anger – at least one of them. In a way, I'm content because of the new piece in my collection of experiences. But actually, I'm more amused by the whole thing. That Misty has proven my expectations right – city people are shallow. What kind of person attacks people because of someone of the opposite gender? And all in vain.

Well, actually, Misty is the only shallow one I've met here. The Jubiley girl wasn't too bad, because I didn't really hear her say anything.

Someone else would be really down at the moment, because some stupid girl told her off. And the someone else would be really thinking about ways to placate the stupid girl.

I am not. Misty is pretty pathetic, I have to say. Although, as I've said, I can't know what she's really like.

But there's one thing I'm quite proud of. That is getting Satin at her wit's end. I know I shouldn't be malicious, but I feel so strong. Or perhaps I should say stronger. Just think that because of me, someone can be "out of her mind", like Satin would probably say.

Now I'm at Chevrolets' again and Satin is in her room clearing her mind – or then she's just reading Seventeen or whatever people do here when they're alone.

One lonely bubble soars through my window. Or Chevrolets' guest room's window. I don't think anyone minds if I call it my own, though. Well, what do you know? Maybe Mrs Chevrolet is right now sticking pins into a voodoo doll that looks like me.

Speak of the devil. The front door slams and Mrs Chevrolet's voice echoes in the house.

"Muffins! Are you at home?"

Now the slam comes from Satin's door.

"Yes, we are!" she bellows.

Her tone isn't angry, though. She probably abated her voice before answering. I can tell it from the tiny pause between opening the door and saying the words.

Mrs Chevrolet's coming upstairs. Even her steps are saying: "Is everything alright? Has Cinnamon liked it here? Oh no, have you left her alone, Satin?"

Knock, knock.

"Hello, Mrs Chevrolet. How was your day?" I use my best everything-is-fine-and-I-love-my-life tone.

"Oh hi, sweetie. It was fine, thanks for asking. Oh, you're so polite in the north, I wish it was the same down here... But I feel so old if you call me Mrs."

"Alright... Ebony." It doesn't fit in my mouth, I only sound rigid and artificial. I sound like Misty.

She smiles, nevertheless.

"That's my girl."

But then her mouth tightens ominously.

"Satin has left you on your own, hasn't she?"

"No, Mrs Chevrolet – Ebony, no, she –"

"I'll have a word with her!" Mrs Chevrolet storms out.

Her and Satin's "conversation" pierces the thin wall.

"So this is the way to behave when we have guests?"

"No, Mom, you don't get it..."

"I get it darn well! This is not how I've brought you up, is it?"

"Mom, can I say something? I've talked to her and stuff, and she's OK, but... she's a little... spooky."

I can't make of more, because they lower their voices.

Spooky, huh? Satin makes me sound like a mad scientist or a freaky cleaning addict. Like I had three noses or fuchsia eyes.

But it feels good. Like I was home again, with Marjoram and Ginger and Katinka, not here in Melbourne where there are typical city people who only judge me...

Spooky! Hillbilly! What does that make them, then, ignorants who don't know anything about anything. Had never even seen a soap bubble!

Or Satin hasn't. But she's just like her friends. At least she'll be like them again, I could take a bet on it.

I just wonder... a bet is an abstract matter, right? You can't see it or touch it. So how can you take it?

I promise to forgive Satin for calling me spooky. It was immoral thing to do, but still quite ludicrous.

Mrs Chevrolet is returning downstairs. I can't hear any kinds of angry bursts.

I think I'll go over to Satin's.

"What did you talk about? Not that it's my business, but..."

"Don't tell me you don't know. You know everything, don't you?" she says in a little staunched voice, looking up at me with the olive green eyes of hers – and mine.

I laugh softly.

"No, I don't. I do know a lot of things, but not still quite everything."

Satin looks slightly surprised.

"What? I don't!"

"Mom thought I hate you and refuse to co-operate."

"What else would she think? It was this morning when you looked like you had swallowed a coin."

"Swallowed a coin?" Now she's completely lost the track.

"Yeah. My sister ate 20 cents once – it was horrible. She tried to kick or scratch us when we took even one step closer to her. She was like an irritated wild horse."

"How old she was then – three?"

"In fact, she was eleven. Don't ask more."

Satin laughs – and her eyes squint in a very familiar way. Who did she remind me of? Oh, now I know.

"My sister Marjoram looks like you."

"Oh, is she blonde and astonishingly beautiful, too?"

"No, but she laughs in the same way. Though, when she ate that coin, she wasn't really laughing."

Satin even twirled her hair like Marjoram. I tell you, this might be getting somewhere.