‘Mum, I didn’t write anything.’

‘You’ve had weeks!’ It was the loudest whisper I’d ever heard. When people on the pew
ahead turned around, Mum covered her mouth.

​

‘Why did you agree to it?’

‘Because Eliza Bianchi said she’d help, but then got chicken pox.’

The priest smiled at me. I grimaced back.

‘And now we have young Dylan Smith to lead us in an Easter prayer he’s written himself.’

Mum nudged me and my legs numbly walked to the lectern.

‘Dear Jesus … thanks for all the fish.’

Up the back, covered in spots, Eliza Bianchi laughed.