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"How you doing, space cadet?" said Mark, jumping off the chair and marching on the spot with his eyes closed, pretending to sleepwalk. "Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for the invite," I replied. "Great party. Must have taken your Mum weeks to organise it."
"Mother's overseas on a merger," said Mark inspecting an imaginary spot on his shirt. "Dad hired Mrs Kroker to run the whole thing."
"Oh," I said. "Looks like she's done a brilliant job."
"Wanna see a highlight?" Without waiting for my answer, he squatted down and unzipped the front pouch of a small translucent bag lying under the high-backed chair. He retrieved a silver hexagonal box, about the size of a coffee mug. As he held it aloft, the box glittered in the winter sunshine as if coated in diamond dust.
"Wow!" I said: an understatement. "I didn't even know these were out yet."
Mark put the box to his mouth. "They're not," he drawled, his voice distorted by the box's built-in microphone. He sounded like a Texan android. He lowered the box and grinned. "My father knows this guy that works for the company in China. He pulled a few strings, and voila."
"Voila?" I asked.
Mark twisted the box lid in his left hand, and put his right thumb and index finger to his cleft chin, like a statue of a thinker. "That's French for 'look at that!' I learned it when I was at Disneyland Paris, last summer."
"Can I have a go?" I asked.
Mark frowned and shook his head. "You can watch me if you like."
He thumbed at the touch pad on the box lid. The console unfurled into a hexagon of brick-petals. The box emitted a jingle-wash, and the petals flattened out to form a double-sided display. We sat down on the top step of the deck and watched, hypnotised, as the game loaded. The title screen popped up and I gulped: it was the new one, Ancient Assassins!
"Awesome!" I whispered, almost bursting into applause.
He swiped at the screen, resuming a saved game. "Watch this!" Mark said. An ice-ninja cartwheeled across the deck of a pirate ship, hurled a silver disc over the ship's prow, and decapitated a sea dragon. "So realistic!"
"Not really," piped a squeaky voice from the foot of the stairs. "From what I can see from the screen facing me, the warrior appears to be using piranha shurikens. At that range, he'd be better off pitching scorpion stars. Would cut through the dragon's vertebrae more efficiently."
"Who asked you?" growled Mark. A Scandinavian dragon, gold and multi-winged, swooped down through the clouds and bit off the ninja's legs. Mark swore and tapped the screen twice. The game froze, and he lowered the console and looked down his nose. "Nice outfit pip-squeak. Where's my present?"
Joke blushed. "Your invitation. It said not to bring presents. That you didn't need any."
"I don't need presents," snapped Mark. "But I want them just the same. Don't you think it's a bit rude to turn up to someone's party without a gift? Or to dress like that? It's insulting."
"But your invitation said -"
"You're lucky I even invited you, Jack o' Joke," laughed Mark. "I'm a gracious host, so you can stay, but don't talk to my friends - which are everyone - and don't eat my food. Just go and play with your deadbeat dad. You should audition to be his apprentice, or something. Best you can hope for."
"Leave my father alone," said Joke. "He's good at his job, and doesn't need me. And I'm going to be an archaeologist when I grow up."
Mark sniggered. "As if! You need a degree to do that. Your dad doesn't have the cash to send you to Pinkerton, much less university. You'll never be an anthropologist."
"Archaeologist," corrected Joke.
"Whatever," said Mark, turning back to the game. "You'll never be neither."
"You mean either. And I will too," said Joke, angrily. "I'll study hard and get a scholarship." He voice wavered, undermining the certainty of his words.
"Stop being a sook," ordered Mark. "Why don't you run home to your mum for a good cry? Oh, that's right you don't have one."
Joke looked at me, pleading. I scanned the Lake shore, unsure what to say. He started to sob, then turned and ran off across the manicured lawn. I watched his pumpkin suit bounce toward the lake rhythmically, like a karaoke-cue ball marking out the lyrics of a power-ballad.
"You didn't need to bring up his mum," I said. "He was trying to be helpful. He knows a lot about ninjas. And I didn't bring a present either. You didn't need to single him out."
"Oh, I forgot," said Mark, twisting the console shut like a hand juicer. "You're the nerd's best friend, right?" He stood up and puffed out his chest. "The nerd was your only friend when you first rocked up to freeload off your aunt. He latched onto you pretty good at school. I almost felt sorry for you. Thought you were trying to get away from him this year. That you wanted to hang with me and Tim?"
"I did," I said, pushing myself up onto my feet. "I do. But Joke's not that bad a guy, once you get to know him. He's just not good at...social situations."
"OK, then. Let's spend all day discovering the real Joke, shall we?" said Mark, sarcastically. "Perhaps we could go camping and plait each other's hair? Maybe spend a few days reciting sonnets to each other in Joke's caravan, eating baked beans from the can and farting out operas. It might be fun living a day as poor trash."
I faked a laugh. There was no point arguing with Mark when he was on a roll. "Your birthday, your rules, Mark," I said. "Forget about Joke. Let's party!"
Mark grinned, his perfect white teeth glinting, his dimples dancing. "That's more like it, space cadet!"
As we descended the stairs, two at a time, I spied Joke sitting on the end of the Barkers' private jetty. From the jerky movement of his shoulders, I could tell he was crying. Less than two metres away, his dad was too busy fiddling with extension cords to notice.