Dolores and I are friends. She has moved into the empty desk beside me, and when I get to school, I say "Hi, Dolores," easy as can be. We talk about what we saw on TV, and what we have in our sandwiches, and whether we have nicked enough five-cent pieces for K-bars from the kiosk. On wet days when we can't go outside for lunch, we play knucklebones at the library. My knucklebones are aluminium and come in a small red bag. Dolores' are bone. I wonder whether they come from her mother. Dolores is much better at knucklebones than me. She never drops one, she can hold four in her fist whilst flicking the fifth from finger to finger. I wait my turn, combing the striped carpet with my nails. It takes my mind off picking my scab, something I know I shouldn't do, not in public anyway. But the scabs are ready, they want to be flipped over like pancakes from the griddle, revealing the pink scars below.

I invite Dolores to the movies on Friday night. Return of the Jedi is showing, and my favourite is Luke Skywalker. Dad is going to take us. We drive through the early evening, the sun in our eyes, showing up the squashed bugs and bird shit on the windscreen. He sits in the car listening to the radio as I run up the steps to Dolores' door. I knock quietly, then louder. There's a stagger-shuffle, and the door knob turns. The moustached man with a beer can in his hand must be her father.

"Whaddayouwan, sweedard?" he asks. "I donhavany moneyfr Girl Guide bishcits, shodonask."

"Is Dolores there?" I say, trying not to breathe in his smell.

"Uh. Oh. Dolores. Dolores!" he yells. Dolores appears at the door.

"Bye Dad," she says, trying to sneak out.

"Dolores, Dolores honey. I loveyou, shweedheart. Darling, I loveyou. Don'tgo. Stay. Don'tgo. Bye-bye shweedheart. Princess." He covers Dolores in kisses. Her hair, her cheeks, her eyes. She wriggles out. He holds her wrist. "Don'tgo shweedheart. Stay withyour dad." She breaks free. She walks to the car, not looking back. But I do. Her father is sobbing, hoarse, tired baby sounds, his beer can wedged between his head and the doorframe, squishing his eyebrow.

I'm glad to pull away from that house, where the concrete is painted green in the place of grass, and cigarette butts are mixed into the rock garden, some stuck to cactus prickles.

"Earth to Rebecca, have you done your homework yet?"

I didn't hear Dolores the first time. I was thinking of how I would want to wash my face with a   hot flannel if my dad slobbered over me like Delores' dad did. "I'll do it on Sunday," I say.

At the movies Dad buys us soft serves and popcorn. Dolores pushes popcorn into her ice cream, then eats it. I copy her. The sweet ice cream seeps into the salty popcorn cracks. The end of the movie is the biggest shock. "I'm your father," wheezes Darth Vader, his face scarred like my shins when Luke takes off his black mask.

As the credits roll, I ask Dolores whether she wants to stay the night at my place. She nods.

"Is that alright with your father?" Dad asks Dolores.
"He won't mind."

"We better ring him to make sure."

Dolores brushes popcorn off her lap as she stands, the seat snapping back like crocodile jaws. "Okay," she says.

Dolores and I have milky milos and chocolate digestives at the kitchen table.

"Hello, am I speaking with Mr Rhodes?" asks Dad. The receiver mumbles back at him. "This is Rebecca's father. I was calling to see if Dolores can stay the night with Rebecca. We've got spare pyjamas and a new toothbru-" Dad jerks the phone away from his ear. The receiver is hacking now, choking on bad words and spittle flying down the wire. "Mr Rhodes, this is quite unnecessary. In the state you're in, I think it would be better-"

Hmmmmmmmmm.

My father is flushed. "Well," he says. "Well. Well." He pushes his glasses back up his nose; he smoothes back strands of displaced hair. "Rebecca, go and find Dolores a pair of your spare pajamas. I'll set up the trundle bed."

Dolores and I whisper ourselves to sleep. We sing songs under our breath, we swap favourite colours. "You're my best friend," I tell her at midnight, the time you're allowed to say anything you like. "I've only had one best friend before. You can keep my pajamas if you like."

"Thanks," she says.

When I wake up at 4 am to go to the toilet, Dolores is staring up at the plaster roses on the ceiling. "Dolores?" I say. She flicks her eyes shut.