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seconds are okay, but they’re not our crew,’ says Adam flatly. ‘We belong back in the firsts. You know what the other schools are saying?’
    â€˜No, what?’
    â€˜There’s trouble brewing at Harley. Westie is chucking out star rowers for novices.’
    â€˜What are we supposed to do about it? This isn’t musical chairs.’
    â€˜I know someone who can help us.’
    â€˜Who? Jenny Craig?’
    â€˜Guy at my gym. The one I go to with my brothers and Dad.’
    Adam works out at a private club on his side of the river. Shiny, brand-spanking new equipment and wall-to-wall pumped-up AFL players and gay guys. Lots of fluffy white towels and personal trainers pushing an agenda.
    Adam took me there once and I couldn’t wait to leave. It was the antithesis of the shabby, zen yoga studios around my area. Everyone was watching me lift, then watching themselves in the mirrors.
    â€˜He can get us some stuff,’ says Adam.
    â€˜Stuff? Like protein powders? Aminos?’
    â€˜Nah, like real gear.’
    I know what gear is. Also known as juice, sauce, slop, product. Gear is steroids. And it’s not the first time I’d been offered a taste. A team from South Africa came out on a school rugby tour last year and a few of the blokes were into it. Told us it was the best way to get bulk. I ignored them, but maybe Adam was listening.
    â€˜I gotta get back in the firsts, Cris. This is the only thing I can think of. I’ve talked to this guy. He gets it for the footy players. Anything we like. Good gear.’
    â€˜Where am I going to get money for that?’
    â€˜I can pay for it.’
    I feel uncomfortable. Our family isn’t well-off but I don’t like my cashed-up mates paying my way, either. If I pulled a few extra shifts at Bunnings, would it be enough?
    â€˜I dunno, Adam. Don’t they, like, shrink your balls or something? Make you Incredible Hulk aggro?’
    â€˜Nah. This guy has good product. That weight you have to lose, will be gone in like, a month. I can get big. I’m too skinny. The more I lift, the skinnier I get. The protein shakes can only do so much. I need this. We can stop, way before the Head of the River. There’s no testing, right? So no one has to know. Everyone does it now anyway.’
    â€˜Isn’t it cheating?’
    â€˜Clean sport is a myth, my friend. You either get smart or you get beaten.’
    We walk in silence, each of us weighing up the risk. It’s minimal, our school doesn’t drug test for performance-enhancing drugs, and it would be so easy to say yes. Rowing had gotten too hard. There was too much at stake now. We’d worked our way to the senior crews, but now we both needed a shortcut. The quickest point from A to B.
    â€˜Will you do the talking?’ I ask.
    Adam smiles and slaps me across the shoulders conspiratorially. He doesn’t like to do things on his own. It wasn’t just about helping out a friend, he wanted a partner in crime.
    â€˜We’ll go see this guy after school. He’ll hook us up. So, you’ll come?’
    â€˜Only to talk to him? I’m still not sure I want to do this.’
    â€˜No-obligation, free quote,’ says Adam.
    We change the subject and talk about our biology assignment as we head back for more classes, but all I can think is should I? Shouldn’t I? Like I’m tossing a coin in my head. On the shiny side is easy entry back into the firsts and holding onto my scholarship. On the tarnished, green side is a voice that’s asking if I’m a drug cheat.
    It’s the dumbest of dumb ideas, but I imagine taking my shirt off in front of Penny at the river. Imagining her face when she sees how ripped I am. It tips me in the wrong direction. The shiny side falls up.
    Leni
    Audrey and I take the 86 tram home and get off at Sunny’s bakery on Smith Street. She orders a Vietnamese pork roll, extra chilli.
    â€˜Same,’