My mother's midnight blue Mercedes coupe pulls up at the Riordans' at 6:30pm sharp. If there is one thing that Principal Burton is a stickler for, it's punctuality. Many a St Mark's student has earned themselves a detention trying to sneak in the side gate after the second bell has gone.

"How did it go?" she asks me, reapplying her lipstick while I do up my seat belt.

"Okay," I say with a noncommittal shrug.

"I'm so pleased that you and Travers are studying together. That boy has an impeccable academic record. You could learn a lot from him." She gives me a quick, pointed look as we pull away from the curb.

"I told you. We aren't study buddies or anything. We just have to do this BusComm thing together."

"Still, you couldn't have asked for a better partner. And if you apply yourself to this, maybe when it's over he'll be willing to keep studying with you..."

Not in the mood to listen to another episode of 'Ode to the Great Travers Riordan', or to the unsubtle digs about my own general lack of academic greatness, I quickly change the subject.

"How was the School Council meeting?"

"Oh, a complete palaver as usual. I cannot believe that John McDonald. How he ended up being Council President I will never understand. You will not believe the motion he tried to move..."

And she's off and running. When it comes to my mother, I am the master of distraction. One thing my father and I have in common.

By the time we pull into our driveway, I know more about Old John McDonald and his farmyard of 'ludicrous' motions than I would ever need or want to. But my sole required contribution to the conversation has been the occasional head nod or appropriately timed "unbelievable". I bought myself ten minutes free from parental interrogation and that's what counts.

Unlike the Riordans' house, the Burton abode is not a period classic. No weatherboards or soft colour schemes or farmhouse style kitchens for us. We're all sharp angles and hard edges; experimental materials and polished concrete. Lots and lots of polished concrete. Great for sliding in your socks, not so great for lounging around on.

I'm sure there's a metaphor in there. It's not even a very subtle one.

"There you are, my beautiful ladies."

Meet Michael Burton. Husband of Olivia. Father of Francesca. Charmer of the world. Dutifully out the front of his house, watering his ornamental pear trees, still in his suit.

I look like him, which I used to love but now don't. Dark haired, pale skinned and blue eyed. A single dimple in our left cheeks. Slim, athletic build. A bit taller than average.

"Hello Darling," my mother says to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

"Livvie Lou," he replies, leaning back into her embrace. "I bought you a present today. Something beautiful that reminded me of you. I just couldn't help myself."

She giggles. Not laughs like a grown up. Not chuckles like an adult. Honest to God giggles.

"Frankie May," he says, turning to me. "I bought you something too."

I hate the way his face is full of hope. Like he's an eager puppy looking for approval. It makes me feel guilty for the way things are between us. Then it makes me mad. Because I'm not the one who ruined everything.

"Thanks." I look him straight in the eye as I say this. "But no thanks. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my room."

"Francesca Burton, get your butt back here right now and apologise to your Dad."

"Let her go, Livvie. It's okay."

"No, it's not Mike, she can't..."

I shut the front door on whatever it is that my mother thinks I can't do and retreat to my room.

I know what you're thinking. You think I'm a brat, right? Hell, even I think I'm a brat a lot of the time. But I can't bring myself to be polite and cheerful and loving. Basically, I can't bring myself to lie. Something neither of my parents seem to have any problem with.

I'm just so angry. So angry I throb with it. Like a heartbeat.

Michael Burton used to be my anchor point. I was always close to my Mum (not that you'd know it now) but my Dad and I were two peas in a pod. Camping; skate-boarding; Star Wars movie marathons; farmers' markets; surfing; snowboarding; archery; road trips; rock climbing; an unfortunate and painful foray into horse riding – Dad and I tried it all.

He called them our Dadventures.

No matter how busy he was, my Dad always made time for me. And for my Mum too.

Until he didn't.

Because he was too busy hooking up with some woman in Sydney.

And now we are supposed to re-write our family narrative and pretend it didn't happen. Because it was a mistake. Because he ended it. Because 'Livvie Lou' has forgiven him. And because, apparently, I am supposed to forgive him too.

Pfft.

As you may have already guessed, forgiveness is not my sweet spot.

In a U-shaped house with concrete floors, my mother's stiletto heels are an effective advanced warning system. My room sits at one end of the U. No one heads here by accident.

"Frankie? Francesca honey." She raps quietly on my bedroom door and pokes her head inside. It appears we are going for the softly, softly approach tonight. Let's try and coax petulant Francesca out of her room with a little love and kindness. "Why don't you come out and have some dinner with Dad and me? We can order Japanese and get extra Wafu Steak?"

Love, kindness and food bribery.

"Thanks, but I have a lot of homework to do." The fact that I am lying stomach down on my bed without a book or my laptop in sight makes this mistruth less than convincing. She calls me on it, but gently.

"On your first day?"

"Yeah, you know, stuff for my project with Travers. I really need to get a start on it. I don't want to let him down."

"Oh. Okay. Well it's great that you are taking the project seriously. Dad and I... Well, Dad and I will be sitting out by the pool if you want to come and join us. I'm sure Dad would love to whip you up one of his special mocktails."

"Sure Mum. Thanks."

"We love you Francesca."

"..."

"..."

"Yeah Mum, I know."

The clickety-clack retreats back down the hallway with less determination than it approached.

Satisfied that my parents will now leave me alone for the night, I rest my chin on my hands and watch the sheer, white curtains move with the summer breeze.

My phone buzzes in my blazer pocket. Crap, I forgot to call Cassie.

"OMG," she says without preamble. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for forever. I want details, all the details. What was he wearing? What did he say? Did he smoulder? Was there a connection? Did he say anything about his relationship with Bethany? Spill the tea, leave nothing out."

The last thing I feel like doing is rehashing my weird afternoon with the golden boy. But she's my best friend, so I oblige.

"Ummm, he was wearing his school uniform because, you know, we'd been at school. He said mainly things about our project. And exactly how would I have known if he was smouldering?"

"Oh, believe me, you'd know."

I tell her about how Riordan-nice Trav's sister is and how putridly messy his room was and a dozen other little details that she laps up like a gossip-thirsty kitten. What I don't mention is the secret subject matter of our project (she'd lose her tiny mind) or the uncomfortable conversation about the friendship that almost was.

Once Cass is satisfied that she's exhausted all possible avenues of inquiry (no, I didn't see his abs; yes, according to his floordrobe, he favours boxers over briefs; no, I didn't find out which of his friends are currently single), we move onto other first day hot topics. Cass, of course, has all the intel but I bring the 'oohs' and the 'aahhs' and the 'oofs' that I know she is looking for.

Just before we hang up, Cass pauses. "Are you okay Franks?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"Don't know. You just seemed a little surly today. Surlier than usual I mean."

"I'm fine Cass, really."

"Okay..."

"..."

"Night Franks."

"Night Cass."

When I'm sure my parents have gone to bed, I sneak out to the kitchen to make myself a toasted cheese sandwich. Because, let's face it, a girl can't survive on surliness alone.

Like the rest of our house, the black, grey and oak kitchen is architect-designed. From what I can work out, this basically just means that you aren't allowed to have handles on anything and all your appliances have to pretend to be cupboards. Cool to look at, kind of annoying to live with.

My parents have left a single light on above the kitchen bench. It illuminates a small, brightly wrapped package and a card addressed to me. I ignore it while I make my sandwich and pour myself a cup of milk. I ignore it while I eat my sandwich, drink my milk and put my dishes in the dishwasher.

I cave and open it.

It's an early imprint of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone – a book he and I read over and over when I was a kid. A gift that couldn't have been bought on a whim. One that must have been sought out; searched for; thought about. One that is hard to ignore. Instead, it stabs like a needle.

The card is worse.

For Frankie May, my shining star.

With hope that, one day, you'll let me in again.

Love always, Dad.

I stare at those three lines for a long time. Imagine him writing them. Biting his bottom lip like we both do when we are concentrating hard. Peas in a pod.

I'm tired. And my armour is wobbly and uncomfortable. And I miss my Dad. But the hurt still has jagged edges. And the anger still bubbles and burns.

Books and pretty words won't make them go away.

I don't think anything can.