We’re in the shed prodding at the seed in the petri dish when his Mum comes out and throws a toaster across the garden. It sails through the air, bounces three times and lands in mud churned up by the paw prints of their dog.
‘It’s going to be an apple tree.’ Tyler tells me, rubbing the back of his neck.
I nod, though I can’t take my eyes from his mother. She’s in her dressing gown, her hair’s wild, her nostrils flared and she’s taking quick, noisy breaths.
‘There are more than eight thousand varieties of apple.’ Tyler murmurs.
He’s a year younger and into weird stuff like this instead of playing football like normal boys, but I’m not allowed to play with the other kids on this estate. They’re not our kind of people, according to Mum. She only allows me here because it’s just next door and she can keep an eye on me.
His mum picks up a terracotta plant pot, holds it high in the air and drops it on the paving stones. It smashes into a million pieces, sending shards of pottery and dirt in different directions. She picks up another one, drops it and then grabs another. Strange humming noises come from somewhere deep in Tyler’s throat and the curve of his ears are red. He turns away.
‘Where will you plant it?’ I ask, joining in the pretence that what is happening is not happening. Not that I care. It’s not like I’m going to be around to see it grow. Mum says we’re only here temporarily.
His Mum has run out of plant pots and stands there with her fists balled tight as bulbs and starts shouting. All the swear words I know and some I’ve never heard before.
Tyler spins the petri dish around and around.
Behind his mum, the dog sits in the doorway with its head lowered. The shattered plant pots cover the paving stones. Small green plants lie wilting in scattered mud.
‘My dad’s house,’ Tyler says.
Next door, I see my mum in our kitchen. She’s drying her hands on a tea towel and shaking her head, before reaching up to quietly close the window.
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