Sometimes I miss the dragons.

Then I ask Valon, the boy with the funny name. He’s got a moped and he drives me to the village where I come from, where the dragons live.

The others mustn’t find out I get lifts from Valon on his moped, ’cause they don’t like him.

When we go to see the dragons I hold on tight to Valon, sitting behind him. I can feel his muscles. Valon is strong ’cause he works on building sites, even though he’s only seventeen. I tell him he’s stronger than anyone else I know, even though some of the others have big brothers who lift weights and do sport and look like warriors from the films. Valon laughs and calls me ‘little sister’ and the others mustn’t find out I’ve got a crush on him. I’m not in love, I’m too young for that.

Sometimes I think he likes me and I . . . and us getting on so well is ’cause we’re both not from here. His village is further away than mine, somewhere in the south or the south-east . . . ‘Used to be called Yugoslavia,’ my dad says, ‘socialist brothers, long time ago.’ Both villages have vanished now, or almost, and now we’re here.

On the weekends we hang out at the station, me and the others – I mean, the others and me.

Valon’s at work on his building site, he earns more on Saturdays, and on Sundays he has to rest or spend time with his family. ‘They have a lot of tradition,’ he says. But he only meets me when the others aren’t around anyway.

The station’s on the edge of town. We don’t live near the station, none of us do. We meet up by the river, behind the tower blocks. When there’s a lot of us we’ll march from the river right through the town centre, right down the shopping streets, past the fountain, past the town hall, past the dark warriors’ church, when there’s lots of us we’re loud, we yell and scream, and when we see kids from the villages on our way to the station we yell even louder, spit and yell and scream.

We sit in the station, the big hall in the station, on steps and benches, we stand around in the dark corners watching the travellers, the people coming, the people going, we roam around the station shop, flick through comics and sex mags in the newsagent’s, search the men’s toilets; sometimes drunks have a rest in the cubicles and we nick their beer cans and hand them in at the shop, twenty-five cents deposit per can, and sometimes we take a couple of euros out of their pockets, they never have much, and we run down the tunnel to the platforms, when there’s lots of us we shout out loud in there, it booms back off the walls and the words come from all over, like echoes. ‘Germany!’ the others shout, and then in rhythm, ‘East Ger-ma-ny, East Ger-ma-ny!’ Sometimes I join in, and the words come from all over, freight trains pass over our heads and our shouts disappear in the rattle of the wheels, the tunnel seems to quake and tremble, we stand on one of the platforms and count the freight-train wagons, we’re almost children still, and when there’s only a few of us, ’cause some of the others get to hang out on the weekends with their brothers in the park and have a barbecue and drink beer, we sit outside the station and wait for the tourists.

My favourite place to sit is on the stairs in the big station hall, the ones going up to the old Mitropa restaurant that’s been closed for years now, and I sit between the two men.

One of them’s wearing a helmet with a miner’s lamp, the other one holds an abacus in his hands. I like touching them ’cause they feel cool and smooth. They’re facing the big door with the station forecourt outside it, they look like they’re thinking hard, their foreheads all wrinkled up, sometimes they even look a bit sad, their dark bronze eyes, but I think they’re only sad when I am too.

I’m sitting between the two men kneeling on pedestals on either side of the stairs, I’m resting my elbows on my thighs, my head on my hands, my palms on my cheeks. I can feel myself pouting and I wish Valon was here to see me pouting.

The others are sitting around outside the station waiting for the tourists; the trains from the big cities will be arriving soon. But I want to be on my own. I always want to be alone.

I look over at the station shop. Right next to the big door, Valon and me are standing at a table eating currywurst, he’s got a beer on the table, I’ve got a Coke, we’re leaning against the wall, we’ve moved the table into the niche between the wall and the pillar, the woman in the shop gave us a funny look but Valon paid and gave her a good tip, and now we’re standing in the niche and eating and drinking.

‘I bet you want to go and see the dragons again, huh, little sister?’ He drinks from his beer and then leans over the cardboard plate of currywurst.

‘If you’ll drive me.’ I look up and I can feel the curry-ketchup moustache on my upper lip before he laughs.

‘Grubby little sister!’ He wipes my mouth with a paper serviette, then his, and I get goosebumps.

‘I’m not your sister.’

‘No, you’re not, little sister.’

‘I can just hitchhike!’

‘You shouldn’t.’

‘I’m not a kid any more.’

‘Maybe, little sister, but it’s better if I drive you.’

And then we drive. I lean against his back, feel his muscles and his breathing. Most of the time I close my eyes and don’t see whether he takes the fast road or the country road through all the villages; I feel safe against his back.

‘You’re such a grubby little sister!’ He wipes my currywurst moustache with a tissue. A bang. The station hall booms. Another bang. The others are in the tunnel, lighting fireworks, New Year’s Eve rockets bought in Poland or from the Czech Republic. Neither are far away. We squeeze back into the niche, watching the travellers glancing around in shock at every bang. Valon flinches next to me too, I can see his hands gripping the tabletop for a moment and the muscles on his arms hardening, and I put my hand on his, carefully.