Half My Luck

by Samera Kamaleddine

  ‘And that’s not fair,’ I add.

  ‘You don’t know everything about everyone’s lives, Layla,’ he finally responds after what feels like a whole minute of silence. ‘Who made you the judge, anyway?’

  What is that even supposed to mean? Before I can ask the question out loud, he’s shoulder-shoved his way through the bathroom door. And if I stand out here waiting for him, I’ll look like a mega creep.

  Well, I already do.

  ‘Always use the guys’ toilets?’ Jordan. Always at the right place at the right time.

  ‘Ha, no!’ I hadn’t even noticed his arrival in the hall. ‘How’s your team? Got anyone good?’

  ‘Ah, just a whole table of people I’ve never met in my life, but it’s alright. You?’

  My mind wanders off topic. ‘Do you wish your girlfriend was here?’ I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’ve ignored his question or that he’s never actually told me himself that he has a girlfriend.

  ‘What, at trivia?’

  ‘No! Here, instead of back in Bathurst.’

  ‘Wellllll, she’s not a huge fan of rivers. You could say she hates rivers. Especially filthy, stinking ones.’ He smiles. ‘So, you know, I wouldn’t want her to have to suffer these kinds of conditions.’

  I smile back. It’s not a yes and it’s not a no. It’s just Jordan. Not letting people feel like shit. He opens his mouth to speak again, his first word cut off by a cracking BOOM. Like an explosion, outside in the carpark. Through the hall’s open doors, I can see bright orange flames.

  Trivia-goers start rushing out of their seats, some keener than others for the disruption. Everyone’s bashing into everyone else, crowding around the foyer or sprinting down the front stairs to get a better look at the blaze that’s been ignited at the back of the carpark.

  As Jordan and I push our way through, a parked car turns into a fireball. Pops and bangs fill the air along with billowing black smoke as tyres explode and the doors and front bumper of the burning car blast off in all directions. Even from where we stand, what has to be more than ten metres away, my skin can feel the radiating heat.

  Someone’s dad – I don’t know whose – yells for everyone to head onto the footpath. He’ll call triple zero, he says, if we all just get safely away from the fumes.

  ‘Does anyone know who owns this car?’ he asks.

  Maddy steps forward. ‘It’s my boyfriend’s.’

  ‘I can’t believe someone torched Daniel’s car!’

  ‘Really, George? I can.’

  We’re sitting across the road from the YMCA, the three of us perched on someone’s red-brick fence. But not the usual three of us. It’s George, Jordan and me.

  ‘Do you reckon . . . could it have been the Cedars?’ George asks me, as if I would know.

  I hope it wasn’t. However, all signs are pointing to a big fat yes. ‘Well, it wasn’t me. And I’m the only person who hates him as much as they do right now. But Sufia didn’t say a single thing to me.’ Except a lie, if it turns out they did it.

  The firies have been here for about twenty minutes, metres and metres of hose rolling around the carpark. Daniel’s car has been completely foamed. Every nosy person living on this road is out enjoying the show. All they need is popcorn.

  Jordan, sitting on the other side of me and basically touching my bare arm with his own, is pretty quiet. He’s staring up at a pair of sneakers with the laces tied together, thrown over the power lines above us.

  ‘I don’t get why people do that,’ says George, following his gaze.

  ‘Apparently, it was this thing they used to do in the military,’ says Jordan, ‘where soldiers would throw their boots over the wires when they were leaving the service after they’d finished their basic training.’

  George’s question is finally answered. ‘That is a very random thing to know!’

  ‘Yeah, I just thought it was people being mean to each other,’ I say, which around these streets, it probably is.

  Unfortunately, no one is leaving this battleground tonight, I think, looking back at the scene over the road. The lights of the fire truck offer up a spotlight, shining out over the audience. Trivia night is well and truly over. Some have fled, while many have stayed. Daniel is talking to a couple of cops, looking as fired up as his car was earlier. Maddy is snuggled into his arm.

  Then I spot Imogen. Just standing there, staring at the blackened shell. Hot steam is still emanating from the metal frame that remains, and leftover foam surrounds it on the concrete. Firefighters in full protective clothing and breathing masks linger nearby. There’s something about Imogen’s face. She doesn’t look afraid, or shocked. No. It’s almost like she’s looking at it all with . . . satisfaction.

  How I wish I’d been at the Meyer house that day. To know what Sufia said. To know if Imogen knew.

  If a car being set alight in the middle of a trivia night doesn’t make for a sombre weekend, I don’t know what does. Noah is bummed he missed it. Mum is preoccupied with her phone, no doubt using emojis that have no relation whatsoever to the subject of her texts. But I’d much rather she was in misusing-emojis mode than in ranting mode, like she was in the car on the way home from the YMCA last night. ‘Starting fires in these extreme conditions, honestly. Are they absolute lunatics?’ she’d said, following up with a few different variations of the same statement for full effect.

  Now, sitting underneath the lounge-room’s air-con, I wonder if Sufia was lying to me. She’s not replying to my texts. Why wouldn’t Imogen have warned Daniel if she knew what was going to happen to his car? I wish it wasn’t too soon for another visit to the Meyer house, but it hasn’t even been a week since I last made an awkward intrusion.

  I suddenly can’t think anymore. Mum has the air-con set to ‘Antarctica’. I point the remote and add a couple of degrees. That’s better.

  It might be too soon to go to the Meyer house, but maybe I can chat to Imogen elsewhere. On neutral ground. Where it doesn’t feel like an ambush, where we don’t have any eavesdropping parents around. Or a sister on the couch with nasty burns on her body.

  I jump as the phone resting on my lap vibrates. Bolting upright, I’ve never been so stoked to see her name come up on my screen.

  ‘Sufia?’

  ‘Hey, cuz.’ Wherever she is, it’s noisy. It sounds like there are twelve people in the background fighting in Arabic. But then again, it could just be two people having a civilised conversation in a language that just always sounds ragey. Either way, I can barely hear her. For a change. ‘Listen, I can only talk for a sec. The parents are going nuts because they saw these flowers Ricky P gave me and now they’re all like, “Is he going to marry you?” and I can’t even —’

  ‘Sufia,’ I cut in. ‘Did you know?’

  Silence. Well, apart from the muffled Arabic in the background that I wouldn’t be able to understand even if it was loud and clear.

  ‘I just didn’t want you to think I was dead, okay? That’s why I rang, because you’ve called me a million times.’

  Silence. From me this time.

  ‘Layla?’

  ‘Just say it.’

  She releases a heavy sigh. ‘Okay. Don’t go crazy. But yeah, I knew.’

  I hang up.

  One confession down, one to go.

  I can’t believe it, but I can. She lies to everyone else, so why not to me? It’s replaying in my mind as I’m weaving my way down the sandbank. The weekend crowd is different. Lots of families, kids, rashie vests, floatie rings.

  Imogen’s message said she’d be waiting at the start of the boardwalk, the one that takes you from Lame Beach all the way around to the grassy picnic area. I get to the gravelly footpath between the boatshed and the river, pass through some trees and arrive at the wooden walkway. She’s waiting for me, with her Jack Russell on a lead.

  ‘I told Mum I was taking the dog for a walk,’ she says, signalling to the brown-and-white pup. Why do all Jack Russells look exactly the same? ‘She needs
to know where I am every second of the day right now. So ridiculous.’

  She lets out a loud sigh and starts walking in the opposite direction. I assume I’m to follow.

  ‘I guess she’s just worried about you. I mean, after what . . . happened.’

  ‘She’s just worried about her image, actually,’ Imogen says, looking straight ahead. ‘Imagine a member of council whose family is less than perfect. What a scandal!’

  I would say it’s already scandalous. That her mum would believe something like that. And that Imogen would tell me, of all people, about it. In a way, it feels like primary school again. Imogen sharing stuff with me that she wouldn’t share with anyone else. But then I remember, she chose this out-of-the-way meeting spot so that no one will see her looking friendly with me.

  ‘Anyway, I know why you asked to meet up. And what you want to talk about.’

  She waits for me to pick up where she has left off. Now that I’m here, with an Imogen I’m not used to, I don’t know if I want to. ‘How is Shontel doing?’ I try to dodge.

  ‘Layla, just spit it out.’ She stops on the boardwalk and turns to me.

  ‘Alright. Sufia told you, you already said that. So, I’m just surprised, I guess, that you didn’t try to stop it, or, I don’t know, tell Daniel. You’ve already been protecting him for weeks, so I’m just wondering: why stop now?’

  ‘You think I’m protecting him?’ Imogen scoffs.

  ‘Yeah, I do. Everyone is.’

  She’s looking out to the river now, like there’s something she wants to say, but she’s not sure that she should. ‘Trust me, I feel bad. I could have told him, and I feel guilty about that,’ she eventually says. I know the feeling. ‘But part of me . . . part of me thinks he deserved it.’

  ‘Of course he deserved it, Imogen! Look what he’s gotten away with!’ My voice just went up a bunch of decibels and I can feel a rage rash creeping up my neck. I try to calm myself by unrolling my clenched fists that dangle heavily by my sides. ‘Can’t you tell your mum that it was him? She’s an important person around here, so for sure she’ll be able to sort it out, put things right.’

  ‘I guess you don’t know my mum as well as I do, then.’ She continues on the boardwalk. This time I don’t follow.

  CHAPTER 7

  For two days, I’ve been wondering what Imogen meant. At every breakfast, every lunch and every dinner. As every fork scratches my plate, I’m trying to scratch away at this mystery that I can’t seem to solve. Maybe Daniel was right about something and I don’t know everything about everyone’s lives. Luckily, there is someone who does, I think, spotting her submerge into the river.

  By the time I get down there, Carina is standing in the water at waist height, stirring it around with her hands. It’s gross and lukewarm, and I try to make my splashes noisy as I get closer to her. On cue, she turns side on and looks curiously at me. ‘I heard you coming from a mile away. I’ve got really good ears, you know.’

  ‘Ha, yeah, I know. I mean . . . oh, really?’

  ‘Uh-huh, and do you know what I heard today?’ She’s wide-eyed, like she’s been gagging to tell someone this piece of goss. Before glancing around, she leans in. ‘Apparently, Mr Hyman – you know Mr Hyman, maths teacher, year adviser, sort of grey on top but black beard —’

  ‘I know who Mr Hyman is, Carina,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Okay, okay. So apparently, Mr Hyman is going out with one of the mums from our school. Like, someone’s actual mum.’

  My face says ‘yuk’, while Carina’s says ‘how good is this goss?’

  ‘Ah, how do you even know this?’ I ask, not sure whether she’s even sharing legit information.

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘A teacher from our school just told you about his dating life?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, faking offence. ‘I’ve seen him around these school holidays and I, you know, make an effort to chat. He’s going to have a big say in who gets a captaincy nomination next year, so . . .’

  ‘He didn’t tell you who it was?’ I feel a bit dizzy.

  She shakes her head and keeps strong eye contact. ‘Nope, but you know what? When you think about it, there are heaps of divorced mums at our school. It could be anyone’s.’

  I feel as though I could be sick, all over this already disgusting water. And Carina knows she’s hit a vomit-inducing nerve.

  ‘Aaaaanyway, speaking of dating goss, what’s going on with you and the guy in the kiosk? He’s cute . . .’

  I splash myself with water, pretending to wash off sand. Pretending I haven’t just been told that my mum could be dating one of my teachers.

  ‘. . . in a country-boy-band kinda way. You guys look good together.’

  ‘We’re not together,’ I snap. How would she know we’re anything?

  ‘Oh, right. I just thought . . . ’cause you looked pretty cosy at the beach party and you’re like, always at the kiosk . . .’

  ‘You thought wrong, Carina. Please do everyone a favour and stop spreading more bullshit. There’s more than enough to go around.’ I stomp my legs through the water. I’m angry that I let her take control. Angry that I didn’t get what I came here for. Angry that now I need more answers than I did at the start of this stupid, annoying day.

  ‘Dad called. He said, “Tell Layla: be good”,’ Noah reports to me as soon as I walk through the door, not bothering to look up from his Switch controller.

  I don’t even know what that means anymore. Be good. Be good at maths? Be good to the environment? Be a good friend? Daughter? Human? I’m failing all of the above.

  Meanwhile, here comes someone who, unlike me, is good at taking control. Well, attempting to, anyway. ‘Layla, Noah, dinner’s ready. Let’s go.’

  ‘Mum, it’s five-thirty. Why do we always have to eat dinner at five-thirty?’

  ‘I don’t care, I’m starving.’ Noah pushes past me to get to the baked potatoes and sliced-up roast beef served on the table.

  ‘It’s not five-thirty. It’s five-forty, which is almost six,’ Mum says, tossing a tea towel on the table beside her as she takes a seat. ‘I’ve had this in the slow-cooker all day so that it would be ready just as I got home from work.’

  My mother must be the only one in the whole of Sydney right now filling the stuffy air with more heat. And the only one dating her daughter’s year adviser, I bet.

  I drop my beach bag next to the table and slump into a chair. I don’t feel like eating. I don’t feel like scratching a fork on any more plates.

  ‘Layla, are you not feeling well?’ Mum asks. I can’t stand the clashing sound of her cutlery, tapping on and off her plate. ‘Have you been swimming in that river? I told you —’

  ‘No, I told you I don’t.’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Then maybe it’s the sun. It’s very strong, the highest UV levels ever recorded.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m feeling sick.’ I’m staring down at my empty plate. ‘It’s worse than that.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mum pauses her roast-beef cutting. ‘Then you’d better say something this instant.’

  ‘I know about you and Mr Hyman.’

  Her fork crashing to the floor tells me I got at least one thing answered today.

  Tayta would be horrified if she knew that Mum had a boyfriend. Just as horrified as she is about Sufia having a secret boyfriend.

  ‘No respect, this girl,’ Tayta practically spits, wiping her sponge along the windowsill of the ‘good’ living room. I’m standing behind her, holding an ice-cream container filled with warm grey water. ‘Her brothers, they good boys. No upset their mother. Sufia, she headache. Always, always, headache.’

  My own headache is bashing around inside my head like a ping-pong match. Along with panicked thoughts of Carina telling everyone that my mum is having sex with Mr Hyman. Mum told me at dinner last night that I have no right to be angry. That she deserves to find someone and to be happy, just like my dad is while he ‘gallivants around the world’. I told he
r I’m not angry – I’m more like totally, one hundred per cent mortified at her choice in men. She spent the rest of the night in her bedroom. I spent the rest of the night continuing to be totally, one hundred per cent mortified.

  Tayta dips her sponge into the container and wrings it out, turning her attention back to the windowsill. ‘But you, habibi, you are my good girl.’

  If she knew anything about my failures and psycho tendencies lately, she might think differently. ‘What if I’m not, Tayta? What if you think I’m good, but really I’m not?’

  She looks back at me, mouth gaping. ‘You have boyfriend?’

  Ha-ha, as if. I shake my head.

  ‘Then you are good!’

  ‘But . . . I’m not perfect,’ I say. I’m really not.

  She continues scrubbing at some stubborn grime. ‘Al-naqs fi al-kmal huwa al-jamal, Layla.’

  Sometimes I really wish I could speak better Arabic. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Im-per-fec-tion, it is beauty,’ Tayta replies, dropping her sponge in the container and cupping my face with her wet hands. She kisses my forehead and then gets back to this Tuesday’s cleaning task.

  Imperfection is beauty. It feels like there’s a whole lot of imperfection around me right now, but not a whole lot of beauty.

  Seven windowsills later, I’m down at Lame Beach telling George the latest in a sixteen-year-long string of dumb luck. She’s only about seventy-five per cent mortified, but I guess that’s a pretty reasonable response when it’s not your mum making out with the guy who calls your name at roll call every morning.

  ‘Isn’t there like, some rule about it?’ asks George. ‘I mean, surely there is. Teachers can’t date their students’ mothers or something? They’re definitely not allowed to date their students, so why should the parents be fair game?’

  She’s looking pretty puzzled – and convinced that she’s onto something. Meanwhile, I’m convinced Carina Campbell is hungry for goss, despite the fact that I told her to leave it alone. She’s been to the kiosk four times in the past hour. No one needs that many snacks. If I wasn’t avoiding Jordan right now (to prevent further fuelling of Carina’s suspicions), I’d be down there finding out what she’s up to. Instead, I look away and see Sufia marching towards us.