Maddie in the Middle

by Julia Lawrinson

‘Let’s go,’ Katy says, swinging open the door. ‘Bye,’ she calls over her shoulder.

  ‘Soon we’ll have a band,’ I say, hurrying to match Katy’s pace, swinging my clarinet case back and forth.

  ‘You mean an orchestra, not a band,’ Katy says. Her flute is tucked underneath her arm, and her hand is a fist.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Katy says.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You just seem a bit – weird.’

  ‘We’d better practise more,’ Katy says. ‘Or else it’ll sound terrible.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry I was off,’ I say. ‘But I’ll practise more. I promise.’ I think of Samara, sitting at the piano, smoothing her skirt like someone in a concert. I decide that I am going to practise more, starting tonight. No matter what Wolfie thinks.

  ‘I hope you do,’ Katy says.

  ‘I will,’ I insist.

  I can’t understand why Katy is so sensitive about this. Katy always practises consistently, and I always practise in bursts. This is completely normal and expected behaviour for me.

  I put my arm around Katy’s shoulders and try to make a funny face.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘The Rule of Two, remember?’

  But Katy says nothing. Her hand stays balled up in a fist, and when we get to the classroom, she shoves her flute in her bag and stomps to her desk. Her moves are angry, but her face is sad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was about to cry.

  It doesn’t make any sense. Having the ensemble better because of Samara should make her happy, not sad.

  I am puzzled about Katy’s reaction. But there is also a tickle of excitement about Samara practising with us. It means I’ll see her without Jordi, Elsa and Grace, guaranteed.

  It means we’re closer to being friends. I’m almost sure of it.

  I hope that after our music session, Samara will message me. Or come and talk to me when she is waiting for Elsa and Grace to buy their lunches. She waves at me and Katy, but that is all.

  At this rate, we aren’t going to become friends.

  So I come up with another plan. Part Two of the Plan to Become Samara’s Friend.

  It isn’t the best plan in the world, I’ll be the first to admit. It is desperate, it is obvious, and there is a high chance I will get caught doing it. But it is the only plan I can think of.

  I am going to follow Samara home to find out where she lives.

  I’m not sure what I am going to do after that, but I figure the next part of the plan will appear once I’ve done that part. Kind of like when you write the beginning of a story, and then you get a great idea for a middle bit, and then an ending. Finding out where Samara lives is the beginning.

  I make sure I am packed up before the siren, grab my bag off its peg outside, and dash to the girls’ bathroom closest to the third year six class. I wait until I hear Samara’s class burst out in a noisy group.

  Casually I exit the bathroom, then wait and watch. Kids stream out, some shouting, some laughing, some quietly collecting their bags and marching toward the front of the school. Jordi and Elsa emerge, talking together. Finally, when I am about to give up, thinking I must have missed her, Samara comes out. I see her look this way and that, and I duck behind the corner wall. When I peek around, after a safe gap of time, I see Samara’s brother and a younger girl winding their way past the exiting older students toward Samara.

  The boy – Tom, Katy had told me after the fighting incident – rushes up to Samara, and the little girl, who is maybe eight, hugs her around her middle. I guess the little girl must be her sister. Samara straightens up their bags, and slides her own over her shoulder, and they begin walking, the little girl’s hand in Samara’s. I follow a little way behind them, pausing to pretend to do up my shoelace as they approach the front of the school. They turn left. I rush up to the gate at the front of the school and peer around. The three of them are heading in the direction of the shopping centre and the highway, along with half the school.

  I hang behind, pretending to look at my tablet as kids stream around me, wondering how long I will need before I am (a) a safe distance behind but (b) not so far that I lose them. I am so absorbed in staring at my tablet, thinking deep logistical thoughts, that when Katy comes up and taps me on the shoulder, I scream.

  ‘Hey,’ Katy laughs. ‘It’s just me.’

  ‘You scared me,’ I say, laughing, but also looking over Katy’s shoulder, checking. I can still see Samara’s glossy ponytail, moving slowly on account of her little sister and Tom, who is dribbling his soccer ball as he walks.

  ‘Want to come over?’ Katy says. ‘Or should I come to your place?’

  ‘What, you haven’t got music lessons? Or councillor duties?’ I try to sound jokey, instead of panicky that my plan will be foiled before I’ve even got out of the school gates.

  ‘Not today,’ Katy says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘So …?’ Katy says.

  ‘Well, I told Dad I’d go to the shops to get some things,’ I say, pointing in the direction of the shopping centre. I hope that Katy won’t look and see Samara. I wave my tablet. ‘I was just checking to see what he wants me to get.’

  ‘O-kay,’ Katy says slowly.

  ‘You could come,’ I say. If Katy agrees, I’ll be in trouble: I only have a few dollars in my purse. I feel bad lying to Katy, but worse thinking I will have to wait until tomorrow to follow Samara home, if Katy doesn’t leave me alone.

  Katy looks at me for a little while, and says, ‘Nah, it’s okay. I should probably go and do some more practice.’

  ‘Another time,’ I say, more eagerly.

  ‘Sure,’ Katy says. ‘Anyway, here’s Mum, to pick me up.’

  Katy’s mum pulls up to the kerb on the other side of the road. She lowers the window and puts her arm out to wave enthusiastically at me; I wave back. Katy gets in and they drive away.

  I feel a pang as the car turns and disappears around the corner. I used to go to Katy’s after school a lot, or with her to her various activities and classes, especially after my parents split up two years ago. Katy’s house is stuffed full of books: there is hardly a spare wall that doesn’t have a bookshelf. I love looking at the books, which are on every subject you could imagine. There is always classical music playing, too, and the piano that Katy is now learning stands against the wall. I always feel relaxed and happy at Katy’s, and I suddenly want to text her: Yes, I want to come over, wait!

  But my curiosity about Samara is stronger.

  I have to walk quickly now, to make up for the time I’ve lost.

  I run and run until I spot them again. The little girl is walking slowly. Tom is darting around the footpath with his soccer ball, throwing it from hand to hand, then tossing it to the ground and dribbling it with neat steps before flicking it up, catching it, and beginning the cycle again. I can hear his voice but not what he is saying, and Samara’s questioning replies.

  There are quite a few kids from school walking in this direction, so I don’t stand out too much. Most of them are heading for the shopping centre: they line up at the crossing and wait for the man with his orange flag to usher them across. In the shopping centre there is a coffee shop owned by one of the mums at school that makes the best milkshakes, which is one of the attractions. I have just enough money for a milkshake, if Samara decides to go there. It would be an easy way of chatting to her without Grace, Elsa and Jordi being around, and it would have the advantage of meaning I wouldn’t have to turn into a stalker to find a way to talk to her.

  But they don’t pause. They keep walking, approaching the main road and turning left. The traffic rumbles past, three lanes of trucks and cars and buses. Once I also round the corner, I notice that Tom has tucked his ball under his arm. At each cross street, Samara makes sure to check carefully before crossing. The little girl pauses to drink out of a water bottle.

  I hang back as far as I can, but now there is nobody between the three of them and
me. I feel exposed, and the sun beats down hard on my sweaty forehead. I also feel kind of stupid. What am I doing? They are heading a long way from my house, and it is going to take me ages to get home from here. Maybe I should just turn around, and find a more normal way of becoming friends with Samara. Like, I don’t know, talking to her after rehearsal or something.

  But I’ve gone too far for that, I decide. There is nothing for it but to keep walking.

  Samara, Tom and the girl are heading in the direction of the freeway that cuts through the suburb, a wide freeway with a train line down the middle of it. I hope they aren’t going to cross the overpass: they would have to stop for the walk signal across the busy roads, and it will be more and more likely that Samara will turn around. Even more, I hope they aren’t going to catch a train somewhere: I have my travel pass, but they will definitely see me on the train platform.

  As they approach the freeway, the traffic becomes thicker, and there are lines of waiting vehicles. Windscreens glint in the sun and the smell of exhaust is starting to make me feel sick. I hear the screech of train brakes ahead as a train pulls into the station. But before we reach the overpass, Samara guides Tom and the girl into a side street.

  The street has a lot of units crammed together, new units stacked one on top of the other, the brick walls at the front of each group of units painted a different colour. Now the sound of traffic dims, and the air is clearer. Samara, Tom and the girl come to a group of units with a blue wall and turn. Then they disappear.

  One minute they are there. The next, gone. I can’t even tell which entrance they’ve gone in.

  I’m not sure what to do, now. Should I keep walking past the blue wall? Should I turn back? Now that I know where Samara lives, what am I supposed to do? What did I expect? The next part of the story does not appear in my imagination. There is just a big, blank nothing.

  I keep wandering slowly. The balconies of some units have small racks on them, draped with clothing. Others have herb boxes, or tall plants in pots, or small tables and chairs. Music is coming from one of the units, a kind of music I don’t recognise, with a woman’s voice crying-singing. I can smell something delicious cooking, and my stomach rumbles.

  It occurs to me that I am a really long way from home, now. The thought of walking all that way back tires me. Dad won’t be home for another hour at least, so I can’t get him to pick me up. Even if I could, how would I explain what I was doing there, in a strange street at the edge of the next suburb? Dad would be angry if he knew I had walked so far by myself. He doesn’t mind me going places with Katy, but I am not allowed to go out alone, except to school and back, or the shopping centre. But if I get home in time, he will never find out. I’m just not sure if I am going to get home in time.

  I decide I will keep walking, past the units Samara has gone into, turn further down, and hopefully end up back at the main road.

  I saunter past the blue wall. Once I am safely at the next lot of units, I glance casually over my shoulder.

  And stop.

  There is no sign of Tom and the little girl. But Samara is standing there, right behind me, her arms crossed. Looking straight at me.

  ‘Maddie,’ she says. ‘What do you want?’

  I look back at Samara.

  I can hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears like the hoofs of a hundred horses. My face must look like a tomato left in a plastic bag in the sun.

  Three lies come to me while I stand there:

  Lie one: My great-aunt lives down the road, so I ended up following you.

  Lie two: I was on my way to the shops and I got distracted. I wasn’t following you, it was an accident.

  Lie three: I have a new clarinet teacher, she lives around the corner.

  As quick as I think of the lies, though, I think what Samara’s responses will be:

  Where does your great-aunt live, then?

  How could anyone distractedly walk for half an hour?

  Where’s your clarinet?

  There is no answer to any of those.

  Plus, there is something about Samara that makes me hope that if I tell the truth, she will understand.

  So instead of a lie, I say, ‘I followed you.’

  I wait. Samara waits. I had always read in books about people wanting to be swallowed by the earth. Until that exact moment, I hadn’t understood why someone would want to be swallowed by the earth.

  I do now.

  But.

  Samara doesn’t ask the obvious question, ‘Why?’

  Or add the obvious comment, ‘How weird. Why would you do that?’

  Samara gazes steadily at me, her arms still folded. I try to work out what she is feeling from her expression, but I can’t. Samara doesn’t appear surprised, or angry, or upset, the way most people would. She appears absolutely, perfectly neutral.

  So I add, ‘I just wanted to see where you live. I don’t know why, I just thought – I thought –’

  Still the perfectly neutral expression.

  ‘I think we should be friends. You should be my friend.’

  There. I have said it. The truth. The whole embarrassing truth.

  Samara holds my gaze, barely blinking. The only sign of expression is a slight narrowing of her eyes, forming a wrinkle between her eyebrows so small I’m not sure if I am really seeing it.

  Samara doesn’t smile. She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t move.

  My stomach knots. Why had I thought Samara would want to be my friend? She has Jordi and Elsa and Grace. She has a brother and sister who obviously love her. She can play the piano almost as well as a music teacher and she walks into a school she doesn’t know and behaves as if she’s always been there. She doesn’t need someone like me. I want to be Samara’s friend, but of course Samara won’t want to be mine.

  Then Samara tilts her head to one side, just a little. And the expression on her face softens. It isn’t quite a smile, but the wrinkle disappears.

  ‘Well, Maddie,’ she says. ‘You should come in. It’s hot out here.’

  She gestures for me to go in front of her on the path leading into the units. I am so surprised that for a moment I don’t move.

  ‘Go on,’ she says.

  I obey her, and Samara follows. In a soft voice, she tells me which way to go, up which stairs, down which corridor, until we are finally there, opening the door to Samara’s place.

  The first thing I notice is how small Samara’s unit is.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a palace. Compared to Katy’s huge house, mine is pretty small, just big enough for me, Dad and Wolfie.

  But Samara’s place is basically one large room, with a narrow corridor coming off it. The room is a dining area and lounge room combined, filled with more boxes than furniture. There is a small kitchen to one side, and the sink is piled with dishes, the benches crowded with pots, pans and plates. The bedrooms – I guess they are bedrooms, because the doors are closed – come off the narrow corridor. The clearest space is a section near the window, where there is a keyboard with music spread on its stand.

  The second thing I notice is Tom and the girl. They are kneeling on chairs at a table crammed between a sofa and some packing boxes. They have plastic tumblers in front of them, and are picking at a bowl of Tiny Teddies. Until they see me. They pause, their fingers in the bowl, and stare.

  ‘Hey,’ I say awkwardly, stepping inside from the doorway.

  ‘Hey,’ says Tom. The little girl waves, then goes back to her biscuits.

  ‘That’s Dayna,’ Samara says, closing the door behind us. ‘And you met Tom already.’

  ‘Mum,’ Samara calls in the direction of the corridor. ‘A girl from school’s here.’

  There is no response. Samara waits for a minute, then calls again, ‘Mum!’

  After a while a tall woman dressed in a T-shirt dress emerges from a room, tying her hair in a loose ponytail as she walks. She has the same calm face as Samara, but her eyes seem distant.

  ‘Hi,’ she sa
ys. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Mum, this is Maddie,’ Samara says.

  ‘Short for Madeleine?’ Samara’s mum asks. She sings a few lines of the song from the cartoon: her voice is beautiful, and hearing it makes me feel calm, almost sleepy. When she finishes, she smiles at me. I smile back.

  ‘Mum,’ Samara says but she, too, gives a small smile.

  ‘I’m Nikki,’ Samara’s mum says. ‘Sorry about the chaos.’ She waves her hand around the room. ‘Too much stuff, nowhere to put it.’

  ‘Our old house was much bigger,’ Samara says.

  ‘It was.’ Nikki gazes at the keyboard. She stands still for so long I wonder if she’s forgotten where she is.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Samara says, but Nikki blinks and says, ‘No, no, I’ll get them. Sit down you two, it’s hot out there.’

  I perch on a chair at the table. I notice that Samara keeps watching her mum as she goes into the kitchen, until she returns with two glasses, ice blocks clinking.

  ‘Do you mind if I just go and lie down for a little while?’ Nikki says to Maddie. ‘I have a bit of a headache.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mum,’ Samara says. ‘We’re fine. I’ll bring you some tablets soon.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ She kisses the top of Samara’s head. She drifts down the corridor then slips into one of the rooms, closing the door behind her.

  I take a Tiny Teddy and crunch it.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘I used to love these when I was little.’

  Tom frowns. ‘I love them now.’ He throws a small handful in his mouth and crunches them with his mouth open.

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Samara says.

  Tom pulls a face at Samara, but closes his mouth.

  ‘I didn’t mean that you were a baby – I just meant that I haven’t had them for a while,’ I say.

  Tom looks at me suspiciously, but resumes chewing with a closed mouth. This is the first time I’ve seen Tom up close. I try not to stare at the scar across his face. It starts above one eye, cuts deep into the cheek below. The eye beneath the scar is half closed, and I wonder if he can see out of it.

  ‘You’re friends with that Katy girl,’ Tom says.