by Emily Gale
Next thing the hankie is over my face and my head’s against the wall and I’m struggling to get free.
Then there’s a deep male voice. ‘Wren? What’s going on?’
The handkerchief comes off my face. Gabe. Ajay. Good people. I suck in air as the wave recedes. Gabe and Ajay are taller and broader than all of them. Ben’s gang look like little boys in their grey shorts and striped ties. My breath comes in gasps. I fight to hold it together.
‘What the hell are you lot doing?’ says Gabe.
The blue blazers shuffle into the road, but Ben is still next to me with his arm around my back, gripping my shoulder. ‘See you soon, Milo.’
‘Take your hands off him, dude,’ says Ajay, coming closer.
I feel Ben’s hand on one side of my face and then his tongue slides up my cheek. I shriek and lash out, smashing my elbow into the wall. Gabe and Ajay stride forward, but Ben’s already down at the corner with the rest of the pack, and the blue blazers are laughing at me, and – God – I cannot get the feel of his disgusting tongue off my face. I’m crying. Please, no. I’m fucking crying. Gabe and Ajay can see me, but I can’t stop.
Wren’s there. She slips her hand into mine and squeezes, and waits. I try to count myself down.
‘You’re all right, mate.’ Gabe walks over, his hands in his pockets.
I don’t want him to look at me. Gabe is pretty much the coolest human I’ve ever met. He’s the Jackmans’ family friend, but I guess he’s Summer’s friend the most – he plays lead guitar in her band, and Ajay is the drummer. Ajay is probably the second coolest human I’ve ever met. I think if I could choose, I’d be Gabe instead of me. Maybe not forever but definitely for a holiday.
My nose dribbles again and I wipe it on my sleeve. That bastard took Pop’s handkerchief.
‘We’ll be okay,’ says Wren.
‘Don’t mind those pricks, Milo,’ says Ajay. ‘They’re nothing.’
Wren lets go of my hand and links her arm through mine as we walk away from the high street, into the quiet. ‘I’m really sorry, Milo. It’s my fault. We should’ve walked a different way.’
There’s no way it’s Wren’s fault, but I’m buried too deep inside myself to put those words together and let them out.
After a few minutes, we come to a corner where there’s an old armchair. It looks like a seventies style, brown leather with yellow cushions.
‘Let’s sit,’ she says.
‘Here?’
‘Yeah, catch our breath.’ Wren pulls me next to her in the chair. It’s a tight fit. She shuffles to give me more room and puts her head back. ‘Look at the clouds.’
I breathe through my nose and out through my mouth and look at clouds with Wren. I can still feel my heart beating, but neatly in my chest again.
‘I hate him for the way he treats you.’
‘I know you do.’
‘It’s not much use to you, though.’
But it is.
When we get back to our street, Julie is polishing the brass bits on her front door. She’s scrubbing them hard, like she’s on a gameshow with a live audience judging her.
Quietly, I say to Milo, ‘Do you think, when we’re forty and it’s a baking-hot day, we’ll a) clean our front doors; orb) lie around in an air-conditioned room, watching movies and drinking frozen lemonade?’
‘That stuff gives me brain freeze.’
‘Mm,’ I reply, thinking that it’s his mum who gives me brain freeze. ‘Are you going to tell her about Ben?’
‘Can’t. You know why.’
‘So what if his dad is your dad’s boss? Wouldn’t he want to know if his son was an arsehole?’
Milo looks down. I don’t push it.
Summer’s heading off somewhere with Bee as I get in the door, and Mum and Dad are out, so I head straight up to my room. The sketchpad is where I left it, tucked between my bed and bedside table. I open it and flick to the right page.
It’s blank.
I go back a bit, forward again. She’s not here. I try again, flipping rapidly so that images of my brother flash in sequence like an old movie. This doesn’t make sense – where is she? My head’s swimming as I sit on the bed and begin again at page one. Logically, it makes no sense to start there, as I’ve had this pad for weeks and use the pages in strict order, but I’m almost wondering if I ever did the drawing. In one portrait of Floyd, he seems to be asking me what the hell I’m doing, with his head angled to the side and his eyes raised in amusement. Shut up, you, I think, as I turn and turn the pages, feeling hot behind my eyes.
Nothing. I get up and stalk around my bedroom, trying to remember every second between finishing the portrait and leaving the house this morning. I’d drawn and drawn right up to the edge of sleep, closed the book and tucked it next to me. I’d fallen asleep and hadn’t even looked at it in the morning.
My first thought is: Well, that’s creepy.
My second thought is: Bloody Mum.
The sound of my parents’ voices downstairs somehow confirms it. I brace myself to confront Mum about snooping again. What’s she done with my drawing? Taken it to Wonderful Jenny for analysis? I jump the stairs two at a time and end up on one side of the kitchen bench as Mum reaches the other. Dad’s behind her and they’re struggling with multiple shopping bags.
‘Mum? Do you have something to confess?’
‘Probably,’ she huffs, lugging eight bags onto the counter. ‘I’m a terrible person.’ She starts to unpack the shopping.
‘To me, specifically. About taking a certain something from my room.’
She doesn’t look guilty at first, so I get a chill wondering if I’m wrong and the explanation is still out there. Then I see it dawn on her face.
‘Ah. Well, “taking” is a bit of a strong word. Being incredibly proud of my daughter is more like it.’ She sweeps her arm and I look in that direction.
Oh my stars, there it is, on the wall behind the table where the four of us eat dinner every night. Mounted and framed. Casually hanging out with some pictures that we’ve had since forever. ‘Mum! You didn’t!’
‘Damn,’ she says, directed at Dad. ‘I knew I’d done the wrong thing.’
He shrugs and scrunches up a grey plastic bag. ‘It’s a great picture, Wren.’
‘You stay out of this, Dad.’ This isn’t his territory. ‘Mum, I can’t believe you. You knew it was wrong to snoop!’
‘Well … I only half-knew. I half-hoped you’d love the gesture. It’s brilliant, Wren. Your best piece yet. I just wanted you to feel confident about it. I know what you said about me being an artist too, but you’re so talented in your own right. You’re better than I was at your age. Really, darling.’
Resist! Resist! I’m so angry I can hardly speak. Dad sheepishly carries on putting the shopping away. Mum waves a packet of Kingstons at me. The front door slams and we jump.
‘Summer, don’t slam the door!’ shouts Dad.
We stare at the entrance to the hall for a moment, but there are no footsteps and Summer and Bee don’t appear.
Dad walks out to look and quickly returns. ‘Must’ve been the wind.’
‘Can we get back to my thing?’ I say. ‘Mum, you entered my room, removed my private property, framed it and hung it on the bloody wall as if you own my art by virtue of being my mother!’
‘I was worried about you.’ She reaches out to touch my face, but I lean back. ‘You must have drawn him every day. I know how hard it is, Wren.’
‘Don’t do that! You shouldn’t have looked.’
‘Okay, okay.’ There are tears in her eyes. ‘But then I got to your latest portrait and I thought it was brilliant. Truly brilliant. I mean, look.’ She walks over to it. ‘Everything that’s going on in her face. She’s stunning, unusual, but there’s torment there too. It’s … well, it’s incredible.’
‘You can’t get around me with compliments. Stop shoving your nose in everything I do.’ I cross the room and put my hands around the frame, pulling i
t off the wall so hard that the picture hook and a bit of the wall come off too. A chair topples over in my rush to escape and I don’t stop to pick it up because while we’ve been shouting I’ve become sure of one thing: it is her. Adie.
Upstairs I sit on my bed, stewing over Mum and her meddling, but whenever I look at my picture the anger dissipates a little more. There’s a serious kind of truth in Adie’s eyes that’s making me want to forget about anything else that’s bothering me.
I’m calm again. I think about Mum saying the same word I used earlier today. Incredible.
It is incredible. Come on. I drew a girl.
And she appeared.
I badly need to zone out, so I head straight for my desk and open my laptop to enter Minecraft. It’s like cocooning, part of my daily life cycle. I play on a safe server that’s monitored for bullying.
I wish the high street was a safe server.
I wish school was a safe server.
A request for a build arrives – good, something to focus on. People pay me to start new worlds for them or build specific items. It’s not a lot of money, but it feels like more when it’s for doing something you love. User Planet_JakeLOL wants a castle, so I get started. I don’t know why Planet_JakeLOL doesn’t build his own castle, but that’s not my problem. Planet_JakeLOL obviously has money to burn. Maybe he could also pay me to think of a better username for him.
Planet_JakeLOL. Seriously.
A plate of cut-up fruit appears at my right arm.
‘How was school?’ says Mum.
‘I need a new handkerchief.’
I know Mum only asked a simple question and I also know that’s not the kind of answer she wanted. But I’m safe in my silk cocoon now and ‘How was school?’ drops me in boiling water and tries to unravel my thread.
That’s actually how you get silk from silkworms, by the way.
Mum squeezes my shoulder and leaves the room. I get back to the castle.
A while later I’m aware of the drawers behind me sliding open and closed. The empty plate goes, a new white handkerchief appears in its place with a strong smell of sandalwood. After that I hear poppers and I spin on my chair to find Mum removing the doona cover and pillowcases and throwing them into the wicker laundry basket. I can’t zone out with all of that happening behind me, so I put on my headphones.
I’m into all kinds of music, but when I’m like this the best sound is heavy rainfall, filling my brain, pushing out all the other thoughts. Drumbeats, millions of them. I like to listen out for individual ones – some stand out more than others. People are the same. Some become important to you and others are just part of the downpour. More rarely, one raindrop will ring in my ears long after it’s melted into the ground. Wren is that raindrop.
If I said that to her, she’d laugh. Not at me, I don’t think. At herself.
The castle is coming along nicely when Dan appears and asks me how the slow-walking went this morning.
M: I tried to count the steps slower.
D: What for?
M: Because I couldn’t remember how fast I usually walk. But I know I never count ‘one-two’ before I step, so I tried that. One-two-step, one-two-step.
D: And?
M: And nothing. Wren said we needed to hurry up or we’d be late. Hit me with the rest of the tips – I’m going to need the marketing campaign of the century.
D: No problemo. Number two is to talk yourself up. Work your skills, talents, etc. into the conversation.
M: Wren hates Minecraft. What other skills do I have?
D: Um, you type fast? I’ll give it some more thought. Next tip is to speak twice as loud as you normally do. Test it out now.
M: Negative.
D: Dude, you ruined walking slowly because we didn’t practise. Just try it! Say ‘Hey, babe, let’s grab a drink’.
I laugh into my fist but decide to do as he says. ‘Let’s grab a drink,’ I say, above the sound of heavy rainfall.
M: I did it. It felt weird.
D: It’s meant to. Think about it – you’ve spent the first sixteen years of your life NOT being successful with women. So anything different is bound to feel strange.
M: I guess. Hey, my mum just put a glass of iced water next to me.
D: So it’s working already! Hot.
M: Dude, I said my mum.
D: My bad. Okay, next tip is to give Wren 100% of your attention.
M: So, basically, stalking?
D: Yeah, doesn’t sound sustainable or healthy. Go with 75% max. Next one is to tease her. Playful banter, all that kind of crap.
M: We already do that.
D: Do it more! Next one is take her out for spicy food.
M: WHAT?
D: Spices increase blood flow. Says it’ll make her feel dangerous, which will make her want you. It’s science.
M: Do I eat it too? I have sensitive guts.
D: Then no. Girls hate farting. Here’s the final tip: you have to make fun of yourself but in a specific way – something that also involves being a hero. So, say you go parachuting but your parachute doesn’t open.
M: I’d be dead.
D: Fine, your parachute doesn’t open AT FIRST, but just as you’re becoming level with trees, it pops out.
M: I hate heights.
D: It’s an example! Work with me here. You’ve got to be the hero who can laugh at himself.
M: I’ll try anything. What about you – anyone you’re gonna try this stuff on?
D: I only ever talk to people online. I guess I could send someone a chicken madras.
M: I can’t tell if you’re joking.
D: Yeah, neither can I.
It’s been seven hours since I walked across the classroom at everyone else’s eye level and fell on top of Milo Witkin.
The good thing is that I don’t have to worry about how this affects my social standing because I don’t have one. I’m curled up in the foetal position when it comes to social standing.
The bad thing is I may have injured Milo Witkin, the last person I’d ever want to injure.
We’re in the tiny yard with walls ten feet high that we get to from our flat down some old wooden steps. It’s another planet down here – a planet where too much movement could have your eye out, because Jean has grown cacti and succulents on every inch of brick. Reaching out from the walls come spiky fingers and green tongues and needle-fine spikes. It’s a work of art.
‘Pass me the whacker, Juliet,’ says Jean. She reaches behind her and I choose an angry-looking metal object from the tray of sterile cactus tools and put it in her palm.
I smile to myself, thinking that ‘pass me the whacker’ would sound suspicious if you were next door and didn’t know what a whacker was. Some people would have a field day with that. Oh, the interracial lesbian family! It must be something perverted! Luckily, our neighbours aren’t Carole, and this yard is always full of laughter. It’s our happy place.
‘Pruner, lovey.’ Jean passes the whacker back and I replace it with another instrument of torture.
Jean raises the plants here and sells them in what can best be described as the smallest shop in Melbourne. There are people with bigger wardrobes. She’s kept it going for thirty years – even while she first fostered me as a monster toddler, when she was single. So many shops have come and gone around her.
‘Here.’ She passes back the pruner.
Jean’s grafting. First, she slices one cactus, removes the head from another and joins the two precisely, securing them with elastic bands. Gradually, the wounds that join them will heal and they’ll grow up together. Jean knows which species grow well together and which don’t have a hope in hell.
After the social workers turned up on the doorstep with me, fifteen years ago, Jean was in turmoil. Should she take me in? She was told they were bringing a child with West Indies heritage, like hers. I’d been in six foster homes by then, but I don’t remember any of that. After some digging, Jean found out that my birth father was listed as Af
rican-Australian on my birth certificate, but that he had since died and might not be my father after all. My birth mother had already disappeared. They’re like fairytale figures to me. Jean is real.
She straightens up and rubs the small of her back. Then she sits next to me and sips her ice-cold water while I drink my ginger tea.
‘Pain gone yet?’
‘Mmhmm,’ I say into my tea.
I can feel that I’m about to tell her the truth about why I left English class in a wild panic. It’s inevitable with Jean. Sometimes she knows what I’m feeling before I start feeling it.
‘Mum … Adie Ryan came back.’
Jean sprays water everywhere. ‘Oh. My goodness.’ She wipes her mouth, looking even more anxious than I predicted. ‘So she’s back in Australia.’
‘That’s the real reason I wanted to leave school early. But then I really did get a headache.’
Jean stares ahead, lost in thought, and then turns to me. ‘So what happened? What was she like?’
‘I knew it was her straight away. But we locked eyes and there was nothing, not even a flicker.’
Jean can’t hide her worry. The ice tinkles in her glass – her hand is shaking. I shouldn’t have told her.
‘I’m okay, Mum.’ I reach out to touch her arm. ‘I’ll just ignore her.’
‘And Adie really didn’t recognise you?’ Jean’s the only one who could understand what that would mean to me, when high school is already a lonely place.
‘I guess our friendship didn’t mean that much to her.’
‘She’s a fool, then.’ Jean squeezes my shoulder and stands up. ‘I have to do a few things upstairs.’
I know Jean. She’ll be off to phone Tracey. Jean feels every bad thing that happens to me at school deeply.
Jean went to a strict school in England in the 1970s. She was the only girl with brown skin in her class and her time there was brutal. I know she hasn’t told me half the stories. So where school and me meet is her soft spot; her heart goes pulpy just like that.
Tracey’s our leveller.
We’re a triangle, and triangles are the strongest shape.
