Miss Understood

by James Roy

  There was no time to waste, I decided, so I put the knives and forks and spoons back into my bag and headed next door. Then, after making sure that I was completely alone in the house (I had to wait for a really annoying family to herd up all their kids and leave, which took ages), I took out the cutlery set and slid it under the bed in the back bedroom before scurrying home, my heart going like crazy all over again.

  Sometimes it helps to talk to someone when you feel all mixed up inside. That was why I called Jenni. She’d make me feel better.

  But it turned out that Jenni couldn’t talk. She tried for a bit, but I could tell that she wasn’t really paying attention to what I was saying, and then I heard a familiar voice in the background. I couldn’t quite make out what that familiar voice was saying, but I still recognised the tone.

  ‘Is that Amanda Jenkins?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’ said Jenni.

  ‘The person I can hear. Is it Amanda Jenkins? Is she there?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a bit”? That doesn’t make any sense,’ I said, because it really didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, it is Amanda,’ Jenni admitted. ‘Do you want to talk to her?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  But then, before I could say anything else, Amanda was on the other end. ‘Hey, babe!’ she said in this really sweet, sticky kind of voice. ‘How are you? Oh my gosh, it’s been such a long time!’

  ‘Yeah, it has,’ I said. ‘Um . . . can you put Jenni back on?’

  ‘Sure, babe!’

  I heard a bit of a rustle and crackle through the phone, then I heard Jenni laughing, and finally she was back on the phone.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘So, why did you ring me?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  There was a long pause then, before Jenni finally went, ‘Yeah, later, babe.’

  And she hung up before me.

  But this time I didn’t cry.

  Around about half past four, Dad went out. I hadn’t seen him all day, but then he came downstairs wearing his good jeans and nice shoes and leather jacket. He didn’t look all that sick, to be honest.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’ve got to review this Hainan chicken rice place.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mum sighed. ‘Oh, I haven’t had Hainan chicken rice since we were last in Singapore. Marty, make sure you order more than you need, so you can bring me some in a doggie bag.’

  ‘Done,’ he said. ‘And I wish I didn’t have to do it tonight, but they close on Sundays and Mondays, and I have to get this one in by Tuesday.’

  ‘I could babysit,’ I offered. ‘Then you could both go.’

  ‘It’s fine, Lizzie,’ Mum said. ‘A doggie bag will be fine.’

  ‘Are you feeing better?’ I asked Dad.

  He looked a bit confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been in bed all day,’ I replied. ‘Mum said you were sick.’

  ‘That’s true. I wasn’t feeling quite myself.’

  ‘But you’re okay now?’

  ‘I’m okay now.’

  I didn’t really mind that Dad was going out because later on, while Mum was giving Richie a bath, I was able to slip next door again. (Believe me, it’s so much easier to slip in and out of the house without being noticed if there’s only one parent trying to notice stuff like that.)

  It was getting dark, and the crack of light was around the window again, but the second I tapped on the glass with my fingernail, the light disappeared. Then there was no response for ages, and I wasn’t quite sure what I should do, but finally I heard the window slide open a bit. Even though I expected it, it still made me jump, and my heart started doing the racing thing again.

  ‘Who is it?’ the man asked.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘That doesn’t help.’

  ‘Me, from the other night. Did you find the things I got you?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I left them under the bed.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. I saw a kind of dim light come on inside the room, and then it disappeared, and a couple of seconds later the man was back at the window.

  ‘A set of knives and forks? Did you put those in here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And there’s spoons, too.’

  ‘Um . . . why?’

  ‘Because you said you needed them.’

  ‘When did I say that?’

  ‘The other night. You told me you needed a knife, but I thought since I could get the others as well ...’

  He didn’t say anything for a bit. ‘Why would you think I needed a knife?’

  ‘You told me! You said that your knife was broken and that you needed to fix it, but you didn’t know how. Actually, I think what you said was “I need to get my knife fixed”.’

  He didn’t say anything for a while, until I started to wonder if he was even still there. But then I heard a funny, wheezy kind of sound, and I realised that he was laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘My life!’ he said. ‘I told you I needed to get my life fixed.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ I said. ‘Oh, your life!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It must matter,’ I said. ‘I mean, you told me that it needed to be fixed.’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s my fault that it’s the way it is, and it’s my job to sort it out.’

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Well, I’m not sick, anyway. Look, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about –’

  ‘How are you going to fix your life?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you, that’s not really any of your –’

  ‘The thing is, maybe I can help. Or my parents. Even though they live – we live – a long way from here,’ I added.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No parents.’

  ‘Are you even meant to be staying in that house?’

  ‘Look, it’d be great if you could just . . . Thanks for the knives and forks.’

  ‘And spoons,’ I added, because it seemed that he’d forgotten the spoons again.

  ‘And spoons. But really, you shouldn’t spend any more money on me.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t,’ I said, because I really hadn’t. ‘They gave them to me, sort of.’

  ‘Who gave them to you?’

  ‘The people at the Helping Hands store,’ I said.

  His voice changed then, and sounded more serious, really suddenly. ‘I hope you didn’t tell them who they were for. Seriously, no one can know I’m here.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t tell them!’ I said. Then I laughed, as if this was the silliest thing he could have possibly said. ‘No, you’re my secret.’

  ‘Is that right? Your secret? Well, I think we should keep it that way for now. I just need somewhere to live at the moment, and if they find out I’m here they’ll throw me out.’

  ‘Who? The HomeFest people?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. So don’t feel like you need to bring me any more . . . things. In fact, please don’t. Just stay away.’

  ‘What?’ I said. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

  ‘Stay away from me. Go on, get lost. And don’t tell anyone about me.’

  And he slid the window shut.

  CHAPTER 25

  Have you ever done something for someone because you thought it was the right thing to do, and then they didn’t even appreciate it? You know that feeling? Well, that’s how I felt. I’d almost-but-not-really stolen something and then I’d given that thing to the man in the house, and it turned out that not only did he not need the thing I got him, he even seemed kind of cross that I’d bothered. That was why I was crying a bit when I went up to my room.

  Then, because I didn’t want to do anything except curl up and go to sleep and not think about things any more, I got int
o bed without even brushing my teeth.

  Mum saw that I’d gone to bed early, and she came to my bedroom door to check on me. I thought about telling her that I had a headache, but in the end I just said that I felt like I needed an early night, because I did.

  But I couldn’t sleep. My chest was so tight, like someone had put belts around me and tightened them and tightened them and tightened them until I couldn’t even breathe properly. And I kept crying, too, and after a while I’d forget why I was crying, and I’d start to calm down, but then I’d think about Jenni or Dad or the man next door, and I’d start all over again.

  I was still awake and chest-tight and crying when Dad came home. Mum must have told him that I’d gone to bed early, because he opened my door really quietly.

  ‘Betty?’ he whispered.

  I didn’t want him to know that I was awake, because then he’d talk to me and discover that I’d been crying, because I reckon it’s impossible to talk after you’ve been crying without people being able to hear that in your voice. But then, even though I didn’t really know why, I gave a sniff. Just a little one.

  ‘Betty? What’s going on?’ Dad asked, and he came in and sat on the edge of my bed, and stroked my arm, because he knows that I like that. ‘Are you sad?’

  I nodded. (Sniff.)

  ‘Tell me what’s happened. Is it a boy?’ Then he whispered, ‘Do you want me to hurt him? Because I will.’

  ‘What? No! No, it’s nothing,’ I said. (Sniff-sniff.)

  ‘It can’t be nothing. Something’s made you cry.’

  ‘Sometimes people cry about nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why not? You do.’ Then, because I hadn’t meant to say that out loud to my dad, I felt stupid, and wanted to stuff the words back into my mouth and down my throat and back to wherever it is that words come from.

  But you can’t do that. You can’t stuff words back down, and in the dim light, Dad’s face looked like I’d just slapped him right across it.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked me.

  ‘Nothing, Dad. And nothing’s wrong. I’m just feeling a bit sad, that’s all.’

  ‘About the school thing?’ he suggested.

  It wasn’t really about school at all, but I didn’t want to say that. But I’m not a liar either, so I said, ‘I do miss school, you know.’ Which wasn’t a lie at all.

  That was when Dad squeezed my arm and said, ‘Well, we’re trying to do something about that, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Because we were.

  ‘How was your second day at the charity shop?’

  ‘Good,’ I said, even though I got a tiny pang of something that didn’t feel very nice when I thought about taking the cutlery set. ‘How was the restaurant?’

  ‘Three stars, Betty.’

  ‘Did you remember Mum’s special Singapore rice?’

  ‘The chicken rice? Yes, I did.’

  ‘She’ll be happy,’ I said.

  ‘She will. Well, it’s late, Betty, so you should try to get some sleep.’

  But I couldn’t sleep. Even though I felt a bit better after talking to Dad, I felt wide awake, so I got out of bed and did some homework. I know I said before that I didn’t usually have homework, since all of my schoolwork was done at home, but that night I did do a bit.

  The thing is, when you have a sudden and really quite brilliant idea that you can’t push out of your head, I think you should do something about it, even if that means that you get so into it that your mum has to come in and tell you to go to bed.

  ‘It’s really late, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Something to do with school,’ I said, covering my writing with one hand. ‘But I’m not ready to show you yet.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she replied. ‘But have you forgotten that it’s Saturday night? In fact, it’s almost Sunday morning.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but it was a great idea.’

  She leaned down and kissed me on the top of the head. ‘Well, it’s late. Don’t be up too much longer, all right?’

  But after I’d climbed into bed and switched off my light, I thought some more about what I’d written, and changed my mind. That was why I crawled out of bed, grabbed the piece of paper I’d started writing my letter on, screwed it up and threw it in the direction of my bin.

  ‘That was a dumb idea,’ I said as I climbed back under the covers and closed my eyes. Because it was.

  *

  Remember how I talked about how you can be half-asleep and think something is an awesome idea, but when you wake up it’s a dumb one? Well, I reckon that sometimes the opposite can happen. I went to sleep thinking that the idea I’d had was so stupid, but the next morning, when I woke up and saw Muppet under my desk chewing on the crumpled piece of paper I’d written the idea on, it all started to come back, and I began to feel as though it might work. So I rescued it from Muppet (it was a bit soggy, but I could still read it okay) and put it inside my HSIE exercise book.

  I was going to watch some cartoons while I ate my cereal, but then I heard Mum in the dining room and went to be with her instead.

  She was sitting at the table with a steaming bowl of yellow rice beside her laptop. (It smelt amazing, by the way.) She didn’t even notice me come in, because she was too busy talking to the screen. ‘Oh, you can’t be serious!’ she said. (Of course, the computer didn’t say anything back to her, because computers can’t really talk.) ‘But we’re already doing that!’ she said next. Then, ‘Oh, come on!’

  I peeked over her shoulder to see if she was chatting or Skyping with someone, but she wasn’t – she was really just having an argument with a screenful of writing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  She just shook her head. ‘All this government stuff we have to tick off to homeschool you, Lizzie – it’s a nightmare!’

  That seemed a bit dramatic, I thought. Unless she was about to discover five-headed snakes or angry dragons or something about drowning on that webpage, it couldn’t be anything like any of the nightmares I’d had!

  ‘So I guess it’s lucky that you’re going to send me back to Sacred Wimple,’ I said. ‘You won’t have to worry about that stuff.’

  ‘That won’t be the only thing we don’t have to worry about if you go back to that school,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean? You said something like that the other day, too.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, and the way she leaned in and looked more closely at the screen told me that she didn’t want to talk any more about what that nothing was. ‘Besides, it’s not even definite that you’ll be able to go back there.’

  That was when Dad came in. He was wearing a grotty T-shirt, stained shorts and old sneakers.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘The lawn needs mowing again,’ he said. ‘That fertiliser works too well.’

  But the mower wouldn’t start. I could hear the engine going splutter splutter splutter out in the front yard, but there was no vroom. He kept trying, but no vroom. Mum sat there with a frustrated expression on her face, listening to the splutter-spluttering but not the vrooming, and looking like she was about to start shouting or screaming or something.

  ‘It’s not starting, Mum,’ I said.

  She shook her head slowly. ‘No, it’s really not,’ she said.

  ‘Should we see if he needs any help?’

  Mum laughed. ‘He’ll be right.’

  ‘Can I go and ask?’

  ‘Sure, if you like,’ she said. ‘It means I don’t have to go out there.’

  I got to the front door just in time to see Dad kick the mower. He actually kicked it, as if he was trying to get it into the next street. I think he must have stubbed his toe, too, because he hopped around for a while and said a couple of words I’d heard before, but never quite understood.

  I stopped just inside the screen door. I had been planning to go out there and tease him a bit, mayb
e ask if he wanted me to pull the starting rope if he couldn’t yank it hard enough to make the mower start. But when I saw him using interesting words and kicking the mower and hopping around with an ouch face, I decided I’d wait right there.

  Besides, there was another reason to stay where I was – Miss Huntley. She was in front of her garden bed with all the roses, digging with her little spade, and when Dad started jumping around like Richie having one of his tantrums, she looked up, jammed the spade into the dirt, and walked towards Dad. Then she just stood there, on the edge of the driveway, waiting for him to notice her.

  He did notice her in the end, and turned so his back was to me. She said something that I couldn’t hear, and I guess he must have answered her, because she was nodding. But then she did something that seemed to make him really angry all over again. She reached out and touched his arm, and spoke quietly to him. It must have been pretty mean, because he shook her hand away and said something that sounded like ‘Mind your own business’, before turning around and stomping up the driveway towards the house.

  I was trapped. I couldn’t head off down the hallway, because he was about to come in through the front door, and he’d see me leaving and know I’d been watching. But if I just stood there he’d still know that I’d been watching. The only thing I couldn’t do was disappear.

  He flung the screen door open. I guess he knew I was there, because he stepped around me. Plus he would have heard me when I said, ‘Dad, are you okay? What did she say?’

  But he didn’t answer me. He just kept going, stomping through the house muttering something.

  ‘Marty?’ I heard Mum call out as Dad went past the dining room. ‘What’s going on?’

  She asked me the same thing when I came back to the table. ‘What’s going on?’

  I shrugged. ‘Miss Huntley said something to him, and he got all mad.’

  Mum sighed. ‘Watch your brother, Lizzie.’ Then, as she pushed her chair back and headed upstairs, I heard her murmur, ‘Man, we really gotta do something about this.’ And because I knew that she wasn’t talking to me, I didn’t ask what it was she had to do something about.

  ‘This is so annoying,’ I said to Muppet. Or was it to Richie? Maybe both. They both looked at me without understanding what I was saying. (Actually, Muppet was probably closer to understanding.) And it was annoying, the way Dad kept losing his temper so easily, but then he’d be lovely again a couple of hours later, or sometimes the next day. He’d say he was sorry for shouting, but then a day or two after that, or maybe even less, he’d do it all again. To be honest, I was getting pretty sick of it.