Breathe

by Penni Russon

  “Hello, Trout,” said Lou warmly. She had seemed to grow fonder of Trout since the summer, but he responded warily to this fondness. Trout still believed there was something fundamentally duplicitous and deceitful about Lou’s behavior, concealing the magic from Undine for all those years. Lou had lied about Prospero, saying he was dead when he was alive (although, Trout thought now, perhaps that was only half a lie, for Prospero seemed to live only half a life). And since the summer, Lou had made Undine agree to leave the magic to rest until she finished school; she had refused to answer any questions about it, saying there was plenty of time for questions after Undine had finished her exams.

  “But aren’t you dying to know?” Trout asked Undine. He certainly was: his need to know more about the magic twisted inside him, winding around his guts, like cotton thread around the tip of a finger, cutting off the circulation.

  “I can’t make her tell me,” Undine had said.

  You could, thought Trout. If you really wanted to. You could fight. You could rage and scream. You could threaten. You could…

  But, “I don’t want to,” Undine had answered his unspoken thoughts. “I hated it last year, when Lou and I were fighting. I just want us to be a family. Sometimes I think if I could pack the magic up, put it in a box, bury it deep underground…What if I don’t want to know? It could change things….” She’d shuddered. “She’ll tell me. When she’s ready. When I’m ready.”

  Trout frowned at the memory.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked Lou politely. Jasper was still stirring the batter seriously, although half the pancakes had been made.

  “Not really. Except you can keep that one occupied till I serve up.” She pointed with her spatula at Undine, who was running her finger round the rim of the syrup jug, stealing a taste.

  The sweet smell of pancakes and syrup, mingling with the hot fragrance of freshly washed clothes, made Trout heavy-lidded. He and Undine sat together on the couch.

  “Are you going to Duncan’s party?” she asked Trout.

  Trout remembered Duncan’s party with effort. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “I told Fran I would.”

  Trout nodded. Undine picked at a thread on the couch. They were both relieved when Lou brought the pancakes out.

  “Did Undine tell you?” Lou asked when they were all sitting at the table. “We’ve got a favor to ask.”

  Undine beamed into Trout’s face.

  Trout looked from Undine to Lou.

  “Undine’s told you about Greece.”

  “Um…”

  “That Prospero has invited all of us to go with him?”

  For a wild, irrational moment Trout thought they were going to ask him to go with them.

  “Well, we were wondering, with your parents’ permission of course, if you would house-sit while we’re away. About four weeks. It would give you a quiet place to study, and you can make sure the house doesn’t fall down in our absence.”

  Trout turned it over in his mind.

  “That sounds good,” he said slowly; then, warming to the idea, he admitted, “It sounds great.”

  “Well,” said Lou. “Good. That works out for all of us. I’ll ring your mother this afternoon.”

  After brunch, Trout and Undine sat on the couch again. Jasper busied himself on the floor in front of them. A cartoon played on the television. An ad came on, shouting at them to buy this, or do that, and Trout realized he had no memory of what they had been watching.

  “Do you think your mum will let you?” Undine asked Trout.

  “What? Oh, house-sit. Yeah. I think so.”

  They sank back into silence but, Trout perceived, it was an easier one; the television and the thought of Undine and Lou’s proffered favor filled it nicely.

  Jasper, as if he’d just remembered something, turned abruptly and examined Trout. His gaze was penetrating and Trout found it disconcerting; the temporary ease he had been feeling evaporated.

  “Where do you go?” Jasper asked him.

  Trout was not overly comfortable with Jasper. He did not have an easy rapport with small children; they made him feel enormous and oafish and strangely shy.

  “What?”

  “At nighttime. In the middle of the night. I seen you. Where do you go?”

  “I…” Trout was at a loss.

  “Jasper, you’re making it up,” Undine said.

  “No, I’m not. I open my eyes like this in the middle of the night. My eyes are big, bigger, biggest. And I creep, creep to the window and I look. I creep like this,” and he showed them.

  “Well, that’s very naughty,” teased Undine delightedly. “Creep, creeping around in the middle of the night.” To Trout she said, “He’s just playing, telling a story.”

  It didn’t seem like Jasper was playing, like he was making up stories. He couldn’t have really seen Trout, could he? But Trout felt his face grow hot. He felt sick at the idea that he was being observed, even by Jasper.

  “Where do you go in the middle of the night?” Undine said, but now she was teasing him. He tried to think of a glib answer, something offbeat and casual, but it wouldn’t come.

  “It’s not a story.” Jasper was nearly crying. “I seen you.”

  Trout looked at Undine and shook his head helplessly.

  “It’s all right, Jasper,” she said. She didn’t seem to notice Trout’s discomfort. “We believe you. Don’t we?”

  Jasper looked at Trout and half shut his eyes. When he opened them again he said, “When I swing, I swing really high, and I kick the tree and it turns into a lovely sea horse and I kick the tree and it turns into a beautiful house. I swing high, higher, highest and I kick like this. I can kick you.”

  Undine said, “No, Jasper, that’s not very nice. We don’t kick our friends.”

  When Undine went to the kitchen to get drinks, Jasper turned to Trout again. “I seen you,” he said bitterly. His face was transformed by his anger, narrow and wolfish; his whole body quivered. “One day I will be big, bigger, biggest. Bigger ’n you, and I will follow you.”

  Trout stared at him: he stared at him until Jasper dropped his gaze and looked away. And though it was cheap, Trout experienced a moment of pleasure that he had beaten Jasper with his stare.

  “He’s just a little kid,” Trout told himself.

  But that night Trout felt that Undine’s house had eyes, that it watched him navigate his way through the dark.

  In the city he walked past a group of young men. They were carrying half a case of beer; the rest seemed to be sloshing around in their bellies. Trout tensed. But as had happened at the girl’s flat the night before, he found he wanted them to see him. He wanted something to happen to him; he wanted an outside force to act upon him.

  As he approached, one of them threw an empty bottle into a car park. The bottle shattered and the men jeered. Time hovered for Trout; he stood poised against the next second, blood coursing through him. He met the gaze of one of the men. The stranger’s eyes narrowed. Trout held his breath. And then the moment was over. The men passed him, and Trout dissolved into the cool night air. He was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Undine watched the progression of dates on the calendar with growing excitement. Prospero sent tickets for all of them; he had insisted on paying Lou’s and Jasper’s fares in addition to Undine’s. The tickets sat on the mantelpiece in the living room, and every time Undine saw them a warm flicker of anticipation danced in her belly.

  The weekend before they were due to leave was Duncan’s party. Undine and Trout were both going, but Dominic was not; it was his mother’s birthday, and his family took birthdays very seriously.

  “I can’t believe I can’t come,” he murmured earnestly at Undine. But, guiltily, she didn’t mind him not coming. She found having a boyfriend tiring; the constant attention wore her down, and she felt eroded by his eyes, his fawning hands, by his romantic gestures. Perhaps it was the pull of the magic, or perhaps, as Lou suggested, t
he boys had simply grown into her. Whatever the case, when Undine had started the school year, suddenly she had admirers. Overwhelmed, she had chosen Dominic and stuck with him. He was attractive in a smooth, shiny way; she knew he was considered a catch. Girls gave her looks in the hallway—envious or bitter—and she felt a little sorry that he was wasted on her when there were clearly other girls who would appreciate him more.

  “Oh, well,” said Undine. “It’s only one party. There’ll be others.” But of course it was the wrong thing to say—this party was different because she would soon be away for four whole weeks and they would miss each other so much. Dominic sulked until Undine grew annoyed with him. She sighed with relief when she hung up the phone: their good-byes had been sufficiently earnest to placate Dominic.

  She found she was looking forward to the party. A chance to relax, to let her hair down, to dance, to play.

  “It’s not too late to cancel the trip,” Lou warned on the night of the party, following her up the stairs to her bedroom.

  “I know, I know.”

  “I mean it. Give me one reason and pfft”—Lou clicked her fingers—“no more Greece. So no funny business, okay?”

  Undine took Lou by the shoulders. “Who are you and what have you done to my mother?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Seriously, Lou, when did you turn into this person? Although my eighteenth birthday is a few measly months away, I will not be drinking. Nor will I be doing hard drugs, stripping in a sleazy dive, or having Bob Dylan’s love child.”

  Lou screwed up her face. “Bob Dylan? Ew. He’s, like, all old and stuff.”

  “Stop trying to speak like the young people,” Undine scolded.

  “Okay, but I do mean it.”

  “What, that Bob Dylan’s old?”

  “Well, yeah. But also, I want you to make sensible choices tonight.” Lou sat on Undine’s bed and Undine sat next to her.

  “Oh, god, Lou, do you mean sex?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Do we have to talk about this? Dominic isn’t even going to be there.”

  “I sort of think we should. I mean, we haven’t talked much about this stuff before. Not since you’ve been…older.”

  “I know how babies are made, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’d rather you know how babies are not made! But it’s more than that. Sex—”

  “We haven’t had sex!”

  “I believe you. I just want to say that sex is a big deal. Sometimes it probably doesn’t feel like it, with magazines and television and your friends and ads for soft drinks telling you to just do it. But there are right reasons and wrong reasons for doing it.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? I don’t know, when I was your age…it felt like such a burden. Virginity, I mean. Something to offload as soon as possible.”

  Undine said nothing, but she could relate to that feeling.

  “And then,” Lou went on, “once you went so far, it felt like there was no going back, no putting it away for later. Do you know what I mean?” Suddenly Undine wondered if Lou was just talking about sex or whether this was a roundabout way of talking about the magic, too.

  “I guess so.”

  “Look, I’m not saying it will ruin your life if you don’t wait. Or that you have to wait till you’re married. But, well, wait at least till you really like the person. Till you’re over that first heady, exhilarating rush and you’re really comfortable with them. The longer you wait, believe me, the better it is.”

  “Is that all? This conversation is totally embarrassing.”

  Lou threw her hands up. “Okay, okay. Mothers have to have sex, you know, or they wouldn’t be mothers.”

  “Stop saying the word sex!”

  Lou laughed. “Get ready. You’re a gorgeous girl, you know that?”

  “You have to say that, ’cause you’re my mum.”

  “Nope. I just tells it like I sees it.”

  “You’re not wearing those?” said Mrs. M. as Trout came down in the black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt he wore every day. “It’s a party,” she cajoled. “It’s festive. Wear something…”

  “Festive?” Trout supplied dryly.

  “What about a shirt? Something more cheerful. Something colorful.”

  Trout rolled his eyes. “Mum,” he said. “You don’t know anything! No one is going to be wearing a shirt….”

  Dan came downstairs in a shirt: clinging purple polyester.

  “There,” said Mrs. M. “Doesn’t Dan look smart?”

  “Smart?” exclaimed Dan, and he started undoing the buttons on his shirt, revealing a black raglan T-shirt underneath. “Right, that’s it. I’m changing. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it in the first place. Taking fashion advice from my mother! What would the guys think?”

  “You’re such nice-looking, well-brought-up boys,” lamented Mrs. M. “Why do you have to hide in all that black? Why do you have to go out looking so drab?”

  Trout looked at Dan. “Because we’re nice-looking, well-brought-up boys.”

  Mrs. M. shook her head and returned to the kitchen muttering. “I would have thought…the right girl…surely a good, well-mannered boy…even in this day and age…”

  Dan eased himself back into the purple shirt and winked at Trout. “Are you really wearing that?” Dan looked at Trout’s black attire appraisingly. “You can borrow something of mine.”

  “Shhh,” said Trout. “Not too loud or Mum’ll wet herself with excitement. She’ll think we’ve finally turned into the daughters she always wanted.” But he followed Dan up to his room and sat on the bed while Dan rifled through his drawers.

  “Here,” said Dan, and passed Trout a coarse green poplin shirt with a pointy collar. “It used to be Dad’s, back when he was young. And thin. And not a complete spaz. It’ll look good on you, with your girly complexion and fair hair.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  But the shirt fitted well, and Trout felt himself faintly changed by it. He observed himself in the mirror on Dan’s wardrobe door. The shirt made him look older, and, because of its striking, almost ugly character, surer of himself. The color did set off his fair skin and made his eyes appear a true blue, instead of the murky gray they tended toward normally. It hung well on his shoulders, and his slight frame seemed like an asset instead of an accident of birth.

  “Hmm,” Dan considered, tilting his head. “Yep, it suits you. You can have that if you want.”

  “Thanks! Oh, by the way…” Trout thought he should take advantage of this new, generous Dan. “Can we give Undine a lift to the party?”

  In response, Dan grunted.

  “Is that a yes?”

  Dan shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  Half of Trout was pained to hear it; the other half took a curious pleasure in Dan’s dislike of her. It was a baffling business, unrequited love. He wondered if he should defend her, but found he didn’t particularly want to.

  Confused, Trout simply said, “I’ll meet you at the car,” and headed out to pick up Undine. Outside the night was crisp and clear and still. He felt a jump of anticipation in his stomach. He was looking forward to the party. He was looking forward to being out with Undine, without Dominic clinging to her like a soft, naked mollusk. Dominic was all right; he was pleasant enough, one of those boys who’d become popular by being an all-round Mr. Nice Guy. But as much as Trout suspected Undine’s ambivalence toward her boyfriend, it wasn’t easy to see someone else have a claim on her, physically at least, if not on her heart.

  “Wow,” said Undine as she answered the door to Trout. “You look…so different.”

  “Different good or different bad?”

  Lou came up behind Undine. “Trout! You look amazing.” She gave Undine a little push. “See, I told you to wear a dress.”

  Undine rolled her eyes. But as soon as Lou was out of earshot, she whispere
d self-consciously to Trout, “Do you think I should change?”

  “It’s just a party,” he said. “You look great.”

  She did look great, in faded bootleg jeans and a soft, coal-black, V-neck jumper that tied with a belt around the waist. Her hair was pinned close to her head, and she was wearing a lipstick that looked like liquid gold and a tiny amount of black pencil under her eyes. It was low-key, but she looked…stunning, he thought jadedly.

  Dan was warming the car. Trout offered Undine the front passenger seat but, glancing at Dan’s hard-set jaw, she declined and slipped into the back. They drove up the Southern Outlet and turned left onto the road that swung up Mount Nelson, a hilly suburb that had retained large tracts of bush. Duncan’s house was near the top, on a large block of land abutting the old signal station.

  When Undine and Trout arrived, Dan having dissolved even before they reached the front gate, the party swept them up straightaway. What seemed like a hundred people were scattered through the bush. Duncan had set up an outdoor dance floor; techno pumped through the bush. A huge wire bird strung with fairy lights teetered perilously, overlooking the dancers.

  “Let’s dance,” Undine shouted over the music.

  “I don’t do dancing,” protested Trout, but he found that in the green shirt he did. He and Undine danced, together but not touching. He forced himself to stop counting the beat. He shut his eyes and just moved, letting the music propel his feet and arms. The music was hard and fast; he could feel the vibrations in his breastplate, resonating through the core of him.

  He moved away from Undine, finding a private space, and danced. It was cathartic, it was liberating. The green shirt released him, it transformed him. Under the wire bird, he felt part bird himself. He whirled, he soared.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Undine left Trout dancing alone, his face radiant. She drifted around the edge of the party, trying not to scan the clusters of people for Grunt. But when she did catch sight of him, leaning against a tree talking to Dan and others she didn’t know, her heart flickered. His eyes found hers and he smiled, slow and easy. But he did not leave the group he was with, and Undine felt too shy to join him.