I nod. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’
Joe gets a chair for Mum and a glass of water. Everything feels so weird. As if we’re all pretending this is somehow normal when really, not one thing about it is normal. Not being in this nasty little office hidden behind a wall. Not Mum and I sitting down when we should be in the car, singing loudly to the radio as we drive home. It’s all making me nervous. I wish I could give Mum a hug or, even better, have her give me one. But it’s like we’re both frozen into our seats.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say, trying to break the spell.
Joe jumps on that. ‘You should be,’ he says. ‘I bet this is the last thing your mum needs.’
‘Yes,’ says Mum, quietly. ‘It is. It really, really is.’ She takes a sip of water and when she speaks again, her voice is louder. And harder. ‘So, what did my daughter supposedly take?’
The word supposedly makes my heart leap a little with hope. Maybe she doesn’t believe I actually stole anything! Maybe she’s going to argue our way out of here! She’s done something like that before. Back at primary school, someone scribbled all over our classroom wall with a permanent pen. Someone said I did it, and I got in trouble even though it wasn’t me at all. I came home crying like anything, and the next morning Mum marched into school and told my teacher that she knew I hadn’t done it because I wasn’t that sort of kid.
‘I found this in her bag,’ says Joe and he holds up the bra. I feel like I want to die when I see the look on Mum’s face.
‘Oh, Anya,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe it.’ The worst bit is her thinking that maybe I am that sort of kid after all.
Then there are a whole lot of questions about my full name and address and birth date, which Rachel types straight into the computer. Then she picks up the bra and examines it carefully. ‘Well, we certainly won’t be able to sell it now,’ she states. ‘It’s ruined.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum says.
Rachel holds the bra out to Mum and points to a blueypurple blotch on one of the cups. ‘It looks like ink.’
Mum takes the bra and touches the blotch. Sure enough, some of the blue colour comes away on her fingertip. I know straight away what it must be – the same stupid pen at the bottom of my bag that leaked all over my muesli bar.
‘It’ll have to be paid for,’ Rachel says.
‘Right now?’ says Mum.
‘That would be best,’ says Rachel. ‘It’s $89.95.’
I see Mum bite the corner of her mouth but she doesn’t say anything. She seems numb. And her numbness is spreading to me too, like it’s contagious. Mum’s hand fumbles as she pulls her purse out of her bag. ‘I can take credit card,’ says the woman, like this is just any normal sale.
Mum shakes her head. ‘No, I think I’ve got enough in cash.’ We all watch as she starting pulling out notes, one after another. It’s painfully slow. Then, when she’s pulled out all her notes, she opens up the coin pocket and starts making piles of coins on Rachel’s desk, beside the notes. When she’s finally got enough, her purse is almost completely flat. I wish I had some money to give her. But I’ve got nothing.
Rachel produces a little metal cashbox and puts all of Mum’s money into it. Then the box is locked with a key. Rachel writes out a receipt and hands it to Mum, along with the bra. Mum pushes them both into her bag.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I whisper to her.
‘Yes,’ says Mum, in this really cold way. ‘You certainly will.’
‘So,’ says Rachel briskly. ‘Now it’s time to call the police.’
I hear myself yelp. I’m so shocked that I actually jump up from my chair and I hear it fall over behind me. ‘No, don’t!’ I say. Everyone stares at me. ‘Aren’t you just going to tell me off or something? Give me a warning?’
Joe suddenly gets really mean. ‘Young lady – do you think this is a game?’ he snaps at me. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble. You might think you’re just a kid and that you can get away with stealing stuff, but this store takes theft very seriously. When we catch a thief like you – no matter what age – it’s store policy to call the police.’
A thief! He called me a thief! Straight away, I picture the warning sign in the cinema toilets with that shadowy hand pinching someone’s purse. Is that what I am? It’s not how I think of myself – and it’s horrible to have other people thinking of me this way. I’m a good person! My chest feels tight and I’m too shocked to say anything so I just look down. One of the leaves from the pot plant has fallen off and I find myself staring at it. It looks just like how I’m feeling inside. All twisted up.
‘Is it really necessary to call the police?’ says Mum. ‘It’s the first time she’s done anything like this, after all.’ Her voice sounds pretty calm but I can tell she’s worried, which makes me feel more scared than ever.
‘Perhaps it’s the first time she’s been caught stealing,’
Rachel says grimly, ‘but we generally find that shoplifters have stolen a number of smaller items before they get sloppy enough to be caught.’
I feel my face go hot, thinking about the bracelet.
‘I can guarantee Anya won’t do anything like this again,’ says my mum. ‘She won’t be able to, because I won’t be letting her out of my sight until she’s twenty-five.’
Rachel and Joe look at each other for what feels like forever, and then finally Rachel leans back in her chair and sighs loudly. ‘Look,’ she says to Mum. Her voice has changed a little. She sounds less official. More like a real person. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this, but because you work in the complex, and as the goods have now been paid for, I’m prepared to be more lenient than usual.’
Mum starts to gush gratitude, but Rachel puts her hand up to stop her. ‘There are some conditions, though. Anya will have to sign a statement admitting that she stole these goods, and she will be banned from entering this store for twelve months.’
Joe jabs his finger at me. ‘And don’t think you can just sneak back in, young lady,’ he says, ‘because I will recognise you.’
‘If we catch her here, she will be forcibly removed or charged with trespassing. And if she’s caught stealing from us again,’ continues Rachel, ‘we will be pressing charges.’
‘Thanks,’ says Mum, rising to her feet. ‘Thank you both so, so much.’ Then she grabs my arm and starts leading me towards the door. When I say leading, I mean pulling. ‘I promise this won’t happen again,’ she calls over her shoulder. Then we rush out before they have a chance to change their minds.
I have never been so glad to leave a room in my life.
The store is closing up when we get out. Roller shutters are rattling down into position and staff members are having their bags checked as they leave the shop. Mum walks so quickly towards the exit that I have to jog to keep up with her. She winds her way through the displays and then out into the underground car park. Her lips are tightly pressed together and her face is hard and unreadable. It’s not until we’re both sitting in the car that she puts her head on the steering wheel and starts crying.
Seeing Mum cry makes me feel like a terrible person – the worst – but I don’t know what to say or do to make her stop. I actually wish I could cry too, but I feel like there’s something plugging up the tears, stopping them from coming. All I can do is sit there in the passenger seat and listen to my mum cry.
‘I feel so humiliated,’ she sobs. ‘Having those two looking at me like I’m a terrible mother. Like I don’t know how to raise my kids properly.’
‘You’re not a terrible mother,’ I say. ‘You’re an awesome mum.’ But for some reason this just makes her cry even more.
It takes a while, but Mum’s crying gets less intense and finally she sits up and pulls her phone out of her pocket. Her expression has changed again. She’s got her don’t try to talk me out of this face on.
‘Who are you calling?’ I ask nervously.
‘Your father,’ Mum says, with the phone already positioned at her ear. ‘He needs to know about
this.’
If you ask me, there’s no reason for Dad to know anything, but a moment later he answers and Mum gives him the run-down on what happened. I’m hoping this will be it, but that’s wishful thinking. Dad wants to see me immediately and a few minutes later we’re heading for our old house to meet him.
You can tell by looking at our place that no-one’s living in it. It’s not just the piles of junk mail bursting out of the letterbox or the grass being a bit too long. It just looks empty, somehow. Dad’s van is parked out the front and I can see him sitting in it, smoking a cigarette. That’s not a good sign. Dad only smokes when he’s mad or upset. He gets out and crushes the cigarette on the road when we pull up.
Mum and Dad start up their usual routine before we’ve even gone through the front door.
‘You sure took your time getting here,’ Dad says. ‘So it’s my fault that the traffic was bad?’ Mum says.
‘I bet you took Glenburn Road,’ says Dad. ‘Even though I’ve told you a thousand times that Wendall Road is faster.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Mum says. ‘Glenburn is the quickest way.’ They argue about roads for a while and then the topic switches.
‘Why was Anya wandering around Westland Mall on her own, anyway?’ Dad asks.
‘Because I have to work, Steve,’ Mum snaps back. ‘And I thought I could trust her on her own for an hour.’ Then they both look at me like they’re thinking, Well, that’s obviously not the case.
As we walk inside, Dad launches into the lecture I knew would be coming. About how disgusted he is with me. How disappointed. But I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I haven’t been to the house for a few weeks and it’s weird how different it feels. It’s all echoey for one thing, and it feels much bigger than it did when we were in it – like the emptiness has pushed the walls further apart. It stinks of fresh paint too.
‘You’ve really let me down, Anya,’ Dad says as we all troop into the lounge room.
I am listening (it’s impossible not to) but I’m also trying to work out what’s missing from the room. I mean, obviously there are a lot of things missing. All the pictures are gone and pretty much all of the furniture. All that’s left are two armchairs, which have been pushed into the centre of the room and covered with white sheets. They look like ghosts – short fat ones. The painters covered them to stop them getting paint-splattered, I guess. But the thing that’s missing isn’t the furniture or pictures. It’s something else. I just can’t work out what it is right now.
Mum is frowning at the two chairs. ‘Why are those still here?’ she says.
Dad groans and plonks himself down on one. ‘I don’t know where you expect me to take them, Jill,’ he says. ‘My place is the size of a cupboard.’ He sits up. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to talk about chairs.’ He’s looking at me as he says it. ‘So, what did you take?’ he asks.
I really, really don’t want him to know – it’s way too embarrassing – but Mum fishes the bra out of her bag and hands it to him. It’s all squashed out of shape now, as well as being ink-stained, and I can tell that Dad isn’t really sure what it is at first. And when he does work it out, he’s even more puzzled.
‘What did you take this for?’ he asks. I just shrug and look at the ground. How can I explain to him about wanting to boost my profile and about how good it felt when I was wearing that bra? How it helped me feel better about the whole Ethan thing and forget about that scary blue vein. Dad wouldn’t get it. He’d probably just tell me the story – the one I’ve heard a thousand times already – about how he worked two jobs for three years so he could afford his first van.
Dad dumps the bra on the arm of the chair. ‘What’s her punishment going to be?’ he asks Mum.
‘Well, she’s going to be working off the money she owes me by helping out in the doctor’s office,’ says Mum. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Mum must have come up with this plan during our long, silent drive home.
‘How long do I have to do that for?’ I ask, and instantly realise I’ve made a mistake. Mum whirls around and glares at me.
‘For as long as it takes me not to be angry, Anya.’ Judging from her face right now, that could be a while.
Frankly, I think this is a massive punishment, but it’s not enough for my parents. They become almost civilised as they talk about how else to punish me.
‘What about no movie nights with her friends for a month?’ suggests Mum.
‘Two months,’ says Dad. ‘And no pocket money for three.’
I keep waiting for them to remember the school social, because the moment they do they’ll ban me from going. But neither of them mentions it. ‘There needs to be something else,’ Dad keeps saying. ‘One more thing.’
In the end I can’t stand it anymore. ‘The school social,’ I blurt out. ‘You’re supposed to ban me from that.’
They both look at me in surprise. ‘Don’t you want to go?’ asks Mum.
‘Yes, I want to go,’ I say, a little sulkily.
‘So why did you suggest it?’ asks Dad suspiciously.
I sigh and flop into one of the ghost chairs. ‘Because I knew you’d remember it in the end and I want to get this over and done with.’
My parents agree that I can’t go to the social, and I think that maybe we’re finally done when Mum says something that makes everything way, way worse. ‘And how about you rein in the gift-giving too,’ she says to Dad. ‘No more expensive jewellery for a while, okay?’
Dad looks astonished and straight away I know this won’t be good. ‘What?’ he says.
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘You know. The silver bracelet you gave Anya a few days ago.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Dad.
And then they both look at me, and Mum says, ‘Anya?’ So I have to tell them about the bracelet. And even though I explain that I put it in the charity bin (which you would think they’d be happy about), I’m now in so much trouble that basically my life is over.
For some reason, it’s then that I finally realise what’s missing from the room. The pencil lines in the doorframe. The ones that Dad made to measure our heights on each birthday. The doorframe is now shiny, clean and white. I jump up and run over to examine it, and there’s already a lump forming in my throat. Even up close, there’s no sign of the lines. No-one would know they’d ever been there at all.
‘They’re gone!’ I say, and there’s a wobble in my voice. ‘Our heights. You let the painters paint over the top of them.’
Mum and Dad stare at me for a moment. ‘Well, we had to,’ Mum says eventually. ‘The person who buys the house won’t be interested in how tall you girls were when you were five. You didn’t really think we’d leave it, did you?’
It’s funny the things that make you cry and the things that don’t. I didn’t cry when my parents told us they were splitting up. I didn’t cry when they announced they were selling the house. And even today, when I was caught by the security guard, I didn’t cry. But for some reason, knowing those pencil lines have been erased forever makes me burst into tears. ‘I knew the new owner would paint over them in the end,’ I sob. ‘I just didn’t think you guys would do it for them.’
I run back over to a ghost chair and curl up into it. Mum comes over and sits on one arm, and after a while I hear Dad sit on the other. Neither of them say anything. They just let me cry.
‘It’s really happening, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘The house is going to be sold. We’ll never live here again.’ I feel like my past is being painted over, along with those pencil lines.
Dad’s hand starts to stroke my back, just like he did when I was a little kid having trouble getting to sleep. ‘Ah, kiddo,’ he says softly. ‘Change is tough, isn’t it?’
Yeah, it’s tough. And these two haven’t made it any easier. Suddenly I’m mad – really mad – at them. I sit up. ‘You guys shouldn’t fight so much,’ I say. ‘It’s really embarrassing when you shout at each other over the phone when we’re out in public.
’
Mum looks shocked. ‘We don’t do that, do we?’
‘Yeah, you do,’ I say. ‘All the time! I hate it. And you shouldn’t say mean things about each other to me. It makes me feel like you want me to take sides.’
They both go really quiet then and it’s obvious they’re shocked. Finally Mum says, ‘Like your dad said, things are changing a lot at the moment. And we’re at a really difficult, stressful point right now. But this is the worst bit. After the house is sold, things will get better, I promise.’
But I can’t be talked around that easily. ‘How can you promise that?’ I say. ‘You don’t know for sure that things will get better. They might get worse.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to make sure of it,’ Mum replies. I want to believe her, but I’m not sure that I do.
Then Dad makes a suggestion – one that really surprises me, and I can tell it surprises Mum too. ‘Maybe we need some help with all of this,’ he says. ‘Not with staying together,’ he adds quickly, although he doesn’t really need to. We all know there’s no way that’s going to happen. ‘But help with splitting apart. You know – developing an exit plan or something.’
Mum nods. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll ask Shelley if she can recommend anyone.’
Things kind of calm down a little after that. Dad grabs his toolbox from his van and does a couple of repair jobs that Mum’s been pestering him about for ages. Mum cleans the downstairs windows.
I go upstairs to my old bedroom to check if anything’s been left behind. The door of the built-in wardrobe is open and I have this sudden memory of how I played in there with a torch as a little kid, pretending it was a cave and I was an explorer. Taking my keys from my pocket, I climb inside the cupboard and scratch some words into the wood, right at the back. Anya Saunders was here. Maybe some kid will find it one day. I guess it’s a kind of dumb thing to do, but it makes me feel better somehow.
Then Dad phones for pizza and we end up eating it on the lounge-room floor. I can tell they’ve been talking while I was upstairs because halfway through dinner, Mum says, ‘Now, Anya, your dad is going to pay for the bracelet you took and that’s going to count as your birthday present from him this year. Does that sound fair?’ It sounds totally terrible to me, but naturally I don’t say that. Besides, I know my dad and he’ll find it almost impossible not to buy me something for my birthday. But I don’t say that either. I just nod.
How to Boost Your Profile Page 6
