by Clare Atkins
By the time he says goodbye, I’ve confirmed the time and location of hanging out with Nick, and exchanged several Simpsons quotes. 10am. His place. Mmm … donuts. Lisa, it’s your birthday.
*
A 10am date is safe. There’s no obligation to get romantic if it doesn’t work out. At least, that’s what I figure Nick is thinking. Still, I’m glad he’s invited me. I’m pretty sure this counts as a date. Maybe. Sort of.
When I arrive, it looks like my theory is right. Nick has gone for safety in numbers too. Selena and Benny are there, swimming in the Bells’ backyard pool. Selena and I swap faux-casual greetings.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
Selena laughs. “I do live here.”
“Yeah, of course, but …” I let the sentence dwindle into silence. It’s not that I’m unhappy to see Selena, I just wanted to be alone with Nick.
Selena splashes me. “Get in! You brought your swimmers, right?”
“No.”
“Nick, why didn’t you tell Rosie to bring her swimmers, you doofus?”
Nick throws the insult back at her. “Because I didn’t know we were having a pool party, Barbie.”
Selena is sarcastic. “Haha.”
I look at Nick, hopeful. “You didn’t know they were going to be here?”
“Benny just told me yesterday.”
Nick invited me on Wednesday. Maybe it’s not a safety-in-numbers conspiracy after all.
Benny says, “You could skinny-dip.”
“Get out of here!” Selena dunks him. They go under, laughing, a tangle of tanned skin, bikini and boardshorts. Nick and I swap an awkward smile.
When Selena regains her breath she says, “Borrow some of mine. You know where they are.”
I nod and head into the house. The kitchen is full of the waft of golden syrup. Mrs Bell smiles when she sees me enter. “I hope you like Anzac bikkies.”
“Who doesn’t? I’m just grabbing some swimmers.”
“Of course, love. Go for it.”
I’ve spent so much time here over the past two years that it’s like a second home. I wonder if Mrs Bell knows today is different. Today I’m not here as Selena’s best friend. Today I’m here as Nick’s potential girlfriend.
In Selena’s room, I dig through her drawer of swimmers. They are all bikinis: tiny triangles, strings and small plastic clips. Her black one-piece is nowhere in sight. I open the window and call out to her. “Where’s your one-piece?”
“Think I left it at school.”
I can hear her laughing as I shut the window again. She’s probably explaining my bikini-phobia now. I’m blushing as I turn back to the drawer and pick out the one that looks like it will give the most coverage.
I put it on and study my body in Selena’s full-length mirror. The aqua halter-neck makes my boobs look bigger than they are. My stomach is so pale it is almost transparent. The flesh of my hips bulges slightly over the top of the skimpy bottoms. I grab a beach towel from the hallway cupboard and wrap it tightly around my waist as I head back out to the pool.
Selena lets out a low whistle as I emerge. I dump the towel and make a quick dash for the pool. As I slip in, Nick ducks under the surface and swims towards me. His body is submarine, fragmented by the light. His hands grab at my waist as he surfaces beside me. I push him away, self-conscious, but before I know what’s happening, his wet lips are on mine.
Selena is squealing, “No BDAs, no BDAs!”
I try to ignore her and focus on the kiss. It is warm and a little slobbery. His tongue licks my lips. This is the kiss right here. The one I need to remember. The one that makes us a couple. It’s broad daylight. There’s no alcohol involved. He must mean it … right?
We pull apart to see Mrs Bell standing there with a plate of warm Anzacs in her hand. She looks taken aback. “Well …”
Selena swims over to her mum’s side. She takes two biscuits and passes one to Benny. She doesn’t notice Mrs Bell’s frown, as she says, “Yum, thanks, Mum.”
Nick says, “What the hell is a BDA?”
Selena grins. “Brotherly display of affection.”
“You’re a dork.” Nick reaches over and grabs a cookie.
Mrs Bell holds the plate out to me. “Rosie?”
I catch her eye and feel suddenly, inexplicably, nervous. “I’m right, thanks.”
She leaves the plate on the outdoor table and makes her way back inside.
Nick moves in beside me. “No cookie? You’re crazy.”
I glance towards the house and see Mrs Bell watching us from the kitchen window. I wonder what she is thinking.
*
I’m walking hand in hand with Nick, down the breezeway near the English rooms. It’s official now. Everyone knows we’re together. Selena and Benny walk behind us, arms around each other’s waists. Anya is next to me, but she doesn’t fit on the narrow path. She has to walk with one shoe on the grass. I can tell this annoys her by the way she bangs each pole with her hand as she passes, as if she wants us to be aware that she is sacrificing her walking pleasure for the benefit of the group.
Mrs Reid approaches, taking a short cut across the lawn to catch us up. “Rosie, can I have a word?”
We all stop. Five heads swivel towards her.
I move to one side, as the others wait nearby.
She says, “I was just wondering … you know your friend Nona?”
Her name hits me like a blow to the stomach. “Sorry?”
“The girl from Elcho Island. She started here in May?”
I’m silent.
She continues prompting, trying to jog my memory. “She only came for a few days.”
I can tell Selena is eavesdropping, so I act vague. “Uh, yeah?”
“I was just wondering if you’d heard from her?”
She looks hopeful. I don’t know how Mrs Reid manages to stay so positive. She’s the cultural liaison person. It’s her job to keep Yolŋu enrolments up, but everyone knows they’re falling. It’s not her fault, though. I want to help her, but I can feel my friends looking at me so I shake my head as she continues. “I’ve tried to contact her mum but I haven’t had any luck. I’m still hoping Nona will come back to school. I wanted to make sure she didn’t drop out because of … things that happened.”
Her voice is hard. She throws a glance towards Selena, who quickly pretends to be engrossed in her fingernails.
I say, “I don’t know, Miss. Sorry.”
Mrs Reid hesitates. “Okay. I just thought … doesn’t matter.”
She gives me a tight smile and turns to go.
I rejoin the group.
“What was that about?” asks Nick.
I opt to feign ignorance. “I don’t know.”
*
Mum is cleaning the bathroom, which is never a good sign. Cleaning isn’t a practicality for Mum, it’s therapy. She’s wearing rubber gloves and her hair is tied back in a matted mess. She calls out as I enter the front door. “Hey, you. How was school today?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Uh, yeah … You’re home early.”
“Gave myself an early mark.”
“Everything okay?”
I wait for her to spill all. I’m expecting some disaster at work, or an update about Graham deciding whether to stay or go. She finishes scrubbing the ring around the bath and stands, looking straight at me. “I got a call from your momu, actually.”
I’m suddenly nervous. “Rripipi?”
Mum nods. “She’s just back from doing some translating for the courts in Darwin. And she noticed Nona hanging around, not going to school. When she asked her about it Nona said she heard you say something upsetting to your Ŋäpaki friends. Do you know what that might be?”
There is no good answer. Either she already knows and is testing me, or she’s genuinely asking. I take the cop-out option: silence. Mum peels off her rubber g
loves. “Something about Nona not really being our family? That she doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I’m sure guilt is scrawled across my face.
“I’ve never been so ashamed, Rosie. They’re our family. They adopted us. That means something to them. Hell, it means something to me. It’s not a plaything. Family is family. They don’t deny each other. As Rripipi put it – they don’t rakigulkthun, break that string, that bond.”
I know she’s right. There’s no excuse. She looks at me, disappointed. “Have you got anything to say?”
“I … I didn’t know … I didn’t mean … maybe she heard it out of context …”
“What possible context could justify disowning your sister, Rosie?”
I turn and stare out the window, refusing to meet her accusing glare. My eyes are flooded with shame.
“I don’t care if you find something embarrassing or uncool … or even if a family member approaches you and they’re drunk or out of control … I never want to hear about you denying our family again. Is that clear?”
I nod.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I promise. It won’t happen again.”
10.
1997
We are in the bath, surrounded by clouds of bubbles. We scoop them up, piling them on our shoulders, our heads, our noses. Nona looks hilarious. We giggle and grin. She takes a deep breath and blows at the bubbles on my head. A blob dribbles onto my back, while the rest explode into the air like dandelion spores.
Nona grins. “Let’s do washing.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about but I say, “Okay.”
She reaches out of the bath, grabs her T-shirt and shorts, and pulls them into the water. I watch with wide eyes. This will get us into trouble, for sure. But Nona doesn’t seem to care. She grabs the bar of soap and starts to scrub. Her T-shirt becomes a foamy lather. Her eyes sparkle with fun. “Get your dress.”
I can hear Mum and Guḻwirri talking in the lounge, and the smalls laughing as they jump on Mum and Dad’s bed. Dad’s away, teaching in Garrthalala. He only comes home on weekends.
I make a decision and grab my dress. Nona hands me the soap and I get to work. I’m concentrating so hard that I don’t hear Mum come in. Suddenly she’s above us. “Time to get out, girls. It’s Yumalil and Lilaba’s turn.”
We look up, guiltily. She frowns at our wet, soapy clothes. Then her face softens. “Oh good. You did the washing for us.”
She’s smiling. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Come on, then. Hop out.”
We stand up. I see Nona’s gleaming dark body next to mine. I say, “Wait. Nona’s still dirty.”
Mum looks at Nona, confused. “She looks fine to me.”
“But her skin. It’s black.”
Mum seems to hold her breath. She glances around, like she’s checking if anyone else has heard. I can hear Guḻwirri humming from the kitchen now, as she does the washing up. Someone turns the TV on, probably one of Nona’s big brothers.
Mum looks back at me. “Rosie … just because someone has dark skin doesn’t mean they’re dirty.” She hesitates, then asks, “Did someone tell you that?”
“Jessica. From school. She said black people smell ’cause they’re dirty.”
Nona scowls. “I’m not dirty. Tell her she’s a bäyŋu bunydji.”
Despite Mum’s serious expression, I smile. Bäyŋu bunydji is Nona’s latest favourite insult. It means you have no bum.
Mum gives me a warning look, and I quickly stop smiling. She lowers her voice. “Rosie. Don’t ever say that again, okay? Okay?”
I know that tone. It means I’ve done something really wrong. I nod agreement.
Mum says, “We’ll talk about this later.”
I feel my face flood with shame. I can’t bring myself to meet Nona’s eyes. I know if I do, I’ll start crying. We climb out of the bath, leaving our clothes in a sodden pile. Mum wraps us in soft purple towels, and I hurry to my room. Nona follows me in, and then I’m sobbing hot tears. I wipe my eyes, wishing they’d stop, or that Nona would stop looking at me, or that I could disappear.
Nona watches, then spits in the palm of her hand. She wipes the glob of saliva on her forearm, rubs it back and forth, then holds it out towards me.
Her voice is soft and kind. “It doesn’t come off, see?”
11.
2007
Nick and I are lying side by side on the grass. Our school uniforms are dappled by the sun peeking through the shade of the mango tree. We look up at the branches. There’s no fruit yet. June is dry season – way too early in the year.
We let our extremities touch. Our ankles, fingers, arms. The feel of his skin sets my insides on fire.
Selena and Benny are sitting nearby, on our benches by the basketball court. We lazily listen to them talking.
Selena’s voice is earnest. “Okay, but Benny. Be serious. You can’t really rate Gaytimes above Magnums, can you?”
“It’s the little tiny biscuit pieces. They get me every time.”
“But the ice-cream quality …”
“Inferior, I admit.”
“And the chocolate …”
“Yeah, that too. But –”
“Get over the biscuit pieces!”
“I can’t!”
“Okay then, hypothetical. What if I take a slightly melted Magnum and roll it in biscuit pieces? Then which one’s better?”
As Benny pauses to consider, Nick rolls to face me. “My sister is an idiot.”
I smile. “In a good way.”
“If you say so. Hey, you want to come over again this weekend?”
“With them?”
“Hopefully not. We could order in some pizza. You could stay over.”
He must see the surprise in my face, because he hurries on. “I mean, if you want to. If your mum’s cool with it.”
I don’t tell him my mum doesn’t know anything about him. Instead, I say, “What about your parents?”
“They’re cool. I’ve had girls stay over before.”
I can’t help frowning, and he quickly amends the statement. “I mean, just one. One ex-girlfriend. They didn’t care.”
I wonder who it was, and if he’s lying about the number. I know who he’s been out with. I’ve seen them around school together, last year, the year before. Tiffany. Rebecca. Jess. Melissa. Jane.
I pick a blade of grass and roll it between my fingers. “I don’t know.” I’m thinking of how it was with him, after Libby’s party. Nick on top of me, grinding. Me freaking out.
Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because he reaches for my hand. “No pressure.”
I look up and meet his eyes. “Really?”
“Really.”
I take a deep breath and say, “I’ll ask Mum.”
*
I don’t, of course. Mum would never let me. She’d say, Who is he? then, I have to meet him first. And then she’d say no anyway. She’d tell me I’m too young, that I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. How long have you been together? Two weeks?! Why didn’t you tell me straight away? She wouldn’t understand that I just want to lie with him, side by side. She’d say he has ulterior motives. And maybe she’d be right.
So I take the easy option and say, casually, over dinner, “I’m staying at Selena’s this weekend, okay?”
I wait for Mum to object, to notice the guilt in my voice. But my staying at Selena’s is nothing out of the usual, so she says, “Fine. Is Anya going to be there too?”
“Probably.”
“Are you still hanging out with Anya?”
“Of course.”
The truth is, Anya’s drifting. Some days she doesn’t sit with us at all. She says she’s got assignments to work on. I think the couple thing bothers her.
“Why don’t you invite her over one weekend?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Selena too, if you like.”
In the two years we’ve been friends
, Selena has never come to my house. I always stay at hers. There’s always the promise of the pool, or pizza, or a party to go to.
I try to explain. “There’s nothing to do out here, Mum.” I see the hurt in her face and add, “It’s nothing personal. If we lived in town …”
“We can’t move into town, Rosie. You know that. This house comes with my job, and anyway … I wouldn’t want to. This is our community, remember? Our family. Our home.”
I know she’s hinting at what I said about Nona. I quickly backtrack before she can segue into a lecture. “Yeah, I know. Forget about it. I didn’t mean it.”
But I did.
*
I stay over at Nick’s. To my relief, he keeps his word and it is all innocent kisses and cuddles. We snuggle up in his bed and watch The Simpsons again. In between episodes, I ask, “Why do you like this show so much?”
“You don’t?”
“Yeah, I like it. But it’s kind of old, isn’t it? When was this made?”
“In the ’90s. Or maybe the ’80s.”
“Exactly.”
He’s slightly defensive. “I just think it’s funny.” He hesitates, then adds, “The animation’s clever. The drawings, you know? I used to draw cartoons when I was little. I mean, mine were crap compared to this, but …”
I’m surprised. “Do you still draw?”
“Kind of … it’s not exactly drawing.”
Nick leans over the side of the bed and digs into his bottom bedside drawer. He unearths an A4 scrapbook and holds it out towards me. The cover is blank. “Open it.”
I do. The book is jammed full of photos of graffiti. There are tags, portraits, murals, stencils. The whole lot. I see his anticipation, the nervousness in his face. I put the pieces together. “You did these?”
“Some of them.”
“When?”
“When we lived in Sydney. Before I got caught and banned for life.”
“Is that what Selena was talking about when she said you did worse stuff than fridging?”
He looks kind of cagey. “In a way.”
I leaf through the pages, stopping at a photo of an enormous tag. The letters are outlined in black. They take up an entire wall. Inside them, there’s an explosion of colour. At the bottom of the wall, the artist has painted empty spray-paint tins, made to look like they’re lying discarded on the footpath. I trace the letters with my finger, unable to decipher the stylised writing.
