Anyway, the cicadas would be stopping and starting as people moved and waited, and if you looked back to shore you could see the gas lamps glowing up around small groups of people as the sky went from blue to grey to black. We’d go home stinking and goosebumpy in the almost dark but with a bag of sweet yummy prawns in the esky, and Dad with one of his daggy JJ Cale CDs for the drive back. When we got home, either Mum’d close her eyes and chuck our catch into a big pot of salty boiling water or Dad’d spread them out on the barbie. Either way, we’d eat them with a whole heap of different sauces: sweet chilli, tartare, mayo, and Mum’s special concoctions. Actually, it’s the only kind of fishing Mum ever got into. She reckons once you get into hooks and sinkers, it’s cruel and egotistical.
That was all at our place back in Perth.
I’ve seen old photos of Mum and Dad, before they had us, photos of them with their friends, at parties and on holidays, and I wish so much we’d taken the camera with us when we went prawning those times, even though I know a photo won’t keep the smell of those yellow evenings or the sound of our legs pulling through the water or the way laughter gets into your lungs, your heart, your skin.
‘None of those shrimpy ones this time, thanks, Dad,’ Rel calls out as his folks split away with their own net. ‘Don’t wanna have to report you to Fisheries again.’
He gets a wry look from his dad for that. ‘Not feeling competitive or anything, now, are you? We’re not doing a weigh-in at the end, you know.’
‘At least mine will be size.’
‘At least mine will be edible.’
‘Do you two mind?’ Rel’s mum says, rolling her eyes at me.
‘Yeah, pull your head in, Dad.’
I chuckle and wait for his dad to give it back to him but he just smiles and strides off into the deeper water.
It’s pretty quiet between Rel and me until we reach the turning-around point, when we’re up to our chests and getting a bit chilly. He just says, ‘We used to bring my cousin Livvy along whenever we went prawning. She loved it. We’d pick her up from my uncle’s place on the way through.’
‘Doesn’t she come along any more? Is she a bit over it now?’
‘Nah ... nah. She died.’
She what?
I must look as shocked as I feel, because he comes over to me in the water and says, ‘It’s all right. Well, it’s getting better, anyway. It was really bad before.’
‘How ... how old was she?’
‘Same as us.’
‘How did she...?’
He pauses. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that. LAM alert! I shriek inwardly. I mean, you don’t want to have to go over all that stuff, especially if it’s really painful. ‘Oh, look, Rel, sorry, it’s none of my—’
‘No, no, it’s okay,’ he says. ‘She got sick. It happened really quickly. It was, like, one day she was fine, and the next she was gone.’
Jesus flipping Christ.
‘She got meningitis. She woke up with a headache and it got worse and worse, so Uncle Tim took her to the doctor, but by then she had a huge temperature and this neck pain. They got an ambulance, but by the time they reached the hospital she was really sick. She was actually dying. They couldn’t resuscitate her.’
Oh. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It happened last year. Doing this always makes me think of her.’
We turn around, our backs to the sunset.
And I think our family’s got problems.
My legs slice cool through the water, and the water curls back, pooling around me.
NEWSLETTER
Saturday morning. Dad gave me a reaming about going out without telling him last night. It’s not often he has a go at me. It feels rotten. I’m in my room, feeling frogshite, when my mobile goes off.
The bubble has GONE! x S
This, even though it’s been ages since we last texted. God, she makes me laugh. I reply straight away:
No way! How? An operation? Stitches?
Lots. And a cunningly tilted BERET. Am not joking.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Oh God.
The snakes r going stale @ the deli cos I can’t eatthem fast enough without u. They r white & crusty.
I so wish I could help you with that, Shel. Any goss?
There’s a party @ Simon’s Fri. Mum gave me some $for a new top, & Stu’s gunna buy beers & hide them in his car till we go.
Ohhh, shite, I’m envious! No parties here ...
So how r things @ PSHS, A? Bogan alert? When canI come down 2 visit u?
Why would she? I feel like I’m living in the South Pole, not an hour away.
Wonder how the party went last night. Wonder how Mum is.
Even the beach isn’t helping this morning. I threw myself into the water a few minutes ago. It’s a funny morning, overcast. The wind’s in already, so the water was too choppy to do much more than get wet. The seaweed’s blown in and my feet kept getting caught in it which is kind of spooky. Even the seagulls have pissed off till the wind drops down. The usual bozos are showing off to their mates down at the break, and sandboarders are out too, wrecking the dunes. The rangers come around every now and then, but there’s not much point when the guys just hide behind the other dunes until the brownshirts have gone. There’s been a whole lot of rehab work done here, with brush laid down on the sand dunes to make them stay, but I dunno. The wind can be hell strong; I’ve seen it blowing sheets of sand along the beach, like it’s the Sahara, or something.
TRAVELLING
Rel’s mum puts a huge slab of banana bread in front of me. The poppy seeds tinkle tinily onto the plate. It looks awesome, perfect, moist, and I can’t say anything for a few minutes. Then I look up and she’s standing there, with a family of Balinese cats in the background, and I look over at Rel, who’s passing me a real OJ from the juicer, and I breathe Thanks.
It’s Monday arvo after drool (sorry, school), and we walked back from the bus together, talking about the big deal that happened today. Well, you’d think it was a big deal, the way everyone’s talking about it. Schoolcamp. Big deal, right? Well, Mr Wenly announced it like we’d been picked as finalists in the Rock Eisteddfod, or something. I mean, it’s just a poxy camp. And everyone’s gone psycho, like it’s Woodstock, or something. We’re only going to the Stirling Ranges, all of three hours south. More south. Great. And it’s just for Year 10s, and, oh, small detail: it costs 250 bucks. About the only good thing is that one of the teachers going is Ms Carey. It would be so cool to see what she’s like outside school. Rel doesn’t know if he’s going. Nor do I. Dad’ll think it’s pretty expensive, and there are only twenty-five places, anyway.
‘Like another juice, Alison? Or some more banana bread?’
Mrs Anderson smiles. I like Rel’s mum so much. She’s easy to get along with and doesn’t hassle Rel, or even ask much about school. Mum’d probably like her, ‘cos she’s right into gardening and organic food. And I reckon this is the best house I’ve ever been in; it’s full of things from exotic places. Plus there’s always a wooden bowl full of mulberries—they pick some every day.
I swallow down the last of my snack. ‘Oh, no thanks. That was deluxe, though,’ I add, gathering the crumbs with my fingertips.
I was just remembering Mum’s gingerbread. She bakes it with golden syrup and it comes out crumbly but dense. It really is awesome. I reckon Rel would like it, too. Who knows when he might get to try it, though. Dad told me last night that Mum’s very up and down, whatever that means. We’re all up and down. We’re flipping yo-yos! I mean, that’s life, isn’t it? Up, then down. Or, in my case, down, then down. Then down further. My sympathy is running thin for Mum, to be honest. This whole thing is starting to seriously shit me up the wall. I mean, for Jerry’s sake, at least, she could come home and be up and down with us! It’d be no different from usual, let’s face it! I said that to Dad and he turned dark on me and said I didn’t understand the problem properly, to be making comments like that.
I can feel my blood pressure rising, just thinking about it. I try to calm down a bit but end up blurting out, ‘I’d better get going. Have to help Dad with dinner.’
They probably think Mum’s an alcoholic, or something, or dead.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Rel says. ‘Feel like a swim, anyway.’
I push the stool back from the counter. ‘Thanks again, Mrs Anderson,’ I mumble.
The sky leans down at me as we get outside. It catches in my eyes, the blue. Rel talks a bit as we follow the path to the beach.
JELLYFISH
‘Who’s that?’
Oh no. Oh no.
We’re out on the verandah. McJerry points at Rel’s figure, towel hooked over his shoulder, on his way home again.
‘I dunno.’
‘Yeah, right, Ally. I saw you down at the beach with him yesterday!’ He cackles like the evil guys on cartoons. ‘Is he your boy friend?’
It’s not the kind of question I feel I need to answer—not to him, anyway. He’s not waiting for my answer, anyway; he’s gone off to his bedroom, chanting, Boyfriend, boyfriend. I hope he fries his brain on some dodgy electrical device he’s invented. Caveman probably had more clue than Jerry.
But the thought lingers: is Rel my boyfriend? I mean, does he think he is? It seems weird that we’re just ... mates. I mean, a girl and a guy, as cool as I’m beginning to think he is, and everything. It’s just not normal, is it? I mean, of course people would think he’s my boyfriend.
There’s some flat Coke in the fridge. Dad comes in just as I’m tipping it down the sink. Mum would spew if she knew Dad was buying us Coke. That multinationalis one of the scourges of the world, she says to us fairly regularly. Do you know that even people in India whodon’t have any clean water drink Coke? Yeah, Mum, we know because you keep on bloody telling us.
‘Hey, Ally.’
‘Hey, Dad. Good day?’
‘Oh, you know.’ He dumps his things on the table and heads for the fridge. ‘Anything to eat in here?’
I look at him peering in the fridge, and feel sad. ‘Mum usually leaves snacks for us, doesn’t she?’
He plonks down, empty-handed. ‘Yep.’
Outside, the scrub hisses and pulls with the gusts of wind that come through.
‘Did you speak to her today?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yep.’ He fiddles with his watchstrap.
‘How’s she feeling?’
‘About the same.’
Oh.
I put the kettle on. Dad always has a cuppa when he gets home, from anywhere. We used to give him heaps because in Perth he’d go out to the shed for half an hour and would have to have a cuppa when he came back in. He looks tired tonight, so I do it for him.
From the kitchen I can see other houses—some partly hidden in the bush, others with perfect landscaped lawn around them, no trees. Ours is camouflaged, like a bush hut, but bigger. Mum has planted heaps of natives—eucalypts, saltbush, buttercup—as well as her vegies. Even though I don’t love it, I like it a lot more than the other houses. Except for Rel’s house. That’s the best.
A wattlebird swoops down to our powerline and starts that weird noise they make, like an old car engine turning over.
Dad’s not saying much, that’s for sure. I want to talk, but I don’t know what about. I just want him to say something.
‘I miss her,’ I say after a breath. After all the grief she gives me ... but I do. I miss her. I dunno, I can’t explain it. We’re kind of boring without her, the three of us. She’s got some spark, or something, and we need it; otherwise, we’re just like jellyfish. I’ve never thought of her like that before. She’s just Mum, you know. She’s, well, annoying, ethical, great-cooking Mum.
He’s staring at the table. ‘Me too.’
‘Then why can’t she come back? We can look after her, and she loves it here—being here will help her get better. Aunty Trish’s place is nice and everything, but Mandurah sucks. She must hate it there.’ This is her home.
‘She misses us, that’s for sure, but the doctor thinks she needs a break—’
‘From what? From us?’
‘Well, yeah, kind of.’ He looks at me.
Oh, that’s nice, that is! Like we’re the Addams Family, or something.
‘It’s a break from daily life, she needs—you know, a break from the routine. It’s doing her good, I think.’
In the distance, I can hear the reply of the other wattlebird, from a tree away.
I look at Dad. If he really thinks that, why does he look so worried?
CAMP PSYCHO
Today the loudmouths at school are crapping on about the Stirling Ranges like they’re the Himalayas, like they know all about wild camping and mountain climbing and trekking. They’re just full of shite, full of themselves. They probably know less about camping than Jerry does, and that’s saying something. At recess I can’t stand it anymore and have to walk away from the oval, away from them. Ms Carey’s eating a sandwich on the other side of the netball court, so I head over her way.
She smiles when I’m nearly there.
I try to be cool (hey, I don’t need to try, I am cool—right?), roll my eyes and sigh, ‘Camp, camp, camp.’
She laughs in surprise. ‘Don’t you want to go?’
‘I wouldn’t mind; it’s just who else is going that’s a worry.’
She looks over at the kids carrying on. We can hear them from here. ‘There are plenty of others going, Alison.’
‘Yeah,’ I sigh.
Basketballs whine on the court like they’re pumped up too hard, and there’s that background sound of lots of kids’ voices, and the occasional scream.
‘Have you met Mr Taylor yet?’ she says after a bit.
‘The school psychologist? I’ve seen him around, but—’
‘He wants to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’
‘Yeah, because you’re new. He always has a chat to new kids.’
I’m thrown. ‘But I’m not new anymore, am I? I don’t have anything to talk about, either—I don’t have any problems, if that’s what he thinks.’
‘No, Alison.’
I feel scared. What does he want to see me for?
Ms Carey smiles. ‘That’s not what I mean. It’s nothing like that. All schools have counsellors; it’s their job to make sure all the kids are okay. It’s only because you’re ... newish that he wants to see you.’
The sun’s coming right into my face, making stuff go black. I can’t see part of Ms Carey’s head.
‘You can go next period.’
‘But that’s English! Can’t I go in maths, or something?’
‘Next period. I’ve told him to expect you. You’ll like him, Alison, he’s a good guy.’
Yeah, sure. She gets up before I can say anything more, her white skirt moving around her as she goes. There’s a silver beaded anklet on one leg. Maybe, if Ms Carey likes him, he’ll be okay. But I don’t know any other kids who’ve been to see him—so why me? And I’m not new anymore!
Rel jogs over. ‘What’s going on?’
Before I can think about whether or not I really want him to know, I blurt out, ‘I have to go and see the school psych.’
He widens his eyes at me. ‘That Taylor guy? That’s bizarre. Why?’
‘’Cos I’m new, or some crap. Have you ever had to see him?’
‘Nah.’
I let out the air that’s been trapped in my lungs the last five minutes. I didn’t think so. I’m probably the only kid he has seen. Ms Carey must think I’ve got issues, or something, to make me go and see this guy. Only complete freaks see school psychs, as far as I’m concerned—which confirms my long-held suspicion that I am, indeed, a complete freak. That’s what Ms Carey must think, and probably Rel, too, now. If only I hadn’t gone and opened my whale-sized mouth. Again.
‘Anyway,’ I say, struggling to appear normal while my head buzzes w
ith the info that I’m a fruit loop, ‘have you heard what Ryan and those guys are blabbing about?’
Have You Seen Ally Queen? Page 8
