A couple of seconds pass, then I hear the sound of Shane turning the deadbolt on his door. Of course, Lyyssa has a master key in case we try to commit suicide in our room and she has to get in, but Shane doesn’t know this. Lyyssa slowly walks back along the hall and down the stairs.
Chapter 5
I was wrong to say the Refuge is crappy. It’s a big old house with mouldings on the ceiling and marble counters and fireplaces that don’t get used anymore. Some rich widow left it to charity, along with some money, with the instruction that they be used to help needy children. For a while, there were more kids than rooms, so they built an ugly modern wing that doesn’t match the rest of the house. Now, only Lyyssa’s office and bedroom, the guest rooms, library and storage rooms are in that wing. There’s some fighting going on between the people from the Foundation and some people in the government over who’s in charge of the Refuge. I don’t really care about who’s in charge, but it makes me nervous. If someone decides to shut this place down, then where will I go? The next place wouldn’t be any better, and might be a lot worse.
Anyway, it really isn’t crappy. It’s just annoying sometimes. Like when Shane won’t shower and stinks up the place.
The lady from the Salvation Army who took me shopping, Major Heath, ends up coming to the shelter to make sure Shane has a bath at least twice a week. Major Heath is plump and has white hair, like a TV grandmother. Lyyssa thanks her effusively each time she shows up. They’re in the entryway, talking.
‘It’s my pleasure, Lyyssa. I seem to have a talent with children this age.’
‘We’ve got to get this hygiene issue addressed,’ Lyyssa says despairingly. ‘Otherwise he’ll have no chance of being placed with a family.’
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, having a glass of Milo. I’m pretending to read Your Star Signs, so Lyyssa and Major Heath assume I’m not listening.
A shadow falls over Major Heath’s normally cheerful features. ‘I don’t think we can pin our hopes on that,’ she says quietly. ‘That young boy’s faith in the family has been pretty thoroughly destroyed. Perhaps the best we can do is simply protect him from further harm.’
Major Heath sure isn’t wrong about Shane being completely mental. It’s not just showers he has a problem with. You should see him at the dinner table. I’ve never seen anyone so paranoid about the way he eats. Shane cuts his food into tiny pieces, makes absolutely no noise when he chews, takes a drink from his glass of milk after every fifth bite, then very carefully sets the glass back down on the table. Once, he knocked over his glass by accident and he sat there frozen in terror, like he thought someone was going to hit him. Lyyssa told him it was okay and cleaned up the mess, but she still couldn’t convince him to finish the rest of his meal.
Lyyssa mumbles something and follows Major Heath upstairs. ‘Where’s my handsome young friend?’ Major Heath calls out, and Shane comes out of his room to meet her. So as not to embarrass Shane when he takes his clothes off, Major Heath lets Shane go into the shower and throw his clothes out. She calls to him which body part to wash. ‘And have you taken Little Shane out and washed him, too?’ she says, without a trace of embarrassment, referring to Shane’s dick and foreskin. Shane mustn’t be circumcised. Shane even giggles when Major Heath says this.
This is the sort of thing that you would expect Bindi and Cinnamon to mercilessly make fun of, but they don’t. At worst, they just roll their eyes, as if to say, ‘What a big baby’.
Bindi is actually polite to Major Heath. She doesn’t overdo it, being a goody-two-shoes, but all her normal attitude is gone. It isn’t just that Major Heath is nice. Lyyssa is nice too, but she’s annoying and Bindi is as rude to her as she can get away with. It’s that there is never any hidden agenda with Major Heath. She accepts you as you are, and isn’t always trying to ‘improve’ you in sneaky little ways.
Of course, Major Heath wanted Shane to shower, in fact, she insisted that he shower. But Shane knew that Major Heath’s goodwill toward him wouldn’t change whether he stank or smelled like a daisy, so he figured why not make the lady happy and shower.
Shane has been packed off to bed, so Lyyssa and Major Heath come down the stairs. ‘Hello, Len,’ Major Heath says to me, pausing by the kitchen door.
I put my book down. ‘Hello, Major Heath.’
Major Heath takes a few steps into the kitchen. ‘Your Star Signs,’ she says, reading the cover of my book. ‘That’s pretty advanced for someone your age.’
‘I’m good at reading,’ I reply.
‘Will you be starting school soon?’
Lyyssa takes a step into the room. ‘Len’s meeting with an education officer next week. She’ll need to take a few more tests, and we’ll go from there.’
Major Heath pats me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be visiting twice a week for the time being. Let me know if there are any books you’d like.’
I thank her and watch as Lyyssa escorts her out the door to her car. School. That’s something I hadn’t put much thought into.
Have I ever been to school? That night, I try to remember as I drift off to sleep.
I’m playing with Kevvie. Daddy went into town and left me at Kevvie’s place for a few hours. Kevvie is my school friend. We go to kindergarten together. We’re playing in front of the house. Kevvie has pulled up some grass and leaves.
‘This is mull,’ Kevvie says. ‘We’ve got to dry it and take out the kif.’
‘That’s Silly Stuff,’ I tell him. ‘We have Silly Stuff at home sometimes. My dad’s a farmer.’
Kevvie laughs. ‘It’s mull,’ he says. ‘Your dad’s a cropper, like my dad.’
Daddy doesn’t say anything when I tell him what Kevvie said about mull and croppers. But I don’t go to school anymore. Daddy sells our property, buys one further up the mountain, and starts teaching me at home.
I wake up feeling like the darkness is suffocating me. My chest hurts. I turn on the light and pick up Your Star Signs. I’m halfway through and I haven’t really found a sign that sounds like me yet. I don’t know when my birthday is, but if I can find the astrological sign that matches my personality, then I would at least know the month when I was born.
The Cancer chapter was pretty boring. I’m not placid, maternal, and home-loving, like Cancerians are supposed to be.
I turn the page to the next section. Leo.
Leos are expressive, spontaneous, and powerful. Leos are straightforward and uncomplicated people who know what they want and pursue it with determination and a creative spirit. Cities: Los Angeles, Chicago, Rome. Herbs: Saffron, Rosemary, Peppermint. Colours: Gold and Orange. Birthstone: Peridot.
There’s a picture of a peridot – it’s a pretty pale green stone. Leos possess a positive nature and don’t let any adverse circumstances get them down. Leos adore luxury and like to live on a grand scale. When it comes to travel, first class is the only way to go and only five-star will do.
This is me.
I’m going to decorate my room in orange and gold. Or at least get a peppermint-scented candle.
I shut the book, turn off the light, and fall asleep straight away.
Chapter 6
Mr Brentnall sits across from me. He’s about forty, tall and lanky, with a pleasant, thoughtful-looking face. He’s wearing black jeans, Blundstone steelcaps, and a neatly ironed long-sleeved white shirt. I can’t work out whether he’s a teacher or a social worker. It’s his job to figure out which school I should go to and what year I should be in.
‘I’m not sure what to make of your test results, Len,’ he says, not as if this is a problem. His lack of curiosity is a relief. Most people get annoyed when they don’t know what to make of me. ‘Your mathematics scores are excellent. You didn’t miss a single question in the weights and measures section.’ Mr Brentnall looks up from the folder. ‘Did you do all the problems in your head?’
I nod.
‘I thought so. You didn’t make any notes in the margins or on the scrap paper we gave you. Your
reading comprehension and writing skills are similarly impressive. As for history and science . . .’ Mr Brentnall frowns slightly and shakes his head. ‘I bet you were home-schooled,’ he says, more to himself than to me. ‘These results don’t make sense otherwise.’ He closes the folder. ‘Anyway, you’ve got some catching up to do in some areas. But that shouldn’t be too hard.’
I tell Mr Brentnall that I don’t want to go to Ramsay Training Institute if it’s full of people like Bindi and Cinnamon.
Mr Brentnall looks surprised. ‘Why, Len, have you been worried that we were going to send you to Ramsay?’
I nod again.
Mr Brentnall shakes his head and laughs a little. ‘Ramsay Training Institute is a school for kids who’ve been in trouble with the law or who have serious behavioural problems. We’d never send someone like you to Ramsay.’
I look down. ‘It’s not just that I don’t want to go to Ramsay. I really don’t want to go to school anywhere.’
To my surprise, Mr Brentnall doesn’t argue.
We agree that I’ll study with a private tutor three days a week. If my progress is satisfactory, then I’ll begin year nine at a normal school at the start of the next school year. If I do well enough on my exams, I might have a shot at going to a selective school, where there’s guaranteed to be nobody like Bindi or Cinnamon.
‘We can discuss other options further down the line, when you’re settled in a foster home,’ Mr Brentnall says, putting my test results back into the manila folder. ‘There’s even some scholarship money available, if you’re interested in going to a private college, like International Academy.’
I leave Mr Brentnall’s office feeling relieved that I don’t have to go to school right away. I push the part about the foster home to the back of my mind.
Chapter 7
It’s a couple of weeks before anything actually happens. I fill my time reading the books I nicked from the library and taking walks through the neighbourhood. I overhear Lyyssa having arguments on the phone. I think she’s arguing with Mr Brentnall, and I think they’re arguing about me. Lyyssa’s voice gets all shrill and she keeps saying things like ‘importance of balanced and structured education’ and ‘healthy interaction with her peers’. I’m dead certain that whatever plans Lyyssa has for me would be a total disaster. Does she want me to go to Ramsay, where most of the kids are even worse than Bindi and Cinnamon? Does she want me to go to that snotty girls’ school up the road, where the mothers drive up in Land Rovers and Mercedes to pick them up when school lets out?
Fortunately, Lyyssa loses. I can tell she didn’t get her way by the tightness around her mouth when she calls me into her office, forces a smile and tells me that ‘an arrangement has been agreed upon’ where I’ll be tutored privately, and intermittently tested by the Department of Education to monitor my progress.
The arrangement goes like this. Three days a week I see Renate Dunn. She’s Mr Brentnall’s partner, which is how he got the idea for her to teach me. Miss Dunn is a professor of educational psychology at the University, where her office is. Miss Dunn is tall, maybe about thirty-five years old. She usually wears a black calf-length skirt with Doc Martens, a black jumper and a heavy silver necklace. I can’t decide whether she’s pretty or not. She has a straight nose, a firm jaw line, clear skin, and dark blue eyes, but she never wears any makeup. If she did wear makeup, get contacts instead of those glasses, and lost a bit of weight, she could look like one of those old-time actresses who made movies when they were black and white.
Miss Dunn’s office is lined with bookshelves, and she has posters on her wall, but that’s where the similarity with Lyyssa’s office ends. Lyyssa’s bookshelf is a brand-new metal one from OfficeWorks; Miss Dunn’s is a huge old wooden thing that takes up a whole wall. Lyyssa’s office is painted pale yellow; the walls of Miss Dunn’s office are a nondescript off-white. Everything on Lyyssa’s walls is meant to be instructive or inspiring; the stuff on Miss Dunn’s walls is there because it’s interesting or beautiful. The meaning of every single framed poster on Lyyssa’s walls is always summed up in a cheesy slogan. ‘Pot hurts’. ‘If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll probably end up somewhere . . . else’. ‘One Day at a Time’. God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference’.
There are no slogans on Miss Dunn’s pictures, and the point of the pictures isn’t always obvious. There’s a Japanese kimono on a hanger suspended from the ceiling behind Miss Dunn’s desk, filling the space between the two windows. On the wall opposite the bookshelf, there’s a framed Chinese character. I have no idea what it means, and there’s no slogan or caption to explain it. There’s also a pencil sketch of a building that looks like a church, and a photo of a sign taken in some tropical foreign country. The sign says ‘Commit no Nuisance’ in English, but above the English is writing in another language that has totally different letters. I bet it’s something funny, but you’d have to understand what the foreign writing says before you’d get the joke.
Lyyssa wouldn’t know any language except English. Miss Dunn would.
I take the bus by myself now, but first Lyyssa had to bring me here and introduce me to Miss Dunn. It was pretty embarrassing, bumbling into the parking lot in a van with ‘Inner West Youth Refuge’ written on the side. Then we had to walk across campus with everyone looking at me like, what’s a kid doing here? Naturally, Lyyssa took us to the wrong building and we had to ask directions from a mean-looking secretary who didn’t like being interrupted while she was photocopying.
Finally, we made it to Miss Dunn’s office, ten minutes late. I remember Lyyssa breathlessly gabbling an apology to Miss Dunn, and Miss Dunn sizing up Lyyssa in one shrewd, penetrating glance. Miss Dunn handed Lyyssa a list of the books I needed, then gave me a page explaining what she wanted me to read before our first lesson. Lyyssa and Miss Dunn talked about lesson plans and such, but I didn’t listen too closely to what they said. What they said to each other with their eyes and body language was more interesting. Lyyssa, with her stiff back and her fake smile, was saying, You think you’re better than me because you teach at university, but you’d better remember that I’m officially in charge of Len. And Miss Dunn, with her cool blue gaze taking in Lyyssa’s twee plaid tunic, was saying, You’re just a dumb social worker. All you do is put your nose in other people’s business.
We had to rush to the bookshop before it closed, then hurry back to the van so we could be back home before Bindi and Cinnamon. After we left, Lyyssa turned to me and asked brightly, ‘So, Len, what do you think of Miss Dunn?’
What’s the point of a question like that?
‘She seems really smart,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad she’s going to be my teacher.’
Lyyssa kept quiet for the rest of the short drive back to the shelter.
Chapter 8
My lessons are on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for an hour or two at a time, depending on Miss Dunn’s schedule. If there’s no one else in the lounge room in the evening and I’ve finished all my homework, I sometimes watch TV.
I don’t watch much TV, but there is one show that I like. It’s called Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law, and it’s about a woman lawyer. Fortunately, nothing that anyone else wants to watch is on at the same time. Bindi and Cinnamon always watch stupid stuff like Shop with LeeLee, the reality TV show where LeeLee Nelson goes shopping with the people who are her friends this week.
Clarissa Hobbs is a divorced mature-age lady, and has grandkids because she married so young, but she doesn’t look like a granny. Clarissa’s hair is ash-blonde, not grey, and her face has character lines rather than wrinkles. She dresses in simple, elegant suits and keeps fit by playing racquetball at the local gym, which is where she met her boyfriend, a handsome silver-haired lawyer.
Clarissa is from the South in America, but now she lives in Los Angeles. She comes from a rich family, although her family lost their money
when she was about my age.
Tonight, Clarissa is doing one of her pro bono cases, which means that she’s helping a poor person by handling their case for free. In this case, Clarissa is defending a young black man named Trell. He’s a gang member, and Clarissa knows he’s no angel. She’s helping him for two reasons. Number one, she thinks he’s innocent. Number two, Trell’s father has been on Death Row since he was a baby, so he’s had a rough start in life.
Trell has been accused of arson and murder. A fire broke out in a local convenience store, killing the owner who lived upstairs. The prosecution says that Trell set the fire as revenge because the owner accused him of shoplifting. The prosecution doesn’t have any physical evidence, but they do have an eyewitness. The eyewitness is Mrs Crabtree, an old lady who lives across the street from the shop. Mrs Crabtree was sleeping, and says she was woken up by the noise from the fire and saw Trell running away from the building.
Clarissa works out a strategy to attack the credibility of Mrs Crabtree, who is white. Clarissa, when she cross-examines Mrs Crabtree, casts doubt that Mrs Crabtree can tell one black man from another by asking Mrs Crabtree to describe Trell’s features.
‘Well, he’s black,’ Mrs Crabtree says.
‘And how would you describe the features of that gentleman over there,’ Clarissa asks, pointing to a black court officer.
‘Well . . . he’s . . . black,’ Mrs Crabtree says, squinting and looking flustered. You can hear a few people in the courtroom laughing quietly.
‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Crabtree?’ Clarissa says, with exaggerated patience.
Mrs Crabtree splutters and stammers.
Riggs Crossing Page 3
