‘I was just looking up a word,’ I explain.
‘Yeah?’ Miss Dunn says. Today she looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes. ‘What word, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Aspersions. As in “casting aspersions upon my character”.’
Miss Dunn laughs a little. ‘Casting aspersions upon my character. How appropriate. There’s certainly plenty of that in the academic world.’ I get the feeling that the meeting that she just had upstairs didn’t go very well. ‘Anyway, let’s get to work.’
After we’ve finished, Miss Dunn apologises for not offering me tea, explaining that she has to finish an article she’s supposed to write. I’m disappointed, but not offended. I’m glad Miss Dunn thinks I’m mature enough that she can speak to me honestly.
Not staying for tea and a chat with Miss Dunn leaves a hole in my afternoon. I decide to walk back to the shelter instead of taking the bus.
Casting aspersions upon my character. The phrase keeps twisting itself around in my mind, annoying me like the whine of a mozzie right next to my ear. Everyone else on the bus has probably forgotten about the woman who was talking to herself. So why do I keep thinking about that peculiar thing she said?
I’m at the top of University Road when it hits me. Casting aspersions upon my character was a line in that Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law episode that aired a few weeks ago.
I’ve just about replayed the whole episode in my head by the time I make it back to the shelter. It pisses me off that the nutcase woman who says embarrassing things out loud on city buses is a Clarissa Hobbs fan, just like me. One of the things I’ve always liked about Clarissa Hobbs is that no one else at the Refuge watches it.
It takes me a whole week to stop being annoyed about that. Fortunately, I never see the woman on the bus again.
Chapter 13
It’s a Clarissa Hobbs: Attorney at Law night, so I’m lying on Clementine in the lounge room. Shane is already in bed. Bindi has been sent to her room for the evening because she called Karen a fat little pig at the dinner table and made her cry.
‘Yeah, like I really care about being sent to my room,’ Bindi sneered. ‘Youse all suck, anyway.’
She scraped back her chair, practically threw it against the table, and stomped out of the dining room without taking her plate to the kitchen. As soon as the dishes were washed, Cinnamon went to Bindi’s room. The two of them are up there listening to music and laughing loudly. Lyyssa is in her office typing. Karen is sitting in her favourite armchair. I don’t really like to be in the same room as Karen, but at least she’s keeping quiet, apart from the occasional snuffle.
You know what’s really stupid? Karen’s crying because Bindi called her a fat little pig for taking all the mashed potatoes from the bowl before it had been around the table. If you’re going to get upset if people call you a fat pig, the sensible thing to do would be, maybe, go on a diet? Or at least not get any fatter. So what does Karen do? After she’s already eaten a huge dinner, she gets a bag of miniature candy bars from her room and starts eating them in front of the TV. I bet you she finishes the whole bag before the show is over.
After some stupid ad for a discount bedding warehouse, the opening sequence comes on, with Clarissa driving her BMW through sunny LA, Clarissa addressing a jury, Clarissa playing racquetball, Clarissa passionately kissing a handsome, grey-haired man. I block Karen out of my mind and concentrate on the story.
Sure enough, Clarissa Hobbs is defending Trell again, just like she said she would.
Last time, Clarissa got Trell acquitted when he was wrongfully accused of arson and manslaughter. This time, Trell has been accused of shooting dead a rival gang member outside a Burger King restaurant, and Clarissa knows that he’s guilty.
Even so, Trell won’t admit his guilt to Clarissa. He keeps crapping on about how he was with his girlfriend that night, but Clarissa isn’t fooled. When Clarissa threatens not to represent him, Trell finally comes clean.
‘So I did it. So what?’ Trell looks sullen and angry.
‘So what?!’ Clarissa shouts. ‘So you’re going to be on Death Row right next to your old man if you don’t take this seriously!’
Trell starts to look afraid. ‘You the best lawyer in LA,’ he whispers. ‘You gotta get me off.’
‘I can’t do that without your help,’ Clarissa says, her voice calmer.
They work out a strategy. Trell is going to admit to the shooting, but will plead self-defence. She’ll also try to stack the jury with people likely to be sympathetic to someone like Trell. ‘And we’ve got to get you a suit,’ she concludes.
‘I got one at home,’ Trell says in a low voice. ‘My mama can bring it.’
‘By the way, Trell,’ Clarissa adds, ‘you said I was the best lawyer in LA. Actually, I’m the best lawyer in the state of California.’
Trell manages a wry smile as he is led away, cuffed and shackled.
As the closing credits roll, it’s late at night and Clarissa is back at her office working on Trell’s case with a bunch of junior lawyers. They’re sitting around a huge table reading thick law books and eating takeaway food from Burger King.
Are there Burger King restaurants in Australia? If there are, they’re probably about the same as McDonald’s.
‘Is there a Burger King any place around here?’ I ask Lyyssa during our weekly counselling session.
Lyyssa is both thrilled that I’ve said something and flustered about what to say.
‘Burger King? Well! Um . . . let’s see. Burger King is an American fast-food chain, but we have a restaurant called Hungry Jack’s that’s the same thing. Why? Do you want to go there?’
So that’s how the whole damn Refuge got to go to Hungry Jack’s for dinner. Well, everyone except Jo and Sky Morningstar, who are boycotting Hungry Jack’s because breeding cattle to make hamburgers causes soil erosion and greenhouse gases. Honestly, I don’t know which is more embarrassing – being seen with the other Refuge kids at the Westgardens Metro, or being seen with them at Hungry Jack’s. Karen, instead of whizzing her pants, spills her thick shake down her front. Bindi, instead of being mean to Karen about whizzing her pants, is mean to Karen about spilling her thick shake. Cinnamon, instead of flirting with some store clerk, starts making eyes at some teenage ethnic guys at the next table who are all wearing Lonsdale tracksuits and baseball caps on backwards. They’re good-looking, but I wouldn’t trust them for a minute. They’re grinning at Cinnamon and saying stuff to each other in Arabic. Probably they’re saying, ‘Look at that slut’s boobs’.
Cinnamon’s so damn stupid. It’s boys like them who got arrested some years back because they pack-raped some girl and hosed her down afterward. They think every girl who doesn’t wear a headscarf is a moll.
I’m still safe from things like that. The guys don’t even notice me, because I’m still a girl, not even close to being a woman.
As if things weren’t bad enough, now that stupid LeeLee Nelson song, ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ is running through my head. How do you get rid of a song going through your head?
‘Karen, stop crying, it’s okay, I’ll get you another thick shake,’ Lyyssa is saying, on their way back from the ladies’ room, where they’ve been cleaning up Karen’s shirt as best they can. There’s still a big wet spot and the trace of a chocolate stain across Karen’s chest. Her face is as red as her hair and her eyes are nearly swollen shut from crying. As soon as she sits down, she starts chowing on the super-size fries that she left, even though they must be cold by now.
Lyyssa goes to the counter to get another thick shake for Karen and chocolate sundaes for Shane and me. I’m still drinking my Coke, watching Cinnamon flirting with the boys.
Bindi is staring at me. Why is she staring at me when she’s got Karen to make fun of ? I realise, with a flush of shame rising to my cheeks, that I’ve been humming ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’.
‘Hey, look!’ Bindi screams, grabbing Cinnamon’s arm. �
�Len thinks she’s LeeLee Nelson!’ They start shrieking, and then do a piss-take of ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ for the boys, who whistle and cheer.
I’m so humiliated I can barely eat my ice-cream when Lyyssa brings it back. All the way home, Bindi, who’s sitting behind me in the van, hums that stupid song in my ear.
I go straight to my room when we get back to the Refuge. I don’t even care what Lyyssa and the rest of these morons are up to.
The best way to calm down and forget about something unpleasant is to read a book you don’t care anything about. You don’t even have to read the book; just skimming your eyes over the text and looking at the pictures is enough. There’s a book called Japanese Prints that’s really good for that. It was in another box that came from the Salvation Army. The book is only a little one, only ten centimetres square. I snapped it up because it had a picture of a huge wave on the front, but the pictures inside aren’t as good. They’re drawings of old-fashioned Japanese ladies with small, squinty eyes who carry parasols and wear chopsticks in their hair, and Japanese men with really weird haircuts. When I’m in a certain mood, I like to flick through the pictures until I feel nice and bored and ready to sleep.
A Woman Strolling. Woman Holding a Comb. Surimono: Stretching Cloth. Young Woman with a Caged Monkey.
That one makes me look more closely. Animals in cages make me sad, even though the monkey is in a wooden cage, not a cruel metal cage. He’s reached out with one arm and grabbed the edge of the lady’s kimono, and she’s looking down at him. You can’t tell from her expression whether she thinks the monkey is being cute, or whether she’s annoyed that he’s got hold of her dress. I wonder if it’s her pet monkey, and whether she takes him out of his cage and plays with him when she’s not so dressed up.
This book isn’t working anymore. I’m getting interested in the pictures.
I turn off the light and try to sleep, even though Bindi and Cinnamon are still making noise in their rooms. I can’t stop thinking about those ethnic boys we saw at Hungry Jack’s. It’s because they make me think of something else, something I don’t want to think about.
I push it back for a while, trying to hear what Bindi and Cinnamon are up to, trying to think about the Japanese pictures. I finally give up, and the memory rises to the surface.
‘Can’t stand dealing with foreigners,’ says Ernie. I’m lying on the floor. I was colouring in my new colouring books, but now I’m just lying on my stomach, half-asleep. Reggie is asleep in front of the fire, as close as he can get without being burned. Daddy keeps having to pull him back so he doesn’t catch on fire, but Reggie’s fur is so hot to the touch that Daddy has to put on gloves each time he does it. Then Ernie laughs at Daddy. Then Daddy says ‘STAY!’ to Reggie. Then Reggie inches back toward the fire a little bit at a time when Daddy isn’t looking, then Daddy has to put his gloves on and do the whole thing over, and Ernie laughs at Daddy again.
Ernie spits into the fire and there’s a hiss. ‘Send ’em all back where they come from, as far as I’m concerned.’
Reggie creeps a couple of inches toward the fire. ‘Reggie!’ Daddy says sharply. Reggie pretends not to hear, settles his head on his front paws, and closes his eyes.
‘That is one spoiled dog,’ says Ernie. ‘One boot up the arse would teach him to do as he’s told.’
‘He’s not a working dog, he’s a pet,’ says Daddy. ‘It doesn’t hurt to spoil a pet.’ Daddy picks me up and sits me on his lap. I’m tired so I rest my head on his chest. He’s wearing a flannie. There’s something in the pocket that presses against my cheek.
Daddy ruffles my hair. ‘Two things it doesn’t hurt to spoil: your pet dog, and your daughter. With a son, you’ve got to make him into a man. But a daughter, you can spoil her and there’s no harm done.’
I’m tired because we just got back from Coffs. Daddy bought me two My Little Ponys, one pink and one purple.
Chapter 14
Karen is up early the next morning, probably for a doctor’s appointment. I hear her whining when Lyyssa wakes her, then I hear her clomping to the bathroom, then I hear the front door bang shut and a car drive off. I don’t know where she’s going or care whether she comes back.
I didn’t sleep well last night. I dreamt of monkeys in cages, of me standing on a table at Hungry Jack’s singing while Cinnamon and Bindi jeered and ethnic boys yelled Hose her down, hose her down.
My eyelids feel gummy. I don’t want to get up. I try to go back to sleep, but I just lie awake, miserable, and remember something else I don’t want to know.
The man in the flannelette shirt is cutting something into pieces on the kitchen table, which is why I can’t sit there to colour in my colouring books. There’s another man watching, and two yellow-haired women talking to each other and not paying any attention. I’m in the lounge room sitting on the couch being quiet. The man in the flannelette shirt puts the pieces onto a shiny scale the colour of pirate coins. That side falls down to the table. He puts a little brass thing onto the other side. Then that side falls down. He adds a smaller brass thing, and then takes the bigger one away. The two sides of the scale seesaw, then balance.
‘Never seen a scale like that before,’ says the man watching.
‘Belonged to my granddad,’ Daddy says. ‘He owned a corner store in Bankstown before the foreigners took over.’
The light in the kitchen makes the scale and the pieces of brass sparkle like the doubloons in the book about pirates, or the gold in the pot at the end of the rainbow.
‘Buried treasure!’ I yell, pointing to the scales with my Texta.
Everyone laughs, but Daddy folds his arms across his chest and says, ‘Possum, go outside and play.’
I throw the doona off, grab my notebook, and write down what I remembered about Daddy and the scales.
The shower’s free, so I take my toiletries and bathrobe. Music is blasting from Bindi’s room down the hall. It’s Saturday, so Lyyssa’s rule about no loud music on weekdays doesn’t apply.
Bindi and Cinnamon must have heard me going into the showers; one of them screams a couple of bars from, ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ over the music, then they both laugh. They’ll probably rag me about that song for a week or two before they get tired of it.
When I come out of the shower, they’ve put on some gangsta rap. They yell along with whoever’s singing about bitches and ho’s.
Lyyssa will probably tell them to turn it down when she gets back, but I don’t think I can stand it that long. I’ve got to get out of the house. I cram a book, my bathing suit, towel and all the rest of my swimming stuff into my backpack. It’s warm enough to swim and read in the park afterwards.
I grab a couple of muesli bars from the kitchen and write, ‘Gone to the pool – back before curfew. Len’ on the whiteboard.
The only stroke I like is freestyle. My swim teacher made me learn backstroke and breast stroke to get my certificate of completion, but I never do them on my own.
Lyyssa asked me once how many laps I do. For once, it was a question of hers that I didn’t mind, but I couldn’t answer because I don’t know. I don’t see the point in counting. Scott, the physio, tried to get me to start counting my laps and work up gradually, or at least time myself so that I don’t strain anything. But I don’t. I just swim until I get tired.
Stroke, two, three, breathe. Stroke, two, three, breathe. Don’t lift your head out of the water and gasp for air. Turn your head to the side, let the water cushion your head like a pillow, inhale. Look straight at the bottom of the pool. Stroke, two, three, breathe.
If you’re lucky, there aren’t any screaming kids splashing around or grannies puttering along at a snail’s pace with their kickboards, afraid of getting their hair wet.
Once I’m warmed up, stroke-two-three-breathe becomes pull-pull-pull-breathe. I forget about everything except the blue of the water and the taste of chlorine. When my left shoulder starts to ache and my elbows feel funny and cold, I ea
se off, then pull myself out of the pool and run to the showers, where there are signs warning that inappropriate behaviour will not be tolerated.
I think I know why they’d put a sign like that in the men’s showers. But why in the ladies?
At three o’clock I’m in the park with my swimsuit and towel spread across the grass to dry, when a shadow falls across my book.
The sun has dropped behind a tree. I could just move, but I’m getting hungry and I’ve already eaten the two muesli bars I brought. Where could I get something to eat?
I walk to Town Hall Station and fifteen minutes later, I’m riding up a long escalator. I go across a concourse with a newsagent and shoe-repair shop, then up another escalator. On street level to the left of the escalator, there’s a shop selling all kinds of kinky shoes and boots.
Kings Cross. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll just get something to eat, then leave.
I come off the escalator right into the middle of a fight between an Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend; she’s yelling at him about how he never does this and he never does that. I dodge them and come to the footpath in front of the station.
There’s an ambulance, and a small crowd. Everybody’s looking at a guy lying on the ground with his head in a pile of his own puke. He’s a young guy, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. His skin is pale and he’s out cold, but I guess he’ll live. The ambos don’t look too concerned as they lift him up and strap him to a gurney.
Nobody in the crowd looks too concerned, either. One blondish pimply flabby guy in a blue shirt is standing there eating KFC nuggets. A couple of tourists wearing sandals and bum bags are holding their cameras like they’re trying to decide whether to take a picture or not.
‘Hey, it’s something to watch,’ a dark-haired guy in an expensive-looking shirt says, with a shrug. The pretty, mini-skirted girl hanging onto his arm looks up at him and giggles. No matter what that guy said, she’d agree with it. Two Asian girls are speaking in Chinese or Korean or whatever, not taking any notice of the guy on the ground. Then the Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend come over, carrying on the same argument.
Riggs Crossing Page 5
