by Darren Groth
Bright lights above. Hard cushion beneath. Clacketyclack in the ears. Runaway backdrop in the window. The PA announcement. My station—Wattle Ridge—is next.
I exit, jumping well clear before the door clamps shut and the train glides away from the platform.
Maeve, Digger and Renee haven’t had a lot of time for me since Liber8. But Rowan isn’t deterred. He still wants all of us to get along. According to him, we just need an outing with a little less intensity.
“How about we go to the movies? See the new Star Wars? That’ll be fun, hey, Munster?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, man. Caro would deck me if I didn’t bring you.”
“Is Renee going to be there?”
“Mate, don’t worry about Renee. We all love her, but she can be a pain in the arse at times. She knows that. She shouldn’t have grabbed you at Liber8.”
I appreciate his honesty. To fully show my appreciation, I decide to make an appearance. I’m feeling good. Solid. The connections with my team today, the absence of any bad moments on the tour, my assertiveness with the Coyote on the train home…the Fair Go effect is a thing. I had my fingers crossed it could travel; now I’m wondering how far it can go.
At the theater, it’s clear things are a bit icy. Maeve and Digger bring me into the chat, but more out of politeness than genuine inclusion. Renee says nothing to me directly other than “How’s it going?” I nod and smile. For Rowan’s and Caro’s sakes, I won’t make waves.
If my presence is awkward for Renee, it doesn’t register. During the pre-movie ads, she gives a standing ovation to a truck ad with talking bulls and then enlists Maeve’s help in outright booing a tampon commercial that calls for women to “have a happy period.” When the preview of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice hits the screen, she begins loudly suggesting an alternate title—Fapman v Supergland: Dong of Justice.
Caro leans toward me. “I know from past experience she can be more entertaining than the movie.”
By entertaining she means “distracting.” And I want a lid put on it before the words In a galaxy far, far away climb up the screen. Star Wars, I’m confident, will be plenty entertaining without Renee’s look-at-me act.
Turns out she’s on her best behavior and I’m distracted anyway. When Kylo Ren uses the Force to interrogate Poe Dameron, I wonder how he would fare against Infecto. As Rey smokes her attackers on Jakku, I imagine her receiving a Flo-jitsu belt as reward. Looking at the massive ditch surrounding the Starkiller Base, I figure they didn’t learn anything from when they hosted Expo. My attention, of course, is also at the mercy of Caro. We share an armrest, and every time she shifts, my level of self-esteem is in direct proportion to the amount of elbow contact remaining. When Kylo Ren gets all murdery with Han Solo, Caro grabs me like it’s a fire drill and my forearm is the personal possession she wants to take with her. She lets go soon after, but the mark left behind is a phaser strike. For the rest of the movie, I cling to the hope that another old-school character—Leia, Chewie, C-3PO, even Admiral Ackbar—will meet a shocking end. Sadly, they all survive.
“So where to now?” asks Maeve as we exit the theater.
“Across the road to Nitrogenie,” says Digger. “I’ve got a hankering for one of those lemon, lime and bitters shakes.”
“Yeah, I could go for a Pavlova Pash,” admits Renee.
“Hell, I could give you one of those.” Digger puckers up and advances, arms outstretched.
Renee shows him the hand. “I’d rather get one from Chewbacca.”
Rowan looks my way. “How about you, Munster? Keen to join us?”
The corners of my mouth turn down. “I don’t know. What’s your plan, Caro? You sticking around?”
“Nah, I’m a bit tired. Don’t like the look of that sky—reckon there’ll be some thunder and lightning later tonight. Think I might bail. Want to share a cab home?”
“Sure. Is there a rank around here?”
“There’s one just around the corner.”
“Cool.”
“You’re taking Munro away?” says Maeve. “Who are we going to show the sights to now?”
“Yeah, we had a whole thing planned,” adds Digger. “A river cruise, a dance at Cloudland, a trip up Mount Coot-tha.”
Renee huffs. “You used to be such a party animal, Munro. We don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I pout and feign shedding a tear. Their sarcasm is uncalled for, but I don’t give a shit. I’m feeling solid, and I’m heading home with a hot girl. And Rowan approves. He wanders over, eases between Caro and me, drapes his arms over our shoulders. “At least our Canuck friend here still likes one of us. Could well be some thunder and lightning this evening.”
I glance at Caro. She’s blushing, but she’s not disagreeing.
We sit apart in the back of the taxi. In the space separating us, we each have a lone hand, palm down, flat on the seat. The gap between them can’t be more than the width of a gum packet.
I blankly stare at our driver’s turban, trying to come up with something to say.
You remember the last time Evie tried to ride a bike, Munro? At the old racetrack, beside the rec center? She told you she was going to stay up. She was going to ride all by herself. You told her to climb aboard, feet on the pedals, hips locked and not all loosey-goosey like they usually were. You said you would run alongside for a bit, then you’d let go so she could stay up. Ride all by herself.
Evie pushed on the pedals and the bike moved forward. You told her to keep pushing, keep going. You told her to keep it straight. As the bike picked up speed, she asked if you were going to let go. Soon, you said. She asked you again. Just a little more speed, you said. Evie’s voice rose. Munro, let go! But you kept holding the handlebars and the back of the seat. That’s when she started to shout:
LET GO!
LET GO!
LET GO!
“You have a girlfriend at home, Munro Maddux?”
I tap my forehead, clearing space for Caro’s question. Rain patters on the roof of the taxi.
“Didn’t you ask me that already? Two weeks ago in Chemistry class?”
“I remember. And now I’m asking you in the back of a taxi. You have a girlfriend back home, Munro Maddux?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of.”
Caro laughs. She pulls on her seat belt, creating some give that allows her to semiface me. “Ever wish you had a brother or sister?”
I’m thrown. Where did that come from? Then I recall—I told her I was an only child. First time we talked, first day of semester. I inwardly sigh. This night was going so well.
“I wish I had a sister,” I reply.
“Yeah? Why so?”
“I just think being a big brother would be awesome. I would teach her lots of stuff, like how to ride a bike.”
Caro scans all parts of my face. “Wow, you’ve thought about this before.”
“Yeah. The last year especially.”
“Why the last year?”
I shrug. “Maybe because the idea of coming to Australia was starting to take shape. I figure it’s something my little sister would’ve enjoyed.”
“The way you talk, it’s like you know her. You have a picture of her in your head.”
I nod. “You think I’m a drummer short of a marching band now, don’t you? You want the cab to pull over so you can get out?”
Caro doesn’t reply. She lifts her hand from the seat and places it on top of mine. My heart quakes. My pulse is an avalanche.
She’s holding my hand.
She’s holding the hand.
LET GO!
I jerk out from under the gentle contact and press my arm against my chest. I await the inevitable—shock, anger, cold shoulder. I plow forward.
“Caro, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Honestly. It’s a reflex thing, nothing at all to do with you. Just a bad…association. I’m so sorry.”
Any second now she’ll give me the gears.
“I’ve blown it, haven’t I?” I say.
We stop at an intersection. The rain is sheeting down now. A soaked couple in formal dress crosses in front of us, arguing fiercely. Our driver honks the horn, to scold or to egg on—I’m not sure which. I zero in on Caro’s face. It’s thoughtful, then kind.
“You haven’t blown it,” she says.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, really.” She nudges the hair away from my face. “Renee grabbed that hand in the escape room, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She hesitates for a second, then lifts her dress slightly, exposing the outside of her left thigh. Though the light is dim, I can see a nasty scar several inches above the knee.
“A memento from one of my mum’s pisshead former boyfriends. One night he tried to glass her. I made sure he didn’t.” She returns the hem of her dress back to her knees. “I can’t hack it when it’s touched, even by the doc or the physio. I wear board shorts at the beach. I don’t really hate the way it looks; I just hate why it happened.” She unclips her seat belt, begins climbing over me.
“What are you doing?”
“Move over. We’ll swap sides.” After some awkward shuffling—Caro on her feet, me on my backside—we settle into each other’s previous spot. She smiles. “This is better, isn’t it? We’re on our good sides now, as long as you don’t have issues with your leftie there.”
I shake my head. Our opposite hands now lie flat on the seat, occupying the space between us. The previous gap has been restored.
Two other things happen on the trip home.
The first—Caro kisses me. On the cheek. Unannounced. Just as the taxi enters the driveway to her house.
Second—she draws a line.
“You’ve got a bit going on behind those cute blue eyes,” she says, exiting the cab to the final spits of the night’s downpour. She reaches up to thumb away the lipstick from my face. “A lot, actually.”
“That sounds like a let’s just be friends sort of line,” I say glumly.
She leans on the wound-down window. “We are friends. Good friends.” She nods toward my hand. “And when you’ve sorted some stuff out…”
She leaves the sentence unfinished and makes her way to her front door. As she disappears inside, the cab driver asks me where to next.
“Nowhere, I guess.”
I press the FaceTime icon. The electronic dolphin noises commence. Vancouver time is just after six in the morning, so maybe it’s too early to catch them? No, the shuck sound has begun, indicating a pickup. The video feed of my head scuttles up into the corner. My parents’ faces appear.
Dad sits to the right of screen, arms loosely folded, face drawn. He’s wearing an E-LIFE button on the collar of his shirt. Mom looks a bit brighter, but the gloomy, glistening eyes show where she’s really at.
“So good to see you, Munro,” she says.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called before now,” I reply. “I’m immersing myself in an awesome new culture and having the rad adventure I always dreamt about. But that’s no excuse.”
“It’s okay. We’ve been enjoying the emails.”
“Thanks for putting more cash in my account, by the way.”
“No problem. You can even keep it if you come home.”
I look from Dad to Mom, then back to Dad. Neither is willing to stare down the camera. “Is that the deal? You want me to come home?”
Dad rubs the back of his neck. “We heard from Nina Hyde that there’ve been a few…challenges at school, so…” He holds both hands up. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Whatever you want to do, Munro, we’re with you. We want what you want, son.”
“Absolutely,” adds Mom. “If it’s seeing things through, fine. And if it’s ending the exchange early, that’s okay too. We don’t mind.”
My parents’ faces. Trying not to plead and failing miserably. My mind strays to YVR and the night of my departure. It was like a scene from a Wes Anderson movie—all stilted conversations and uncomfortable silences. Dad kept checking his watch every ten seconds, telling me I shouldn’t leave it too late to go through security, there were always delays with security. Mom—she was worse. She drank a doubleshot espresso at Starbucks. She grumbled about the new video for the Foundation’s website being too expensive. For the hundredth time that week, she got upset that YOLO had been lax in confirming my pickup details in Brisbane. Neither one said they were second-guessing the decision to let me go. Neither one said they’d be counting the days.
The looks on their faces mirrored the ones I see now.
Go home, Munro. It’s what they want. Don’t let them down.
Again.
“It’s been a bit rocky at school for sure,” I say. “But I’m still going, haven’t missed a day. I’m in a better headspace now.”
I tell them about the volunteering hours, about Fair Go and the Living Partner role. I talk about the Straya Tour and the South Bank trip. I give a brief intro to my team, but I don’t mention Blake.
“Sounds like an awesome place,” says Mom. “Well suited to your experience.” She trails off, then forces a smile. “So how are things with the Hydes? Still going well? They seem to be good people.”
“They’re great. Not sure they deserve the likes of me, but they’re treating me as family.”
“That’s nice. That’s…nice to hear.”
Mom begins massaging her forehead. Dad twists the wedding ring on his finger. Outside, I hear the lock open on the front door and footsteps across the floor. Rowan’s carefree chatter leaks into my room, followed by Nina’s happy cackle.
“It’s late over there. We should let you go, I suppose,” says Dad. His chin quivers. Mom takes hold of his hand. “We’re sorry, Munro. Since Evelyn’s passing, we’ve been too wrapped up in the Foundation, not giving you the things you need here. No wonder you wanted to run away from us.”
“Dad, that’s not—”
“Let me finish.” He nods as if he’s been given permission to speak. “We’ll make good. We’ll be better. That’s a promise.”
“You don’t need to promise anything. You guys aren’t the reason I wanted to come here.”
“Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth.”
Dad tilts his head. “Be that as it may, we don’t want to be the reason you stay.” He brings his head back to center and lifts his chin. “Keep at it, son. Keep getting better. And we’ll do the same here.”
I miss Mom and Dad. And you, of course, Evie.
Can we really be a family? Just the three of us? We have to try. And if it doesn’t work? I don’t know. I guess we’ll always have you.
Why did you have to die, Evie? I think about those kids in the severe-disabilities class. Like Isaac, the boy who had seizures all the time? Or that girl Katie? She couldn’t feed herself or go to the bathroom on her own. I mean, I’m not saying you were better than them. It’s just…what quality of life do they have? Why are they still alive and you’re not?
I’m tired, not thinking straight. Been a long day. A mostly good day. And if my heart doesn’t give out, there’s another one tomorrow.
Goodnight, Evie.
CHECKESS
Ms. MacGillivray is staring, one eyebrow arched. She has her hands behind her head, pinning her ponytail flat against her skull. The bruise on her right bicep looks like a tiny swirling galaxy. Her teeth are clamped to the butt of a Bic pen.
Mr. Varzani—YOLO program coordinator, student-exchange evaluator, guest of Mother Terrorizer (Ms. Mac has a new derby name)—is also staring, eyes enlarged by thick yellow-tinted lenses surrounded by bold black frames. The Sussex High visitor pass on his shirt pocket is upside down. His pencil hovers over a clipboard.
Both are staring at me, waiting for an answer to their question. I pull a loose thread from the school crest on my shorts.
“I’m enjoying the experience,” I say, quoting the YOLO video I watched
last night. “I’m trying to make the most of every day, soak it all in. I’m not the same person as when I started, that’s for sure.”
Mr. Varzani puts his pencil and clipboard down, then applauds. For a split second, I think it will become a standing ovation. “That’s brilliant, Munro! That’s the sort of spirit we love, right there!”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Call me Craig.”
“Okay, Craig.”
Ms. MacGillivray takes the pen out of her mouth. “How about your midterm marks, Munro—how do you feel about those?”
I tip my hand back and forth. “They’re not great, but they’re about the same as I had back home. No worse.”
“You think it’s the best you can do?”
“It is what it is, Miss. I think it’s the best I can do in difficult circumstances. The language difference here is a killer.”
Craig squints, scratches his ear, then loses it as the joke hits home. His laugh is how I imagine the mating call of a lonely moose. Ms. Mac gives a thin smile. She closes one eye, taking aim again with her guidance gun.
“You in any of the music programs at all, Munro? One of the bands?”
“No.”
“Percussion group?”
“No.”
“Male choir, perhaps?”
“Only if you want it shut down.” I sit up straighter in my seat. “I’m more of a sports guy.”
“Well, I see you haven’t joined any sports teams either.”
“Nothing really stood out.”
“Cricket?”
“It’s got a million rules, and I know maybe three.”
“Rugby?”
“I think I’d rather stay alive.”
“What about field hockey?”
“Too difficult in my skates.”
Craig moose calls again. I’ll cut out the jokes from now on.
“I’m not against joining a sports team, Miss,” I add. “It’s just that my volunteering is sucking up a lot of time this term.”
“You don’t have to do all fifty hours before Easter. You’ve got next term too. Today is March 8, and you’ve already completed”—Ms. MacGillivray shuffles some papers—“twenty-eight hours. So you’re on track to finish by week nine! What’s the hurry? What exactly are you doing there, Munro?”
