Now, Maybe, Probably

by Dillie Dorian

  My inner monologue ran out of steam. She’d just implied Jordy was going to be there, right? “If you’re going to be like that over him at the party…” Uncomfortably, it was settled. As annoying and entitled as Rachel could be, I would have to go to her party even if it was just for the expensive crisps and an out-of-hours ogle at the most beautiful boy in the world…

  #8 Now, Maybe, Probably…

  “…suuuuuuupercalifragilisticexpialiDOcious!”

  The rest of the family stared flabbergasted at the small girl who was stood very professionally in the middle of the living room with her arms raised so that she looked like the “Y” in YMCA, head cocked to one side, totally still.

  We’d never known Kitty to have any kind of talent. I know it sounds mean to say, but on a good day she needed two sets of armbands in the swimming pool, and couldn’t pigeon-step along the low wall outside the church without someone holding her waist.

  Frustratingly, it had been looking like her special skill wasn’t going to be intellectual either – she was an even worse reader than Zak had been at her age, and often accidentally said “twenty” after ninety-nine when counting to a hundred for homework.

  Prying Aussies should note that it wasn’t as if any of us had a problem with that – we were all complete failures where numbers were concerned, with the possible exception of Harry and Zak – it was Kit who didn’t get on with the idea.

  One of the girls in her Year 1 class had suggested she was terrible at everything (which at that point wouldn’t have been hard for an outsider to believe, as she was prone to putting her shoes on the wrong feet), and she had spent that entire weekend grizzling about how this Jade was going to grow up to be rich and famous, and Emily would be a vet or a lady farmer, and gave a whole tearsome tirade about every other child in her Year who I’d long since forgotten, even though she at least seemed to have a knack for remembering all their names. (Retrospectively, I reckon I should probably have pointed that out to console her, but it hadn’t been that obvious to me until I started writing this down.)

  What I’d said at the time was about how that Jade couldn’t possibly be going to be famous if she hadn’t even decided what for. (I left out the part about how there are loads of sorta-celebrities a lot like that.) My spontaneous logic had seemed to quieten her down forevermore, so I wondered if maybe she’d repeated that information to the ghastly girl and since been left alone about it.

  Here in the present, it was staringly obvious what Kitty was good at. I’d had butterflies all of my own ever since she’d announced that the Infants would be having an end-of-half-term talent show the next week – wasn’t she going to get her pout on about that Jade’s Hannah Montana cover, or Emily’s ballet dancing? I really should’ve been suspicious when she made mention of those things quietly over Monday dinner, but hadn’t thought anything of it.

  Now, Thursday, instead of having roped me into coming up with ideas after her imagination proved (well, it usually did) to be far too vivid to design a performance that didn’t need CGI, she’d insisted we all sit down in the living room and witness her “magical” talent show song. And it hadn’t been bad! It was great.

  “Well!” said Harry, expertly, when Kitty had finally lowered her arms and started to give us a similar uncertain stare to what we’d been doing. “You were brilliant! I’ve never heard such a little girl sing so well in tune. Well done, Kitty.”

  “It sure was magical,” sulked Aimee, who had obviously taken her father’s words as a personal dig of some sort. (And it was probably good that she had, as if we had to hear her sing her way through the Top 40 and back again while chatting to her friends online, she should at least be aware that no one was enjoying it.)

  “Excellent dancing as well,” said Mum. She put emphasis on the biggest word just as she usually would talking to anyone who was still learning to read.

  As everyone, including me, said their part about just how wonderful our private viewing of the Mary Poppins song had been, I was acutely aware that we were all trying not to say what we desperately wanted to (except maybe Aimee) – that she would surely win the talent show.

  We did not know that. At our Primary it had been tough competition even in the Infants. There would always be that kid in your Year who’d gone to gym since they were two and could do the splits, the flute-wielding child who’d look smug when they announced recorder club, or this one classically trained singer who wouldn’t join the school choir because their parents thought everyone else was so rubbish. It was only your typical working and lower middle class group of kiddiewinks, but just like anywhere, some people could afford to do “better” than others.

  Prying Aussies should note that we knew that better than most families – the memorial compound of me, Charlie, Shelley, Andy, Zak, Ryan and Lioum’s petty problems coming before anything Kitty had to go through. You would think that inclined Mum to buy her pre-school videos in French, or breast feed her until five, but for the most part that kind of thing never happened. Partly because we’d been so poor for so long that everything Kitty got was actually second hand with mothbitten knobs on, and partly because Mum doesn’t think anything her parents couldn’t give her is worth having (except, erm, well-fitting shoes and a tumble dryer).

  Kitty’s sudden, well-rehearsed rendition of a musical number took the pressure off us to keep calling her “little Picassa” through our teeth when she turned in another wobbly picture for the fridge – because, sure, we liked that stuff, but it couldn’t be good for her to one day be told by someone with less kitsch taste in art that she was not so great. With a little inspiration from Devon, we’d subconsciously figured that art was the path least likely to end in X Factor sobs, because it was a lot more subjective than just about anything else.

  So maybe it was a little selfish, our primary reason for being so excited about the song, but none of us wanted to be the second least successful sibling who was still kinda-sorta better at something than she was. I can only speak for myself, but I’m OK at creative writing and drawing – not the best in school, but the best in our family, according to everyone – and it would plain suck even if I was working in a bookshop while Zak and Charlie got to be a famous footballer and a star sulker (I mean, singer), mostly because we couldn’t imagine Kitty having any kind of job at all! Now, maybe, probably, she’d be a star on Broadway and I could sit and feel good about it while I served coffee in the library.

  I can’t find the words for quite how happy that made me feel…

  #9 Gunk! The Abusical

  “Euuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh!!”

  “What?”

  “Oh my GOD.”

  “…what?”

  The first “what” had been from Rindi, in answer to Chantalle’s surprised yelp. The second “what” had been from both of us, Devon, Fern and Dani, responding to Keisha’s disgust.

  “I thought something new was wrong with your face,” said Keisha, in explanation.

  We all knew better than to say it wasn’t very nice of her. Rindi knew we knew it wasn’t.

  “And what’s wrong with it?” asked Devon, who surprisingly looked more aware of the problem than we were.

  “Trust you not to know,” Keisha snorted. “Your eyelashes look like donkey shit.”

  It was maybe not a bad description. Dev’s naturally dark eyelashes had been so completely slathered in brown muddy gunk that you couldn’t really tell what colour they were underneath. It was just that I wasn’t about to say anything about it – well, not in front of anyone else, at least.

  Devon looked defiant. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s what I was going for. Now what’s wrong with Rindi?”

  “How can you not see?” tittered Chantalle. “Oh, silly question! But Harley, Fern, isn’t it obvious?”

  It wasn’t…

  “Rindi, your mascara’s all clumpy,” clarified Keisha. “That tutorial wasn’t meant to go with the crap they give away free. It’s for people who can afford proper makeup.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, did you lend Kay some curry to experiment with?” snickered Chantalle.

  My tummy felt tight when she said that. Worse than tight – their meanly meant words were making me feel like I’d had a curry. Yet I couldn’t say anything. I was glued to the spot and my lips felt stuck shut, even though I wasn’t wearing so much as balm.

  “Did you digest it first?!” shrieked Keisha, tipping her head back as she laughed and drinking up the glory of her oh-so-funny comment.

  “Eff off…” said Rindi, quietly. It was barely more than a whisper.

  “Sorry what?” said Chantalle. “Did you say vindalooooo?”

  “Eff off,” said Rindi again, looking like she wanted to shrink down inside her raincoat.

  “Speak uppa de English,” said Keisha. I couldn’t help feeling cynical. Rindi’s family had been in this country since like the 1960s, and she was the fourth best in our whole Spanish class as well as an amateur journalist – Keisha didn’t act like she could point to England on a map, and neither did Chantalle.

  “You know what I said!” squeaked Rindi. It was as if she was forcing herself to answer to them, though her voice wasn’t really working any better than mine. “You’re both total… shit. You’re shit!”

  The look on Keisha’s face right then was indescribable. Her eyes lit up with inspiration, and her mouth moved into a smile possessed. It was the same look really swotty types got if they knew the answer to a question in class. I figured she didn’t think it was a very imaginative insult, and might be about to follow with another slew of racial “banter”, but nobody was prepared for what came next.

  “C’mon,” she said to Chantalle and Dani. She and Chantalle walked away. Danielle looked uneasily at both sides and dashed into the canteen instead.

  Fern chewed her lip awkwardly. “Why are they suddenly so horrible?” she asked. It looked almost like she was directing the question at me.

  “They’ve always been horrible,” said Devon.

  In her eyes, very probably they had…

  “No, they haven’t,” I said. It slightly surprised me that I was able to speak, now. “Chantalle was one of my best friends in Juniors, and she used to collect Beanie Babies and want everyone to call her Ginger.”

  I couldn’t help giggling as I said it. She’d meant after the girl in As Told By Ginger, but it sounded bantery in itself right now in Year 9.

  “Keisha used to be alright, too,” said Rindi, coldly. “She went to my Juniors and used to have a Tracy Beaker haircut and scream at everyone, trying to be just like her.”

  At that I laughed double. It wasn’t completely bitchy of us, right? We’d all been silly little sausages in Primary school, and I couldn’t think of anyone who hadn’t. It was the only weapon we had against the sort of people who so fervently denied it. I wished I knew someone who’d gone to school with Asta, too. And Jordy!

  It was natural curiosity, that’s all.

  “So if they weren’t always this bad, then why are they this bad now?” asked Devon. “I always thought they hung out with us because they’re not that popular either.”

  “Oh, they’re popular,” I told her. “Well, more popular than I am. They do get invited to all the birthdays and New Year stuff, but I think mostly they just hang round us because we’re not judging them.”

  “Oh aren’t we?” sniggered Devon.

  “Well, we don’t judge them out loud and make them feel stupid in front of other people,” said Rindi. “Isn’t that the best you’re gonna get anywhere?”

  “But it’s not fair…” mumbled Fern. “I think they’re just good at being chavs.”

  It was a good point – probably the best point – but nearly everyone had started milling off to last lesson, and we’d all be late if we didn’t disperse.

  #10 Bumble-GRR!!

  It was probably the inexcusable bitching at school that set me up for an ugly start to the weekend.

  Zak had been getting on my last nerve since Sunday afternoon, raving about how he was finally getting that Nintendo Wii. It was supposed to arrive in the shop on Saturday, them having burned all the way down their waiting list to the disappointed January birthday boy. So all week, our little brother had twitched and danced and yelled about this present he’d been pining so long for.

  On Tuesday he’d dropped nearly a whole box of eggs trying to show Kitty a “real” talent – juggling. On Wednesday he’d absentmindedly left his coat at school and wondered why he was shivering by the time he got home. On Thursday he’d refused to start on his homework, which we all knew wouldn’t get done once the new console arrived, and on Friday he’d managed to aggravate Aimee again.

  “Daddyyyy!” I heard her shriek. The bathroom door clicked open and she was out on the middle landing in her dressing gown by the time I’d scuttled out onto the top one to better hear what the commotion was. “Zak was PERVING ON ME!!”

  Perving? What a strong word. Maybe I’d be naïve to say I didn’t believe that at eleven years old he was interested in naked girls, but I definitely didn’t believe he was interested in his naked stepsister. I was certain he privately hated her!

  Unless… My stomach turned over at the thought. What if he was like Chantalle was with Charlie, and he was only being horrible because he secretly liked her? What would we do THEN? Mum and Harry didn’t look like they wanted to get a divorce. I felt physically sick! Less at the thought that he (or anyone) could possibly fancy Aimee, and more at the effect this would have on poor Mum.

  I’d read about families like that in my magazines. Those were the stories Chantalle and Keisha would mock as “Disgusting!” as loudly as they could, as if they were scared anyone thought they were OK with it. Weirdly, it didn’t bother me a lot that certain step brothers and sisters happily double dated with their parents. It wasn’t like they were related. But I somehow didn’t think Mum would understand.

  All this flashed through my mind before Harry managed to leg it up to the middle landing to console his dripping daughter.

  “Aimee… sweetheart, what do you mean?”

  She was crying. “He was perving. I was in the bath, and the tarpaulin fell down, and I looked down to check if anyone was in there before I got out to fix it, and he was there and he looked right at my boobs!”

  “I never!” yelled Zak, from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s my turn to make dinner you know!”

  “He did, Daddy,” simpered Aimee. “He got a good long look.”

  I shouldn’t have said what I said next, but as the real story edited itself down in my head, I became indignant. It was just too much of a day for needless shaming. “Why’d you let him get such a long look?”

  “OH MY GOD!!” she shrieked. “HARLEY!! It’s none of your bumble- GRR!!”

  The “GRR!!” was blatantly because she’d accidentally started to say “bumblebee” instead of “beeswax”, which unfortunately Zak, Harry and I all found hilarious.

  “STOP LAUGHING!!” she bawled, as if she was four years old. “It’s not FUNNY!! That boy is a dirty perv and I don’t want him near me!!”

  “It is so funny,” snickered Zak. “So funny like your boobs!”

  He realised in an instant that he’d just said that right in front of Aimee’s dad – his own stepdad who had the right to punish him virtually any way that was legal.

  “Zak,” said Harry, in a warning tone. “You just told me you didn’t see anything.”

  “Right,” said Zak, uncomfortably. “I didn’t. I don’t know what they look like! I bet they’re all round and bouncy and not triangular at all. I’m sorry, I know they’re- they’re not funny. They’re probably not funny! I didn’t see anything.”

  It was Aimee’s turn to look uncomfortable. She probably didn’t want to divulge the round or triangularness of her boobs in front of her own dad.

  Harry looked equally prickled. “OK, well this is none of my business. Aimee – I’ll get you some tacks for the tarp. Zak – I’ll see you in my office in five minutes.”

&n
bsp; “What’re you looking at?” snarled Aimee, when the men were gone. “Are you some lesbo hoping for a peek as well?”

  “No!” I snapped. “Why do you have to make such a huge deal out of everything? It was peaceful in this house until you came along. Zak didn’t do anything, and who cares if he saw your boobs? I bet he didn’t want to. The poor kid’s probably scarred for life.”

  “He’s probably going to grow into a weird rapist freak, you mean!” she lamented.

  “No he isn’t,” I groaned. “I understand that it’s embarrassing and stuff, but-”

  “OH. My God. Has he seen yours too? Am I his second offence? Is he a serial sister… looker?”

  “No, he hasn’t-!” I started. Then I realised I wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d seen my chest since the sort of age when you’re not meant to see your sister’s chest. How would I know? It hadn’t been recently, and I knew that if it had it would be mortifying, but when I was nine me and Mum were still occasionally letting him or Charlie into the bathroom to wee while we were bathing. I used to put a flannel in my lap, and I hadn’t really got any boobs at the time. I hadn’t got any now, by normal people’s standards, but I remembered that in Juniors me and Charlie weren’t really embarrassed about that kind of thing until Year 5 when Chantalle flat-out told us we needed to be. My anger at Chantalle boiled over right then, and came out all over Aimee. “Zak hasn’t seen anyone’s boobs in quite a while, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about yours! You think you’re something super special, but actually not everyone’s gagging for a glimpse of any part of you. Stop turning everything into something it’s not!”

  “Except they are,” sniffed Aimee, and I didn’t get to find out what she meant by that because Harry had reappeared with the tacks and tarpaulin.

  “Don’t worry, Aims,” he said, smart-casually calmly. “I’ll have a word with Zak. Let me pin that tarp back down and you’ll be able to warm your bath back up and relax.”