My phone beeps.
Megan
I’ll be there in twenty.
She’s not mad at me! Whoop! I hop out of bed and get dressed. But before I run downstairs, I open my window and stick my head out.
The box is gone!
I really hope that means that Ms Cusack took it inside and not that someone robbed it during the night.
Paula is in the kitchen sweeping when I come in.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Well, good morning. There’s granola on the table,’ she says.
I want to complain that I’m tired of granola, but Paula will scold me for being spoilt. The world is filled with starving people. So instead, I shove a dry handful in my mouth and put on toast. I get the jam from the cabinet. We’ve three, four, five different kinds, and that’s not including marmalade. Jam’s going in the box next time. But I’ll do it in the morning just after Dad leaves for work.
Did Ms Cusack stare at the box for a long time, wondering who left it? Is she in there now having bacon and eggs for breakfast?
I chew another handful and look through the window at her bushes. It’s strange how two houses could look like each other from the outside but be so different inside. ‘I wonder if Ms Cusack is lonely.’
Paula stops sweeping. ‘Who?’
‘Ms Cusack.’
‘As in, Ms Cusack next door?’
‘Yeah.’
Paula purses her lips like she’s thinking about it. Then she goes back to sweeping. But I can’t get her falling-down house out of my head.
‘She must be lonely,’ I say.
‘Why?’ Paula asks.
‘Because she’s alone and no one ever goes in there and she never goes out.’
She stands straight again and studies me.
‘What makes you think she doesn’t go out?’
‘Because I’ve never seen her,’ I say.
‘What makes you think no one goes in?’
‘Because I’ve never seen anyone go in,’ I say.
Paula shakes her head at me like I’m strange and goes back to sweeping.
My toast pops.
‘Dad says her house is a state.’
‘Does he now?’ She jabs the floor with the brush like she’s annoyed. Maybe she doesn’t like me saying Ms Cusack’s house is dirty.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say. ‘I just meant, maybe she needs help or something. He says there are newspapers soaked in cat pee covering the floor.’
Paula attacks the fridge with the brush, trying to get as far beneath it as possible.
‘Dad says she has a few screws loose.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Paula says and leaves the room.
I think I might have upset Paula.
But she comes right back into the kitchen and leans the brush against the countertop and glances at the closed door to the family room. Mum must be in there. She comes closer.
‘What happened to your mother’s forehead?’
My toast is going cold. I pick up the knife and start buttering it. ‘They were arguing,’ I say, ‘on Saturday after the party, and she tripped. But it was an accident.’
Paula’s eyes are burning a hole in my head but I don’t look up. I’m saved by the doorbell. I run to answer, still holding my toast, and then, for the second day in a row, I stare at Megan. This time, though, it’s because I don’t know how to explain what happened yesterday.
‘Mum dropped me off,’ Megan says and grabs the toast from my hand and shoves it in her mouth. ‘So . . .’ she says, sliding her phone out, ‘I have . . .’ She makes a drum roll sound and crumbs fly everywhere. ‘One hundred and eighty-three likes.’
Her blog. It’s got to be.
Mum comes out behind me. ‘Ready?’
‘Hi, Mrs—’ Megan starts but Mum holds up a finger, like she always does. ‘Alice,’ she says.
‘Hi, Alice,’ Megan says.
‘Good morning, Megan.’
‘Mum,’ I say, ‘I’m not ready. I’m starving.’
‘So get up before noon one of these days,’ Mum says and pulls the door closed behind us.
‘It’s not even noon now,’ I say.
‘Well, it will be by the time you eat,’ she says.
Megan holds out the end of the toast. ‘Want this? I’m stuffed. Had a huge breakfast.’ She grins and I stick my tongue out.
‘We’ll get you something in town,’ Mum says.
When we walk past Ms Cusack’s, I see something on her doorstep.
I wait until Mum’s a few steps ahead and I dash up to her front door. An old book! Sticking out of the book is a note. I slide it out.
Food for the mind . . . A fair exchange, no?
It’s for me. I know it is. I glance toward Megan. She’s about to ask me what I’m up to, so I put my finger to my lips to tell her to stay quiet and then shove the book down the back of my jeans.
‘What was that about?’ Megan whispers when I get back to her.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say.
She gives me wide eyes, like she can’t wait, but then Mum turns to see what’s going on and Megan holds her phone up high, like she was having trouble finding signal.
‘Ooooh,’ she says, ‘one hundred and eighty-four likes.’
I know she’s pretending, to cover for me, but still, Megan is slightly obsessed with how many likes her blogs get. She’ll spend the whole day checking.
‘When you get to two hundred, can you swap them for something real, like an egg sandwich?’ I ask.
‘So why didn’t you make one?’ Mum says, completely missing what I said. ‘There are loads of eggs in the fridge.’
Actually, there are not. Not any more. But I don’t tell her that.
‘Did you write a new blog?’ I ask.
Megan studied writing at summer camp for three weeks. She already had the blog but now it’s more popular because everyone from camp shares her posts.
‘Yup,’ Megan says. ‘It’s called Penny in the Park.’
I grab her phone and read as we walk.
Penny meets three boys in the park. One has a guitar. By the way they talk, you’d swear Penny was going to marry Guitar boy. But then Penny’s T-shirt goes see-through after she gets hit by a water balloon and the boys get an eyeful of Penny’s massive boobs.
It’s funny. But . . .
‘It’s good,’ I say and wobble the phone in front of her face.
She puts it in her pocket. ‘Thanks,’ she says.
Something feels off about it, but I can’t figure out what yet, so I say, ‘Aren’t you worried that they’ll read it?’
‘Who?’
‘The boys from the park.’
‘They’ll never see it, will they? It’s just friends who read it,’ Megan says. ‘Girls. The others on the course.’
‘It’ll be fine, then,’ I say, flashing a smile.
Fine because she can’t get caught just bending the truth. Pretending.
That’s it. That’s what’s off about it. I mean, I get that Penny is made up. But she’s not, really, is she? She’s basically Megan but with the bits she doesn’t like removed, and other bits added. Like Megan’s life, just made better.
We cut through the university in the middle of the city, but Mum stops to look at her phone. ‘Actually, while I’m here . . .’ she says. She makes a call, chats for a second, then hangs up. ‘I’m just going to pop over there and meet someone.’ She points to a building with doors the size of a double-decker bus. Then she rummages in her bag and hands me a twenty. ‘I’ll be a few minutes. Well, let’s say thirty minutes. You can grab food at that café.’ She nods over my shoulder at a small coffee shop beside a grassy area with a few tables and chairs outside.
She starts to leave but then turns back. ‘Wait for me on the grass if you finish early, okay?’ she says. ‘No wandering.’
We watch Mum cross the stone courtyard. Now that she’s gone, I feel awkward again. Like I should explain to Megan what yesterday
was about. But before I can figure out what to say, Megan asks, ‘Want to go check out fake nose rings on George’s Street?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But I’m grabbing a sausage roll first.’
As we go into the café, I slide the book out from the band of my jeans. To Kill a Mockingbird.
‘What were you doing on your neighbour’s doorstep?’
I tell her about the box of food. When I look up, Megan is giving me this weird look.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You gave her extra food from your house? Why?’
‘Dad said she’s a penniless artist. I was worried that she doesn’t have money for food. And I think I’m right because maybe she gave me this book as a way of paying for it.’
‘You’re . . .’ Megan looks at the ceiling above the food counter. ‘What’s the word? Oh, yeah. Nice. You’re a nice person.’
I finally have some food in my stomach, so we walk out under the main entrance arch of the university. It’s busy. There are tons of tourists taking photos and shoppers rushing past and a homeless guy writing in chalk on the ground:
Don’t look down on others. I am a writer, a poet, a joker, a friend, a loser, a lover, an optimist, a nihilist, a man. I don’t need pity, I need a helping hand. If you can’t spare some change, spare a kind word.
I watch him fix one of the words that got smudged. He has a shaved head and a scar on his face, but there’s something soft about him too. He doesn’t even have a home or money for food, but he’s still saying he’d feel better if people were just nice to him. Talked to him. I thought I was being nice to Ms Cusack. But maybe if I was really nice, I wouldn’t have left the food there and run away. I’d have stayed to talk to her.
Beside me, a girl says, ‘Spare change?’ to someone walking past. She adds, more to herself than the person who ignored her, ‘. . . for the train.’
She has brown hair like mine. Maybe a year older. ‘Train to where?’ I ask her.
She looks surprised. ‘Anywhere,’ she says. ‘Once I’m on it, I can stay on all day.’
I grab a fiver from my pocket and hand it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she says. And she hands me something. It’s a piece of paper with a message. I hope you feel safe all day. I turn it over, but that’s all it is. A wish in neat handwriting.
When I look up, the girl has moved on, and I place the note into the cover of the book beside Ms Cusack’s note.
As I catch up with Megan, she’s slipping her phone back into her pocket.
‘Well?’ I say. ‘How many likes?’ I’m teasing and I immediately feel bad because I know it matters to her. ‘I’m sorry. About yesterday, I mean.’
She gives me an awkward smile and looks away as quick.
‘It’s just, I don’t think Hazel is always nice to you,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry about me. Or Hazel. Sometimes she just gets in these moods. Next time we see her, it’ll be different, I promise.’
I’m pretty sure that means she knows what I’m talking about. But I don’t push it, because her admitting that much is enough for now. Instead, I say, ‘Things are a bit weird at home.’
Immediately, she’s looking right at me. Because she’s never awkward once she can focus on someone else. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘They don’t fight all the time. But he gets into moods, you know? Because he’s stressed. On Saturday they argued and she tripped.’
We turn off the street into an outdoor market that sells clothes and books and jewellery.
‘The bruise over her eye?’ Megan asks.
So she noticed. I nod.
We stop by a nose ring stall and look at the fake studs.
‘Are they arguing a lot?’ she asks.
‘More since he bought this big new development.’ I think of the twenty-two million he owes, but I’m not supposed to know about that, so I say, ‘Parents fight, right? Do yours fight a lot?’
‘Once or twice a year, maybe,’ she says.
Oh.
She holds a ring up and looks in the mirror. But she’s not looking at her reflection. She’s looking at mine.
‘Once or twice a week,’ I say.
And before she drops her eyes, I see the surprise in them.
She plays with another fake nose ring, one of the round ones with a ball on it, before meeting my eye. ‘Has she ever tripped before?’
‘No,’ I say.
I hold her stare until she finally nods.
She picks up the one with the ball on the ring again and puts it under her nose. ‘What do you think?’
‘You look like a bull.’
‘I like it,’ she says.
‘Of course you do,’ I say.
‘I bet you like the tiny studs,’ she says.
‘So?’
‘So, you can hardly see them, what’s the point?’ she says.
‘That is the point,’ I say.
But Megan shakes her head. ‘You’re a quiet person. You need to wear things that are loud so they do the talking for you.’
‘And what does a bull ring say?’
‘That you’re tough.’
But I don’t think I agree. If you have to wear something to show people you’re tough, then you’re probably not.
Behind the stall there’s a girl sitting on a stool looking nervous and there’s a tattooed guy kneeling in front of her with a hole puncher up the girl’s nose. He doesn’t say, Ready, or anything. He just squeezes it and it goes clunk and tears start streaming out of the girl’s eyes.
‘I’m not crying. It’s just my eyes are streaming,’ she says.
‘I think that’s the definition of crying,’ Megan whispers. Then she wanders to the next stall.
While her back is turned, I buy two fake nose rings, and when I catch up to Megan, I hand hers out, saying, ‘So the world knows how tough you are.’ But what I’m really saying is, sorry about yesterday. I’m saying thanks too, but I’m not sure what for.
She slips it on and smiles with all her teeth. Then she takes her phone out and reads, and slowly, her smile is wiped away.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Someone left a comment on my blog.’
CHAPTER 10
Megan shows me her phone. It says,
Yes, I’m sure they were all absolutely shocked by what is under your T-shirt, Penny. Sorry, I mean, isn’t under there.
And somehow I know it’s Hazel.
Megan takes the phone back. She looks at me for a second like a flower that’s wilted but then she turns and goes out of the market. I run to catch up.
‘Megan?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says and shoves her phone in her pocket like that’ll make the comment go away. ‘It’s just an anonymous comment.’
No, it’s not anonymous.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘You’ve a hundred and eighty-four likes.’
‘A hundred and ninety now,’ she says. Megan slows a bit. I’m not going to speak until she does so I know what she’s thinking.
She doesn’t talk until we pass under the arch. ‘She spread a rumour about me once.’
‘Who?’
‘Hazel,’ she says, which means she’s admitting, in a Megan kind of way, that she also thinks Hazel wrote that comment.
We cross the courtyard and sit down on the grass.
‘She said I was anorexic and that’s why I’ve small boobs.’
‘What? When?’
‘Two months ago. Online.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Megan shrugs. I know what she’s saying. She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But by the way she’s hunching her shoulders, I have a feeling she’s just as upset about what Hazel said as why she said it.
‘She somehow always manages to point out to people that I’ve no boobs. Like the time she told everyone in orchestra that Double A bras really do exist. That’s what you wear, right, Megan?’
I can’t believe Hazel did that.
Actually, I can.<
br />
‘I’m small too, Megan,’ I say.
‘I know,’ Megan says.
‘And, Megan,’ I say, ‘I don’t care.’
Megan doesn’t say that she doesn’t care either. Because she does. She picks some daisies and starts making a chain. ‘She told me that it wasn’t her that spread the anorexia rumour but that she was worried about me because I looked sick. She said she would, support me any way she could.’
‘She said that?’ Spreading a rumour is bad enough, but then pretending to be the supportive friend is a whole new level of horrible.
Megan doesn’t go on. She just picks daisies.
Even though it’s summer, the campus is busy. I look at the building Mum went into. She should be coming out soon.
Megan places the daisy chain on my head. I smile but she’s already back to picking more daisies and I don’t want to make her talk if she doesn’t want to. So I take out To Kill a Mockingbird.
Does Ms Cusack know it was me who left the food? Why did she choose this book? I’m about to start reading the first chapter when the note the girl gave me falls out.
I hope you feel safe all day
All day. All.
Not I hope you feel safe today or I hope you always feel safe. But all day, as if feeling safe for some of the day is the best she can usually get.
I imagine her sitting on the train, watching the houses and the sea whizz past. Eating half-finished sandwiches left on seats. Reading the free newspapers they hand out. Counting the number of people in her carriage or the amount of times she passes through Pearse Street train station.
Did things get bad for her at home until it got to the point where being on the train is the best part of her day? Was it something big or did all the little things slowly build up?
And I think of Mum’s bruise and Ms Cusack’s empty fridge and the nasty comment on Megan’s blog.
I hope you feel safe all day. There’s a whole life in that word: All.
Mum is coming out of the building. I stick the book into my jeans. She’s with a man. She turns and gives him a hug. Then comes skipping down the steps and he stays there and waves goodbye.
‘Who’s he?’ I ask when she reaches us.
The Words That Fly Between Us Page 5
