Because she cares about something else. The truth.
She wouldn’t accept me pretending. She made me be me. And if I wasn’t, she was disappointed with me. For not standing up for myself. Disappointed with me for not being me.
And suddenly I cared more than anything I’d ever cared about.
Truth no. 5. I care about being me.
And that’s my favourite truth. I can work with that. This summer, I cared too much about the wrong things. But this summer is over. And now I’m starting secondary school with one real ‘like’ (at least I hope I still am?!).
And that’s enough.
I’m stunned. She actually did it. The hardest thing. She stood up to Hazel, in public. She told the world the truth.
I know I’m in a museum, but . . . I call her. She picks up after one ring.
‘Lucy?’ she says.
‘It’s amazing,’ I whisper.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Sorry, I’m in a museum.’
‘Oh, okay,’ she whispers too, like she’s here beside me.
‘You did it, Megan!’ On the other end, Megan waits. ‘I was looking at my competition entry and I was thinking of all the lies that were told about Ms Cusack and how I believed them and how I’m so afraid to talk to my dad and then I read your blog and, it’s just so . . .’ I can’t find the word. ‘You did it. You stood up to her. Your way, Megan, not her way. Your way.’
She says nothing for ages, then, ‘So we’re friends?’ which makes me laugh out loud.
‘Yeah, we’re friends.’
On the other end, she squeals.
‘As long as we don’t hang out with Hazel next year,’ I say.
‘I promise,’ she says.
‘My mum kicked my dad out,’ I say.
‘WHAT?’ she roars down the phone.
‘He found out it was me, by the way, but she kicked him out so I’m not in trouble. And she got a job.’
‘Are you okay? Actually, wait there, I’m coming.’
I look into the eyes of the portrait of a woman who is not the real Ms Cusack. ‘No, don’t,’ I say. ‘I’m okay. But there’s something I have to do.’
I’m already up and heading for the door.
Dad is at the back gate at exactly midday. We know because he texts Mum to tell her.
We’re in the conservatory and I just told Mum that I want to talk to him.
‘You don’t have to do this, not yet, not if you don’t want to,’ she says.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say, even though I’m not so sure now that he’s here.
‘Okay, well I’ll talk to him first. You wait until I wave at you to come over, okay?’
I nod and she goes out of the conservatory and down to the back gate.
Dad’s staying at Oly’s. Mum said that she talked to Linda earlier and insisted that Linda make Oly come with Dad to stop him from barging his way back in.
But, really, what could Oly do to stop Dad?
Her shoulders are squared. She’s carrying two bags. I imagine him standing there, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for her to open it a little so he can push her back and shove in past her.
She puts the bags down to open the gate. I still can’t see him, she’s in the way. But he doesn’t come in.
I don’t know how to do this.
Megan stood up to Hazel. I want to do the same. Tell him the truth. Not just about the email, but the other stuff too. How he makes me feel.
Just the thought of it is making me feel sick.
He probably won’t let me anyway; he’ll start saying how disappointed he is in me. How he can’t believe how I betrayed him.
Mum’s already waving at me.
I can’t do this.
But then I notice my twelve-page picture, still pinned to the wall. And I look at the girl in the sterile house, staring at the woman painting.
I take it down, lay it on the table and roll it up. Then I make myself go out there, taking the picture with me.
Mum stays where she is. She smiles as I get close and holds an arm out for me. At the gap in the gate, she puts her arm around my shoulders and anchors me into place and the first thing I think when I see him is, he looks terrible.
His suit is all crumpled, like he slept in it. And he hasn’t shaved. I’ve never seen stubble on Dad. He smiles this massive smile that looks like it takes more effort than climbing Mount Everest. Mum squeezes my shoulder and I turn to her.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
‘No,’ Mum says, ‘I’ll stay and—’
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s okay.’
She frowns. She gives Dad a don’t you dare look, but she lifts her arm away and takes a few steps back. I turn to Dad.
‘How are you doing?’ Dad says. He’s trying to sound light but it just sounds fake.
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says.
Behind him, in a car, Oly pretends to ignore us.
‘Now, listen to me, Lucy,’ Dad says, leaning an arm on the frame of the gate. ‘I don’t want you to worry. Everything is going to be fine. Your mother and I are just going through a few problems and things are complicated both here and with work.’ He tries one of his You know what I mean smiles, like we are all in the same boat. ‘We’ve all made a few . . . mistakes, shall we say?’ He’s smiling and nodding. ‘But we’ll sort something out.’
He’s making a deal. He’s saying that he’ll forget all about me sending those emails and we can all get back to normal. Pretend nothing happened.
And it’s really sad because he doesn’t understand.
I look over my shoulder at Mum, who stops pacing and watches me. Behind her, the paint on the window frames of the top floor of Ms Cusack’s peels away happily in the sunshine.
Maybe he can pretend. But I can’t.
Reading Hazel’s diary wasn’t the right thing for Megan to do. But writing The Penny Behind the Pen was. And publishing the files about Dad wasn’t what I should have done either.
This is.
‘That drawing I drew, Dad?’ I say.
When I look back, he’s frowning in confusion.
‘The one pinned to the wall in the conservatory that you said was good but the rooms looked a bit empty?’
He thinks for a minute, then nods.
‘You were right. They were empty. But that’s the thing. The girl doesn’t want to live there. I don’t want to live there. I want to live in the other house, the one filled with paintings and books, where the air is soft, where I can breathe.’
Dad nods. He’s trying to understand. But his eyes search my face, like he has no idea what I’m going on about. How can I explain what I mean?
I’m using too many words.
I take a deep breath and pull out the only ones that matter. ‘Dad, I want to be an artist.’
And the way his frown lines deepen, I know he’s trying hard right now, but he can’t figure out why that’s important.
‘To me, Dad. It’s important to me. To be able to be me, without being worried or scared.’ Dad’s nodding furiously. ‘Here,’ I say, and I hold out the rolled-up drawing. ‘You can have it if you want.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. And when he takes it, I can see in his eyes that he has so many questions he wants to ask, but he doesn’t really know what they are. Even if he did, I don’t think I could answer them anyway.
I step back. ‘Bye, Dad.’
He holds up the drawing like he’s saying, wait. So I do. And for once, Dad’s lost for words. His eyes scramble the air looking for some. Then he sighs. ‘Look, thanks for this, and, eh, I’ll definitely see you soon, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Bye, Dad.’
ONE
WEEK LATER
THE NEXT CHAPTER
It’s seven-fifteen in the morning when Mum crawls into bed beside me. I’m starting school today. Mum’s starting her new job.
‘Scooch over,’ she says. ‘Sleep well?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘Kept looking at the clock thinking I’d set my alarm wrong. Reminds me of being back in school.’ She makes a face like that would be the worst fate ever.
One week has passed since Dad moved out. He calls me, tells me that his not being here is just temporary, until this thing with your mother gets resolved. Mum says he has one more week to give her a forwarding address, then she’s donating all his stuff to charity.
‘I wonder will I make it through my first day at work without throwing up from nerves . . .’ Mum says.
‘You will,’ I say.
‘. . . on my boss,’ Mum adds. She turns to me. ‘Whereas you are lucky, you and Megan have each other, so you’ve no need to be nervous.’
‘You’ll make new friends,’ I say.
‘I will, won’t I?’ she says. Then she makes another face, like she’s drinking sour milk. ‘I wonder will there be one colleague that I just can’t stand and need to avoid,’ Mum says. ‘There’s always one.’
I don’t mention Hazel. Too difficult to explain.
Dad hasn’t said anything about me wanting to be an artist. But he has told me he won’t be investing in any new developments until the economic climate changes. He still gets mentioned on the radio, but not as much as Mr Reynolds. BBR collapsed. Now almost every other bank is in trouble because of irresponsible lending. Or, to look at it another way, because of me.
‘I wonder will I get through the year without being the cause of another national crisis,’ I say.
Mum laughs at that. ‘It’s a tough one, but if you put your mind to it, honey, you may just be able to. How about concentrating your talents on drawing and making new friends?’
‘I have Megan to make friends for me. I’ll just draw.’ Then I think about other stuff I want for this year. ‘Mum? One day this week I want to call in to see Ms Cusack. She’s our neighbour. And she’s an artist. I want to meet her.’
‘That’s a very good idea. I’ll come too,’ she says.
‘I wonder will I ever have my own home filled with my own art,’ I say.
Mum smiles. ‘Of course you will,’ she says, ‘but first, you have to fill this one.’ She kisses my nose, then she says, ‘I wonder will this breakfast make itself.’
She hops up and rips the duvet off me and throws it onto the floor. ‘You know you are welcome to move back downstairs any time you choose?’ she says.
‘I like it here,’ I say.
Mum throws her eyes up to the ceiling. But she doesn’t realize what’s really up there. She thinks I just sent Dad’s bank statement, not the audio file. And I don’t tell.
It’s not lying. It’s just some things are better left unsaid.
‘Breakfast in ten,’ she says.
It’s after eight when the front door opens.
‘Hi,’ Paula calls out.
‘In the kitchen,’ Mum says.
Mum leans forward and gives me a squeeze. I think she needs it more than me, so I hug her back. She holds on like she’s storing it up. Then she lets go.
‘I’m so sorry I can’t walk you to school, honey,’ Mum says. Beside her on the countertop, her fruit and yoghurt are untouched.
‘I don’t want you to,’ I say. ‘I’m going with Megan.’
Mum laughs. ‘Fair enough.’ Her eyes move to the clock. She lifts her bag and grabs her jacket. ‘I love you,’ she says.
‘You too,’ I say.
She takes a deep breath. ‘Wish me luck!’ she says.
‘Good luck,’ Paula says, coming up the hall.
‘Good luck with school, sweetheart,’ Mum says. She squeezes Paula’s arm on the way out and runs for the door.
Paula starts cleaning plates.
‘Can we still afford you?’ I ask.
‘I doubt it,’ she says.
I guess she’s not here this morning for the money. I want to hug her too, but I think Paula has handed out her quota of hugs for this year.
She goes to the conservatory and opens the door. As she walks back, fresh air pours in. It rushes over the countertops and polished surfaces. She picks up my bag. ‘You should be leaving now too, right?’
I look from her to the open conservatory door. I let the breeze flow over me. It feels great.
‘Just a sec,’ I say.
I run into the conservatory and open all the doors and windows. Then I go back through the kitchen and into the family room and I open all the windows there too. When I sprint past Paula, she’s watching me with a question on her lips, but I keep going.
After I’ve done the laundry room, I race upstairs to the first floor and I open the windows that look over the backyard. Then I do the same on the next floor. And the next. Then I stop and think.
The cellar.
Taking the steps two at a time, I go all the way down to the ground floor, then on down to the cellar. I turn the latch on the only tiny window that sits at the level of the garden and push it back until I feel morning air on my face.
Then I run back to Paula and I take my coat.
‘The house needs some fresh air,’ I say.
‘I agree,’ she says.
There’s a strong breeze coming through the kitchen now. I follow it past the double doors into the living room and watch as it noses its way into the gaps of the cushions, and ruffles the threads of the carpet, and sweeps across the tops of the shelves, loosening and lifting all those lost conversations and unwanted words. I wait until it’s gotten into every nook and crevice and the air is as full as a dust storm.
‘I’m an artist,’ I whisper and my words spread through the room and jostle with all the others.
I go on through to the hall. The breeze is stronger here. It tumbles down the stairs and knocks against the door.
Paula looks at me, shakes her head in amusement, and then opens it. And as she does, the breeze roars past us, and all the words and sentences and insults and remarks that it carries zing past my cheek.
They soar into the air, up over the street, where they swirl and spin. Then a gust tunnels over the park and lifts our dust high over the city. And then it’s gone. All that’s up there is a puffy cloud, as white as a blank page waiting to be filled.
Across the road, a car pulls up and Megan jumps out. She grabs her bag, kisses her mum through the open window and crosses over. ‘Hey, Paula!’ she says, hopping up on the path. ‘Hey, Lucy!’
I turn to Paula.
‘Well,’ Paula says. ‘Ready?’
I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say, and I step down beside Megan. ‘I’m ready.’
Also by Sarah Carroll
The Girl in Between
TURN OVER FOR A SNEAK PEEK . . .
BEGGING
I’m invisible. Ma says I’m supposed to be so the Authorities don’t get me. She goes out into the streets almost every day but I’m not allowed. I’ve got to stay inside the mill so they don’t see me. When she’s going she says, ‘Stay away from the roof, it’s a bleeding deathtrap. And don’t go near them windows neither. And don’t even think of leaving this building or I’ll lose ye and I’ll never find ye again.’
Me and Ma are begging outside the mill. I’m by the door in the shadow where no one can see me. This is as far as I’m allowed to go. Ma’s out on the bottom step.
‘Spare change, mister?’ Ma asks a man. But I can tell from the way Ma says it that she doesn’t really care. She’d rather be in the backyard sunbathing.
It’s a sunny day, which means good and bad news for begging. Good news cos we’re not getting wet and people are happy. Bad news cos people always give more when it’s raining. They feel sorry for us cos they think we sleep out on the streets. They don’t know that we don’t do that any more. They don’t realize that the mill is our Castle and we’re safe in here.
‘Any spare change?’ Ma calls. There’s a woman walking past her who pretends like she’s heard nothing.
Ma flicks back her hair and ties it into a ponytail that reaches halfway down her back. She pulls out the
front of the top she’s wearing and blows on her chest to try to cool down. The pointy parts of her shoulders are all shiny from sweat and she wipes them with her hands.
Ma’s real pointy. She has a pointy nose and pointy ears. Her elbows and knees are all knobbly too. She used to be much pointier, though, back when we lived on the streets.
She’s real short. I’m almost as tall as her. But I’m not pointy. Ma says I’ve got a head like a basketball. That’s why I’m so smart, she says. Cos my head’s so big.
Ma says I take after me da. But I wouldn’t know.
She picks up the begging cup and rattles it.
‘Do we have enough, Ma?’ I say.
‘Nah, not if I’m getting batteries today too.’ She puts it down and leans forwards and looks down the street. Then she rubs the sweat off her hands on her jeans and watches the people passing again.
Ma calls the mill a poxy hole. She says she doesn’t know how we got stuck here. But I call it the Castle. It’s the biggest place we’ve ever stayed and I think it’s the best, even though it has boards covering some of the broken windows and weeds growing in between the big stones in the walls and the top three floors are so rotted that you can’t run across the middle of the rooms. You have to keep close to the wall and go real slow and be ready to jump if the wood breaks, cos if you fall through, you’ll break your neck.
Ma says it’s a deathtrap. But that doesn’t scare me cos if you fall, you just hurt yourself a bit, that’s all.
‘Spare change?’ Ma asks a woman who’s walking along smiling at nothing. She must’ve been daydreaming and didn’t see Ma sitting on the doorstep, cos she jumps back a bit and almost trips off the kerb into the road.
‘Sorry, I’ve got nothing,’ she says, and starts walking real fast, but even I can see from back here that her purse is bulging.
‘I’m bored,’ Ma says. Then she says, ‘Jaysus, it’s hot for September.’
The sun is so high that it’s right in the middle of the buildings, shining down the street. I can’t even look at the offices across the road cos they’re all glass, and the way the sun hits the windows is like daggers in my brain.
The Words That Fly Between Us Page 16
