Six Impossible Things

by Fiona Wood

  Howard is partly responsible, though definitely not to blame. He must have spent a lot of time stuck inside. And by the time Adelaide died, she was using a potty at night. Fair enough, too – it would have been a major hike to the bathroom for a ninety-one year old. Also there were a few cats. The whole gang pretty much treated the house as one big toilet. The cats have scrammed.

  Everything needs to be steam cleaned. My mother is fighting with the Historic Homes Trust about who should pay. ‘They’ll bloody own it all one day, why the hell shouldn’t they cough up for freaking maintenance?’

  ‘No freaking reason in the bloody world,’ I said. It really killed me when she used her polite mother swearwords.

  She smiled at my amusement. ‘I’m a little overwrought.’

  ‘You can’t tell.’

  That cheered her up a bit. Some people don’t think sarcasm is funny, but we do, in our family. Our shrunken-up family. Our one-third-less-than-it-used-to-be family.

  If you’re wondering how my mother is coping with the whole gay husband thing, she seems semi-okay. But it’s hard to know for sure. Any time I ask how she’s feeling, she deflects with flippancy. ‘Spurned, but strong’, she’ll say, or ‘bitter, but adjusting’, ‘hurt, but not vengeful’ . . .

  At least here I can’t hear her crying at night.

  I haven’t heard anything from next door through the party wall either, despite pressing my ear to every accessible section of it before remembering that the paint is probably original and lead-based, therefore toxic. Possible lingering death added to my list of medium-term concerns.

  The only noise I’ve heard is a kind of scratching and bumping from the attic sometimes.

  I’ve investigated the noises and found certain unexpected things up there. When I found what I found, I had a choice. I may have made the wrong choice. Twice. And I’m still trying to figure out why I did what I did.

  I’ve talked it over with Howard. I wish I knew what he thought. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a disapproval vibe. Hard to tell. I’m still at beginner-level dog, though he’s clearly fluent in human. And I don’t just mean English. He reads minds. It’s unnerving.

  My mother can be helpful when it comes to moral conundrums, but she’s been missing in action lately, because of dealing with the break-up and trying to set up her business. That was another battle with the ‘bloody Historic Homes Trust’.

  She had to change the kitchen around a bit – get some shelves built, have an industrial oven and fridge installed . . .

  ‘And I hope we’ve seen the last of the rodents,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention that if you happen to meet any customers, Dan.’

  ‘Even I know rats aren’t a plus for a food business,’ I said, mildly offended.

  ‘Please don’t even say that word! I’m still traumatised.’

  She’s going to be making wedding cakes. It wouldn’t occur to everyone in the throes of a marriage breakdown, but we do irony in this house in addition to sarcasm.

  5

  I OPEN THE DOOR to Fred – bespectacled, bepimpled, smiling Fred.

  ‘My friend,’ I say.

  A long pause.

  ‘My rock’n’roll friend,’ he responds.

  We kill ourselves laughing. It’s so good to see him.

  The greeting is from a Go-Betweens song my mother used to play in the car when she drove us home from school. There’s a verrry long beat between the two lines, and for no good reason waiting for that second line used to really crack us up when we were little.

  Then my mother would start laughing too and say, ‘Have some respect. That’s one of my favourite bands.’ It’s a cold shock, remembering when she was really happy, versus now – brave smiles when she can manage them, grim when she thinks I’m not looking.

  I stand back and let Fred in.

  He hits the wall of smell.

  ‘Man, that’s bad. I thought you must have been exaggerating.’

  ‘It’s worst for the first five minutes, then you start numbing out.’

  We pause in the hallway, coming into range of my mother on the phone. ‘. . . what do you suggest I feed him on? He’s a growing boy. And it still costs money, Rob, wherever he’s at school.’

  Fred and I look at each other. I clear my throat. In front of anyone else that would have been really embarrassing.

  ‘It doesn’t stay this bad,’ he mutters. ‘The first few months are the worst.’

  I steer us into the front sitting rooms. It’s like a museum here. Like three huge houses’ contents swallowed by one huge house.

  With a sweeping gesture to the burdened mantelpiece, I say, ‘Objects d’art, Fred, feast your eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, ’cause the nose sure isn’t. Feasting.’

  I draw back the faded velvet curtain to throw some more light on the scene.

  Fred takes a look around. ‘Holy moley. I’ve never seen this much . . . stuff.’

  I run through a few of the items. ‘Japanned regency armchairs with squab cushions –’

  ‘Someone Japanned them? Since when is Japan a verb?’

  ‘It’s a lacquer finish. And squab –’

  ‘What the cushions are stuffed with.’

  ‘Feathers of. There are no actual dead squabs in the cushions.’

  Fred punches me.

  ‘I realise that, smartarse.’

  There’s nothing more satisfying than being stupid with a friend. Except an Estelle sighting. It feels weird there’s a whole Estelle ‘thing’ that Fred doesn’t know about. I’m not ready to tell him yet.

  ‘This is an English Pembroke table with perimeter decoration of inlaid boxwood. And this bulgy number is a boulle tea-caddy,’ I say, remembering what Posy told me.

  ‘What’s fricken boulle?’ Fred wants to know.

  ‘Tortoiseshell with decorative brass inlay. Named after the guy who invented it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And check this out.’ I take Fred over to the desk. ‘Rococo ormolu mounts – that’s gold-plated brass – and look underneath it ...’

  Fred gets on the floor and looks underneath the desk.

  ‘It’s not finished very well. It’s really rough,’ he says.

  ‘A telltale sign of authenticity. The reproductions are smoother underneath.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘More than fifty grand.’

  I see Fred’s fiendish mind cranking over.

  ‘So we could flog this, substitute a copy and get fake ID, plane tickets to LA, fake drivers’ licences, and drive across America to New York, have ourselves a time, and be back in time for Year Ten. What do you say?’

  ‘Yeah, one little flaw – we can’t fake drive.’

  ‘We’d learn how in the wide open spaces.’

  ‘Do you want to see my room?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We head upstairs. Howard trots up after us.

  My bedroom is on the top floor, at the back of the house. It has two sets of tall casement windows, with a tree right outside. While Fred canvasses Howard’s range of tricks – sit and roll over – and gets to know him, I’m thinking if I were in a film, there would come a time I’d swing out the window and climb down the tree. But this is life and I’m not that keen to break my neck so I use the stairs. And it’s not as though my social life is so hectic I have to sneak out or anything. My mother would be relieved if I got asked out anywhere – she’d help me get there. She’s consumed with guilt about me having to leave my school because of our financial crash. Because I’m smart and whatever. Extension this, acceleration that. You know the drill.

  But in all the time I’ve spent hibernating in that creaking iron bed, buried under piles of old paisley eiderdowns whose faded colours have sopped up my sorry tears, I’ve realised this is my big chance to renovate the old image and keep it on the down low about being so smart. I can always do my accelerating in private, or just slow down for a bit. Cruise, coast, tread water – stop, preferably not sink
. . .

  Fred is snapping his fingers in my face.

  ‘Come back, you’ve got the retarded zombie look,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked you how you’re feeling about tomorrow.’

  ‘Like crap.’

  Fred nods. ‘I’m sorry I had to go away when I did. Have you spoken to your dad yet?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s not because he’s gay; it’s because he’s shot through and upset Mum . . .’

  Fred understands. ‘I know you’re not some redneck homophobe, Dan.’

  ‘It’s just so weird – my dad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘My dad is gay.’ I hear the disbelief in my own voice. It still hasn’t properly sunk in, but it’s a relief saying it out loud.

  ‘I did a bit of research in London. It’s more common than you’d think. The apparently heterosexual parent . . . you know.’

  There’s no topic that Fred is squeamish about. He’s a scientist. Always happy to apply the chloroform and start dissecting. This is still too raw for me, though, and I can tell he gets that. He’s opening the door, but not barging in.

  ‘Come round after school if you feel like it. I don’t start till Tuesday. Plan B reckons I need a haircut.’

  ‘She’s wrong,’ I say.

  ‘I brought you back something. Don’t hyperventilate, it’s a British Museum pencil.’

  I smile, but now I’m starting to feel seriously sick about tomorrow. I know because of seeing her that first time in her uniform that Estelle goes to my new school. What if I’m in her class? What if I’m not? What’s better: terror or disappointment?

  6

  IT FEELS AS THOUGH I’m thinking about Estelle most of the time. As though someone has changed my default setting to ‘Estelle’ without my permission, or she’s become my brain’s screen saver. Desire has merged with a (completely alien) noble feeling of wanting to be able to offer Estelle my absolutely best self. The power of this is undercut by not really knowing what my best self is. But it’s got to be more than the current sum of parts.

  All this churning and I haven’t even met her. What’s she going to think about me? Uncool me? Trying-to-hide-the-nerd me?

  It’s worse than just not being cool. As well as that I’m going through an awkward transitional stage. It’s not that I’m ugly. I’m pretty sure I’m not. I’m tall and on the thin side. And I’ve grown a lot lately but haven’t exactly filled out. I’ve asked my mother for protein powder but you can imagine, what with the family budget – zero – and her short fuse these days, I didn’t get a positive response. Then there’s the fact that my girl experience is on the low side – or, more accurately, zero. I’ve never even kissed a girl. And I’m nearly fifteen.

  My mother hands me a lunch bag, looks up – yeah, I’m taller than she is – and says, worried, ‘Just be yourself.’ Myself. My ‘self ’? I don’t really have a clue who that self is. It’s like some kind of amorphous blob I’m trying to make into a better shape. I just know the bits I don’t want to broadcast to a group of strangers.

  1 Loser.

  2 Nerd.

  3 Gay dad.

  4 Single mum, question mark over mental stability.

  5 No cash.

  6 Private school refugee.

  I don’t want to be judged or pitied, I just want to stay under the radar while I look around.

  At my old school there was the usual assortment of jocks, try-hards, nerds, hard-cores and cool groups. Then there were the odd socks, like me. Technically, I qualified for the nerds, but no way was I going to dock there.

  Being left over is not a hugely bonding characteristic, so it’s pure good luck that me and Fred turned out to be friends.

  You probably think if I’m so smart, why did I even have to leave the school, why wasn’t I on a scholarship? I was, but it only paid for half the fees. My mother went to explain the family situation and see if they’d like to give me a full scholarship. They declined.

  ‘Their loss,’ she said. But I could tell she was cut up about it.

  The headmaster said they’d only be able to give a full scholarship to an all-rounder. He may have been referring obliquely to my lack of sporting prowess. Also, private schools are big on you contributing to ‘school life’, stuff like music and debating. And I don’t talk that much at school.

  I’m here way too soon.

  Walking in is gruelling. I don’t know a single person. I feel like a lemon rolling down the apple chute. I feel like turning around and going home.

  But I brace myself. Not everyone gets a shot at the fresh start. I can be anyone I want to be. ‘Shy’, ‘uncool’, ‘nerd’ – I can peel those labels off and flick them into the past. Who knows, maybe I’ll fit right in? I can be an apple.

  I hear someone yell out, ‘Dickhead. Hey, you. Dickhead.’

  I look around.

  Why? Why would I do that?

  There is an eruption of hysteria from the person who yelled out and his friends.

  ‘Yeah, just checking it was you, dickhead.’

  They are amused. It’s a good start to their day. There’s hooting and back slapping all round.

  Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

  It could have been worse, I figure, Estelle could have seen it. And right on cue, as I turn and head for the main building, there she is, with two friends. No way they could have missed it.

  So it’s terror, not disappointment. Estelle is in my Year Nine homeroom. So is the dickhead guy. His name is Jason Doyle, with the nauseating nickname ‘Jayzo’.

  The class has divided itself into legible groups: Jayzo and his crew, the alpha males; the cool group – creative interpretation of uniform, ignoring the new boy; some friendly-looking freaks who nod their welcome – lots of time spent on torturing hair, and piercings; a cluster of nerds talking about maths; the blondes, in a teen-America time warp. Why hasn’t anyone told them that’s (no way) (omigod) (only) (like) (so) (totally) (random) (gay) and (way) (not) (cool) or (whatever)? I’ve tuned in. They use about twenty transposable words in all – quite efficient, I guess. The last pod is beautiful Estelle and her two beautiful friends floating above the rabble with their detached expressions and quiet, vital chat. And there are plenty of plasma kids – first-impression: nondescript filler.

  No matter how hard they try to be different, all the groups have one thing in common – each-otherness – something I’m conspicuously lacking in.

  In the post-bell, pre-teacher squall, I watch Jayzo offering up an admittedly impressive wall of abdominal muscles to be punched. What a pitiful show-off. I think of my own flat, but lacking-in-definition abs with a pang of gaping inadequacy. I have to do something about that.

  ‘Nuh, didn’t feel it,’ he says to Dannii, one of the transposable bracket girls. ‘Put your shoulder into it.’

  ‘No way,’ she giggles.

  ‘Hard as you can. What are you scared of – breaking your hand?’

  She does another pathetic little punch and giggle routine.

  ‘You are like so totally buff!’

  ‘Go on, harder.’ He notices me looking at them. ‘What are you looking at, faggot? Never seen a six-pack before?’

  I turn away.

  ‘Dickhead, I’m talking to you.’

  As if I’m going to fall for that one twice.

  The homeroom teacher hurries in at this opportune moment. He scans the group, not looking at all sure that he recognises any of them.

  ‘We have a new student starting today. Are you here . . .’ he consults a note, ‘Dan Cereal?’

  Some sniggers at the name.

  ‘Cereill,’ I say. ‘It’s pronounced “surreal”.’

  He touches his tongue to the trim under-edge of his moustache and sizes me up. Am I a troublemaker? Am I ridiculing him? He can’t decide.

  ‘If you prefer,’ he says. ‘Cereill it is.’

  Yes, I prefer my name pronounced properly. Call me crazy.

  He na
sal drones his way through the roll. Estelle’s friends are called Uyen Nguyen and Janie Bacon.

  There’s more to my social failures than not having kissed a girl and having no discernible abs. I don’t even know any girls. And even way back in primary school when I did know some, I was never on their wavelength.

  I was shy and my mother used to tell me to ‘just join in’. But that didn’t work so well for me. It still embarrasses me remembering some of my terminal clangers. One time in grade five I was sitting next to a girl I liked, psyching myself to say something, anything, when she started speaking to me.

  ‘There’s this sky I really like,’ she whispered. We were supposed to be drawing a map of national park areas in the Northern Territory.

  ‘There’s this sky I like too,’ I said, joining in. ‘It’s right after a storm, with the sun behind rain clouds, and the colour is like dark grey trying to be purple.’

  ‘Guy. Not sky. He’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’

  But clearly the time for sharing was over.

  ‘Just forget it.’

  She turned her back to me, pointing her knees out to the aisle. Neither of us could believe how stupid I was.

  It’s been pretty much all downhill from there.

  And now my plan to avoid nerd and private school refugee status is being dismantled by one careless comment from the teacher.

  ‘Your academic record at Gresham is very impressive, Mr Cereill. Let’s hope your presence in maths today provides some inspiration to us all.’

  Maybe, just maybe, if I say nothing at all in class there’s still a chance I can stay under the radar. I scowl and slouch lower in my chair. Someone behind me kicks the back of it so hard it rattles my spine.

  The main differences between my old school and the new one are cosmetic. The old school was fat with generations of fees and bequests funding incessant improvements and maintenance, so the strains of music practice and umpires’ whistles and plocking tennis balls were always accompanied by a background whine of power tools. This school has rundown buildings that look and smell like they don’t get cleaned enough. There’s not much space around it and the oval is bald and muddy, fenced off with cyclone wire choked at the base with nettles and rubbish. They’ve given up on the graffiti front. And the bell is a loud, alarming siren that makes me feel we’re all about to be rounded up and shot.