Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

‘Yeah, and radiation therapy. He had an operation, too, but they’re not sure that they’ve got it all.’

  I turned to the tiny statue. She wasn’t winking now. I didn’t know what to do with what I’d just heard. I felt sick in my tummy. I was really sorry for Dylan. But I was also still wondering why she’d been so ghastly to me. Ms Golightly was wondering, too, because after some more uncomfortable silence she continued.

  ‘Of course you’re devastated by your father’s illness, Dylan. My heart is with you, and we can come back to this and talk more about it. But I need to hear your version of what’s gone wrong between you and Nova. Are you able to talk about that for a while?’

  ‘I guess.’ Dylan sniffed. ‘Nova and I have never been friends, but we’re in most of the same classes. She used to hang out with Annie, the girl who went to study violin at some posh school in Sydney. Since then, Nova acts like she’s better than everyone else. All the teachers adore her because she’s so bright, and she knows it. She’s snobby; too good to mix with us ordinary people. I guess I might have given her a bit of a hard time . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  I still don’t get why you’ve been such a bitch to me, I wanted to demand.

  ‘I’d like to know how this relates to your father’s illness, Dylan. There seems to be a connection there for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it just really seems unfair. Her dad’s got everything going for him, like good health and a glamorous job. Nova gets pressies from around the world; she flashes them around, jewellery and lollies and stuff . . .’

  Bloody hell! Dylan’s got me so wrong! It’s totally unfair, the way she’s twisted good stuff into bad, like me sharing my dainty candies from Japan in Social Studies. I thought that it was pretty generous of me, actually, and I don’t know how she knew about the bracelet. I never boasted about it. Oh, I remember, someone commented on it in the library and Dylan must have overheard. Unbelievable. She’s made it seem like I was bragging. As for thinking I’m up myself, well, up her, I say! It’s not my fault her father has cancer. I’m busting to say something but I don’t think I’m meant to. Ms G continues doing her thing.

  ‘I hear it seems unfair to you that Nova appears to be happy and independent and achieving at school when you aren’t feeling good about life. It also seems unjust that her dad is healthy while your father is facing a major illness. To you that kind of sucks. Right?’

  Dylan grunted.

  Ms Golightly smiled encouragingly, then turned to me. ‘Nova, would you care to respond?’

  ‘I’m sorry about the cancer, for real, but the rest of it is bollocks. I haven’t had any friends since Annie left. I just do my schoolwork and get on with it. I’m not snobby! Dylan’s the popular one. She’s always surrounded by her mates, plus she’s in lah-lah land about our family. My father’s job isn’t glamorous. He gets jetlag, and he misses planes, and he arrives home exhausted. Mum really misses him when he’s away, which makes her crabby, so it isn’t all sweetness and light at our house. Far from it. Last night, Mum was a mess because one of her favourite patients died. She’s a receptionist at a rest home, and some of her days are very depressing. Everyone’s got their troubles, and I don’t think it’s reasonable that I cop Dylan’s shit . . .’

  I glared at her and she stared blankly back at me. Ms G took some caramels out of her pocket and offered us one each.

  ‘Thanks for being honest and for listening without interrupting, both of you. There’s a couple of things I’d like to say. First, it’s easy to displace your feelings. For example, you hate your haircut and you feel ugly, so you snap at your brother instead of sticking with your uncomfortable feelings about your hair. May I suggest that this might be what’s happened for you, Dylan? You feel really shite about your dad and his illness, but it’s easier to hate Nova than to stick with those awful, sad, powerless feelings. Make any sense?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Dylan replied grudgingly.

  Ms Golightly got up, fetched the ivory statue, and held it out to us.

  ‘This is a Buddhist deity called Kuan Yin. She’s the goddess of compassion. It’s said that she holds all our troubles in her arms, because she sees the ten thousand sufferings of humankind.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’ Dylan sounded pissed off. I felt a fluttering of warmth towards her, because I’d been thinking the same thing but I hadn’t had the nerve to say it.

  ‘For me, Kuan Yin is a reminder that everyone has crappy stuff to deal with. There’s an old Chinese saying: No house can hang out a sign saying No Trouble Here. We often think we’re the only person struggling, but actually everyone is. We all have sorrows and joys, successes and tragedies. It makes me feel kinder and more compassionate when I remember that. Just something to think about.’ Ms Golightly looked at her watch, stood up, and put the goddess statue back.

  ‘Right, I’ve decided what to do. Starting now, once a week, for a month, you guys are going to spend an hour together. It’s up to the pair of you to decide how to spend it. There’s only one rule. You have to have fun together. Play, if you will.’

  ‘No way! Why?’ Dylan took the words out of my mouth.

  ‘I don’t suppose Because I Said So will do it for you?’ Ms Golightly asked perkily.

  ‘Nah.’ This time we answered in unison.

  ‘Didn’t think so. Worth a shot, though. Okay, here’s why. I think it will do you both good.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ I thought I’d get in first, this time.

  ‘Yep. Come back and see me next week, same time, same place, to let me know how you get on. Okay, Ladies, that’s it for today. That’ll be a hundred bucks each.’

  We stared at her in dismay. This was getting too weird.

  ‘Kidding.’

  CHAPTER

  MOONBEAM AND

  A QUARTER

  PERSIA OLEANDER’S POWERS have greatly improved since that time.’

  Glory stared at the queen blankly. Nothing seemed real: the dressmaker’s news, the forest, being here at night in the queen’s company. Perhaps soon she would wake up and find herself safe at home with her mother, sitting by the fire, mending her brothers’ socks. glory dug her fingernails into her palm, in case it woke her from this nightmare. But no, she was here, in the royal chambers, weary and frightened, without an escape. The queen sat nearby on a velvet sofa, her little dog asleep beside her. glory wished she had a friend like arabella. and as she thought this, arabella jumped down and settled herself at glory’s feet.

  ‘Listen carefully, My Dear. This is what Madame Star was desperate to tell you this morning before you ran away. Naturally, your mother and Persia were horrified by Agatha’s curse. The fatal result from her first attempt at magic left your mother unwilling to explore her potential any further. But Persia spent the next years strengthening her magical powers. She felt dreadfully responsible for what had happened. When her abilities became powerful enough, she cast a spell designed to weaken Agatha’s magic. The curse could not be entirely undone, but it has been moderated. Are you following me?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Between the moment you hear about Agatha’s curse and midnight on the next full moon, you must save a life. If, before the morning light dawns after that moon, you have achieved this task, your own life will be saved. Do you understand?’

  Glory’s thoughts tumbled like rocks in a landslide. She swallowed.

  ‘Not really. How will I know what to do? What if there is no life possible to save? Or what if there is a chance to save a life but I do not succeed?’

  ‘These are questions that can’t be answered in advance. The future cannot be seen, but you have been granted a chance. I trust fortune will be on your side. Right now, you are pale with shock and weariness. Is Arlo waiting to escort you? Have him take you to the kitchen for your supper, then perhaps a night in the infirmary would be the best thing. Miss Oleander can check your pulse, and may provide a sleeping draught to help you rest.’

  ‘Not Arl
o, but Rolf, the kitchen boy . . .’

  ‘Then have him escort you to the kitchen.’

  ‘So?’ Rolf asked eagerly, when Glory appeared.

  ‘Supper. Then I’m to sleep in the infirmary. I am weary Rolf, so very weary. But the queen was strangely kind to me, and this is what she has told me . . .’

  In the warm kitchen, Mrs Blossom ladled chicken broth with dumplings into bowls, and Elda brought a beaker of warm, sweetened milk. While Glory ate, Rolf recounted the new development, at which Elda began to buzz with excitement, but Mrs Blossom, seeing Glory’s exhaustion, stepped in.

  ‘Hush, Dear. Right now the lass needs her rest.’

  As Rolf and Glory approached, they saw Persia Oleander standing in the courtyard, looking up into the night sky. Tiny stars sparkled, and the waxing moon hung high above them.

  ‘The full moon is a mere few days hence,’ she said quietly to the two young people. Glory opened her mouth to reply, but didn’t get a chance. ‘The night of the ball. A night of great importance, as you know.Now, come on in. Let me bathe your feet and tuck you into bed. There’s nothing more to be said or done that won’t wait until morning.’

  Rolf squeezed Glory’s hand and slipped away. Before she knew it, the weary girl was tucked under a cashmere spread, fast asleep.

  After Glory left, the queen took off her too-tight shoes and put on her ermine slippers, then made her way to her husband’s chamber, where the king sat reading a large map by the light of an ornate candelabra.

  ‘Hello, My Love,’ he said, scratching his beard. ‘You are truly a sight for sore eyes.’

  The queen felt a sudden fondness for her husband of so many years. They discussed the matter of Glory.

  ‘As you say, it’s not in our hands,’ declared the king, ‘but let us pray that the new magic is efficacious, and that the girl is able to save two lives: another’s and thus her own.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The queen sighed deeply. ‘If only that was all that troubled me . . .’

  ‘You refer to the matter of our daughter and the ball, I believe?’ The king spoke gently, and once more the queen’s heart softened towards him. ‘What is your main concern? Is it the lack of a suitable husband for Mirabella? Or is it her lack of desire for any husband at all?’

  ‘It is both. The invitations have gone out far and wide. Every prince within the land will be there. We couldn’t have included a wider assortment of men, but many of them are so obviously flawed.’

  ‘Clearly, Mirabella will not be interested in William the Bastard, Bernard the Mad, or Swythyn the Stupid,’ agreed the king. ‘However, there are others who are more suitable, surely? Prince Leonard, son of King Gilbert, is a dashing young fellow, and his older brother Timothy, though not as handsome, is a witty chap. He’s gallant, and highly skilled in falconry.’

  ‘True enough, but it’s rumoured that Prince Leonard is enamoured of his distant cousin Isabella, so perhaps he will not pay Mirabella much attention.’

  ‘Timothy, then?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The queen sighed once more. ‘Mirabella is so against the idea of marriage. I fear she will refuse to choose a husband at all, just to be difficult. And then what shall we do?’

  ‘Come here, My Dove, lean your head on my shoulder. Worrying will not solve it. I’ve been poring over this map all night. Perhaps there is a goldmine somewhere, waiting to be found.’

  The Reader

  › Outside Ms G’s office, Dylan and I stared at each other.

  ‘So, we have to hang out together and play. Superb.’

  My irony wasn’t wasted on Dylan.

  ‘Yes, frigging lovely.’

  Nigel Brown dawdled past with his shoelaces undone. He’s a total turkey, that guy, but it gave us something to stare at. We stood there awkwardly.

  ‘We’ll still be here at Christmas if we don’t sort something out,’ Dylan offered finally.

  ‘Fair enough. I went first with the touchy-feely stuff so you can go first with the plan.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything.’ Dylan became incredibly interested in the dry skin around her fingernail. Then she made a stab at a solution. ‘Okay, come over to my house after school today. I’ll have thought of something by then.’

  ‘Really?’ The thought of spending time at Dylan’s house was as appealing as pouring dog’s urine into my ears, or eating fried shoelaces.

  ‘Yep. Know where I live?’

  ‘Opposite the Aquacentre, yeah?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘See you later, then.’

  We walked back to class together without speaking, pretending none of it had happened.

  After school, I went by the nursing home to tell Mum what was up. I’m visiting a friend, I scribbled on a piece of paper, because she was on the phone. Mum waved and gave me the thumbs-up. I bought a Triple Ripple ice-cream and ate it slowly, sitting on the bench outside the corner store. I couldn’t think of any more delaying tactics, so I made my way to Dylan’s house, a wooden villa with a cottage garden of pink roses, jasmine, and a colourful glass mosaic birdbath.

  Dylan opened the door before I’d had time to knock.

  ‘Nice birdbath,’ I said, for lack of anything better.

  ‘Yeah, my mum’s into mosaics,’ she replied, ushering me quickly down the hall and upstairs to her bedroom.

  ‘Mine was, too, for a while. She’s a hobby nutter. Thai cooking, Spanish For Beginners, and mosaics . . . now she goes to Stitch and Bitch. They knit and sew stuff.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Dylan. At least she was trying to be friendly. Her long blonde hair was tucked under a cap, and she was wearing white shorts and a white singlet top. I realised she was a lot skinnier than she looked in school uniform. She looked a bit frail, to be honest. Interesting, ’cause she always seemed such a tough cookie. Her room was a bomb site, but it reminded me of mine, with clothes everywhere and heaps of random stuff, including a huge heart made of red glass beads. Dylan plonked herself on her unmade bed and offered me the orange beanbag.

  ‘So, whassup?’ I asked her.

  ‘That’s the problemo. I can’t really think of anything to do. Want to cook something?’

  ‘Nah, not really.’ I didn’t want to sound rude, so I continued. ‘Last time Annie and I cooked we made hot chocolate pudding, but we forgot to put in the sugar so the result tasted and looked like soil. Annie’s guinea pig wouldn’t even touch it, and her mother was really pissed ’cause we wasted heaps of expensive ingredients. Plus, I ate an ice-cream on the way here, so I’m not really hungry. Cooking is best when you’re hungry, I find.’

  ‘True . . . how about drawing?’

  ‘If you want to. It’s not really my forte. I like doing collage, though.’

  ‘Let’s do that, then. Art and craft — it’s sort of play, isn’t it?’

  ‘Reckon. Anyhow, what’s the worst she can do to us?’

  Dylan scrounged around in her desk and found cardboard, stickers, pens, crayons and — after a raid downstairs — two pairs of scissors and a pile of old magazines. We sat at the desk together and started to cut.

  ‘Watch out for the glue, it’s gone all squidgy. Get this,’ Dylan said, as she hacked out a picture of some handsome dude in a boy band. ‘Nicole Richie’s called her baby son Sparrow. Dumb name, for sure. Her daughter’s called Harlow, it says here. Imagine going through life with those names!’

  ‘Hmm,’ I replied. I’m trying to decide whether to cut hearts or stars out of a floral wallpaper advertisement. ‘What are the worst things to name a kid, do you think?’

  ‘Haystack, maybe?’

  ‘My cousin in Tasmania called her kid Salmon.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Nah, I wish. No one in the family knows what to say about it.’

  ‘Poor kid. You know what I hate? Those really smarty-pants rich-people names, like Ophelia and Maximilian. . .’

  ‘Fuchsia and Pepper . . .’

  ‘Benedict and Saffron.’

  ‘Tho
se people are SINDs, for sure.’

  ‘SINDs?’

  ‘Strangely Idiotic Name Dimwits.’

  ‘Clearly. They should get a grip and become . . . um . . . GINDs, Good Imaginative Name Donors.’

  We kicked this game around for a bit. We decided it was Turn Everything into an Acronym Day. Dylan decided to be a WRITER when she grows up: a Well Read Interesting Tinkerbelle Eating Ratatouille. I claimed that in my last life I was one of the SHAKESPEARES: Sexy Happy Amazing Kings Endlessly Shopping Passionately in Extra Appealing Rainbow Energy Shoes. Then, we moved on to creating interesting days, such as Make Up Your Own Language Day, Find Money and Give It Away Day, Sound Terrible But Sing Anyway Day, and Random Chihuahuas Running Amok in the Streets Day.

  ‘How about Be Yourself Day?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Good one. Although, who else can you possibly be? Like in the song: Be yourself. Everyone else is taken. Scary, I sound like my mother. She’s always quoting from self-help books.’

  Dylan grinned. ‘Yeah, we don’t want it to turn into Be Your Mother Day . . .’

  As if on cue, Dylan’s mother came pounding up the stairs and stuck her head in the door.

  ‘Hi, Sweetie. Oh, you’ve got someone here. . .’

  ‘Yeah, this is Nova. Nova, meet my mum. We’re making cards.’

  I’d seen Dylan’s mother before, actually, outside the school. She’s fat, and wears big, loud outfits, and has a friendly face.

  ‘Lovely. Hey, do you girls want some Milo or anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ I glanced at the clock by the bed. ‘Actually, I didn’t realise it was after six. I should get going. My mother will be expecting me.’

  ‘Nice cards.’ Dylan’s mum came over to look closer. Mine was mainly hearts, and Dylan’s was mainly guys.

  ‘Looks like a bit of a love theme going on here, Girls.’

  ‘Get outta here,’ Dylan said, embarrassed.

  I felt awkward, too. I took my card and headed for the door. ‘Okay, gotta bounce. See you at school, then?’

  ‘Yeah, ciao.’

  Dylan followed me downstairs to see me out. I was back on the street. It was a warm evening. I couldn’t believe I’d had an almost-good time.