‘Hey, Melissa, this is great. I’m so hungry.’ She sits down without looking at me. I know she’s ashamed.
‘Eat up, Mum. I’ll make us some lunch, then you’d better get going.’ I’m not going to ask one question about her new job in case she starts talking about Gordon. Instead I put a piece of paper and a pen next to her plate. She writes down the name of the company and contact details. I wave her off before hunting around for something to wear to school, something not too worn or daggy, something that turns me into wallpaper. My maths books sit beside my bed, shouting Guess what you didn’t do last night! Shit. Homework. Maths is second period. Maybe I can do it during English.
This hour of peace and space after Mum leaves keeps me sane. I love her heaps, but this time is mine. It’s like a little bird takes flight inside me when she goes. I feel guilty about that for a moment or two, but the time is too precious to waste. I have my shower, wander around naked, sing, write poems, listen to the tiny radio on the windowsill. I sit by the window, watching the busy bugs below all hurrying along to their jobs, imagining myself doing exactly the same thing one day. Maybe I’ll work in an office, or a shop. I’d really love to be a nurse, but that seems way out of reach right now. I don’t let myself dream that dream very often.
I’m feeling a bit antsy about this detention thing. It hangs around in the back of my head, interrupting the good thoughts. I don’t want to be late for school. God, what if they added to my detention? I really would kill Dobie. I haven’t forgotten the fire hose thing. She knew it was me coming around that corner. I still don’t know what was more embarrassing – being soaked by the hose or having to strip off in the first aid room and Ms Rogers staring at my tatty old bra and pants. I could tell she felt sorry for me, but she didn’t have to offer me money to buy new ones. I wanted to run home right away. Except I had no clothes on.
I’m getting totally pissed off. I have to stop thinking about all this or I’ll lose it again. A picture of the principal’s face pops into my mind, how his mouth fell open when I called him a stupid, bum-faced shit-for-brains. Mum used to say, ‘Close your mouth before you catch a fly.’ He would’ve caught a whole bunch of them! God, no wonder I ended up in detention.
My knee seems OK so I leave two Bandaids on it. I pick out an old pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with a dog on the front. It labels me dork quite nicely.
I’m halfway to school, a new poem just starting to simmer in my head, when I hear something squeaking. It sounds like an injured bird, one of those brown things that steals food from all the other birds. Probably nearly dead, too far gone. If I try to help it, I’ll only make it worse. I hear it cry again. Maybe it’s not a bird after all. The noise is coming from behind a pile of rubbish bins next to an old apartment building streaked with rust stains. A newspaper item flashes in my brain: Teen mother leaves newborn in dumpster. Whoa, it can’t be a baby. That’s just me being over the top.
I try to keep walking, but my feet won’t move along the street. Instead they take me over to the bins. The smell is like rotten cheese, so bad I want to gag. I swallow hard and peer around the bins, holding my breath.
There, huddled into a little black furball, is a kitten. It opens its mouth wide and another wail dribbles from its pink throat.
‘Oh no, buddy, you’re on your own there. Don’t look at me to save you.’ It gazes up at me like it’s hoping for its mother. ‘I’ve gotta get to school. Detention. No time for cats.’ I walk away, but I’m back within twenty seconds. I did at least make it as far as the pavement.
As soon as I pick it up, the problems start. It’s so skinny that its ribs feel like toothpicks. Millions of fleas crawl through its fur, and one jumps onto my hand straight away. ‘Gross!’ I flick it off, hold the kitten at arm’s length and jog back to our flat. There’s no time to get all gooey over it. I peel off a few feet of toilet paper, grab our rag towel out of the cupboard and dump the kitten in the bathtub along with the last of our milk in a bowl. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t have cereal this morning, kitty.’ A quick scrub of my hands gets rid of the crawly feeling. Now I have to run at top speed to get to school in time.
I just about make it, though I’m hot and sweaty. My heart’s pounding with either relief or imminent heart attack at all this running. First period is English; by the time Ms Rogers has read another few pages of Wuthering Heights and asked some questions that no one bothers to answer, I’ve calmed down. I can feel her eyes on me. Sometimes it’s like she knows I know the answers to all the stuff she asks us and it’s got her really puzzled as to why I never put up my hand.
It’s hard not to. I used to be a top student, all As, especially in English. I bet I’ve read books that would surprise Ms Rogers. Dad had this huge library in his study, all those leather-bound classics just for show that no one ever actually opened. Anna Karenina and David Copperfield were my favourites, but I also got into The Fountainhead and other modern classics. Sometimes I was tempted to write notes in the books or leave clues that I’d been there but in the end I decided it wasn’t worth it. They’d never be found.
All through class I keep thinking about the kitten. Mum is going to freak. There’s no way I’ll give it a name. That’s asking for trouble. What if we have to move again? I’d have to get it put down. That would be almost as bad as …
Sometimes that day comes back to me so vividly it’s like watching myself in a home movie. I’d skipped school for the day because it was boiling hot and I felt a bit sick every time I went outside. I lay on the couch, half-listening to the little black and white TV until nearly midday, then dug out the ice-cream from the freezer and scooped some into a bowl. That little house Mum and I had in that town always stank of dogs and disinfectant in the heat. It was the second place we’d run to, all the way across the country this time, and we were getting poorer. I opened all the windows to make up for the dead air conditioner. Mum had said maybe next payday she could afford to get it fixed.
I sat in the old wicker chair by the big front window, leaning against the sill, picking bits of peeling paint off the wood as I ate my ice-cream and watched Mrs Miller across the road. She lay back in an old plastic lounge chair on her front porch, yelling every now and then at her two little kids who were using the derelict pink Chevrolet on the front lawn as a playground. Tiny George liked to sit in the front on a box and tug at the steering wheel, pretending he was driving somewhere exciting.
I heard the music first, and couldn’t quite remember for a moment what it reminded me of. Then the hammer fell and I pulled back from the window really fast, hiding behind the tatty curtain.
It wasn’t a car I recognised, but I knew it all the same. Dad always bought something flash and expensive. When Mum and I left, it’d been a Mercedes. This was a bright red Jaguar, the silver cat on the bonnet leaping forward, aggressive. The music hadn’t changed. Country and western – old whiney songs about lost love and broken down trucks that set my teeth on edge. ‘I cain’t le-er-rve no one else but yoooo…’
The Jag pulled up at the kerb opposite the house next door. I held my breath and waited, wanting desperately to run, but wanting even more to see what he would do. He climbed out of the car and looked around, his lip curling. Definitely not his kind of neighbourhood. He spotted Mrs Miller and strolled across to stand next to the pink Chev.
I was so used to being suspicious of everyone that I was just waiting for her to spill her guts to Dad. Hell, he’d probably offer her money – that was his style.
Tiny George had spotted Dad and honed in on his neatly pressed trouser leg, wiping his sticky hands on the material and probably his snotty nose too. Good one, Tiny George. Mrs Miller didn’t even bother to raise her head from the lounger. She shaded her eyes, shook her head and waved her hand towards the other end of the street.
I knew that wouldn’t fool Dad for a minute, but she was a honey for doing it. I didn’t wait any longer. I didn’t even stop long enough to pack my few things worth taking. I grabbed my school backpac
k, slipped out the back door, leaving the whole house wide open, and ran for my life. Four blocks away, inside a noisy supermarket, I found a payphone and rang Mum at work.
Like me, she grabbed her bag and left. She picked me up at the edge of the park where I was waiting just inside the entrance to the stinking public toilets. It was another week before Mrs Miller and Mum thought it was safe enough for Mrs Miller to go into our house and pack up what was left to send to us. What was left was a pretty good description. When Dad had finally worked out that he’d only missed us by minutes, he’d gone into the house and trashed it. All of our clothes were ripped up, my books torn apart, and the furniture smashed to pieces. Since it came with the rental of the house, we’d lost our bond. Another eight hundred dollars down the tubes.
Mrs Miller tried to patch up my old brown bear for me before she sent it on, but I could see where his legs and arms had been severed and a big hole punched in the back of his head. I couldn’t stand to have him around any more, but I cried my eyes out when I stuck him in the bin.
So now I’m sitting in maths class with tears in my eyes, staring down at the same old algebra problems, wondering how long it’ll be before Mum and I have to take off again. I think of the kitten instead, pretending it really is going to be all mine, trying to work out what would be the best thing to put in the wash water to kill all those fleas.
‘Melissa? Have you finished Exercise 22?’
‘No, Mr Canto.’ I haven’t even started it.
‘Did you do your homework?’ His tone has got that little edge to it.
Shit. Detention. I want to leap right out of my skin, my nerves are jumping around so bad. ‘Uh, no, I, uh, couldn’t figure out how.’
‘Really. We have spent the whole week on this particular type of problem. Did you have some kind of mental blockage?’
He smirks, his grey moustache flexing, and suddenly I see how easy it would be to become Dobie Lessing. To tell some of these smartarse teachers to go jump off a high cliff. I settle for a lie. I’m good at them. ‘I haven’t been feeling very well, sir. Shall I get my mother to write a note for me?’ I force out a greasy smile that nearly kills me.
‘That won’t be necessary. If you continue to have trouble, maybe you’d better come in at lunchtime and I’ll give you some extra exercises.’
For sure he knows that I’m already on detention. He’s just saying this to needle me. I say, ‘That’s OK, I think I’ve nearly got it now.’
‘Make sure you do, Melissa. We have a test on Monday.’
He turns away just in time to catch two of the boys at the back of the room playing with their little rubber catapults, pelting people with wads of paper. In an instant, I’m small potatoes and can relax.
But it’s reminded me that I have to report to the detention room again this afternoon. My heart scrunches up when I think of the kitten mewing in the bath tub all day, starving while I sit in that smelly little room with Dobie. I don’t allow myself to wonder if Mum will be home on time today. For once, I manage to block her out completely.
CHAPTER 6
Dobie
The only thing that propels me out of bed this morning is the thought that if I stop going to Village Gate High School, I will have absolutely no excuse at all for not going back to Barton. I sit on the end of my bed, staring at all the grungy black clothes hanging in my walk-in closet. I hate every item in there.
Last year when I bought it all, it was fun. I never realised how many things you could buy in black. I felt like I was stocking up for the world’s largest funeral. And wishing it was my mother’s funeral. I told myself I didn’t miss my bright pink shirt or my favourite summer skirt with the blue flowers on it that swirled around my ankles. I made myself give all those kinds of clothes away to the church shop so if Mum came snooping, she wouldn’t think I was just going through a stage.
But now most of it doesn’t fit properly and black is pretty good at fading to a dull, dirty grey. One more day in those heavy boots, dragging my feet along brown-tiled corridors, and my legs will drop off. Trouble is, I don’t have any choice. The one possibility is to sneak into Louise’s or Sara’s room and borrow something. Not likely. If I turned up at Village Gate in a straight skirt and cashmere sweater, they’d laugh me out of the classroom.
I pull on my stretchiest pair of black jeans and my baggiest T-shirt, run my fingers through my hair. Yuck, it’s oily and stiff at the same time. It’s a wonder it doesn’t all just fall out.
Nancy’s made me a sandwich that I collect on my way through the kitchen, along with a snack bar for my breakfast. I eat it on the bus while I keep thinking about the school problem. I hate, hate, hate the way my mother has manipulated this whole thing. The smouldering coals that are always in my stomach have been fanned into flames that leap up and turn my face hot. The only solution is to make Village Gate sound like such a wonderful school that I can’t bear to leave. Mission Impossible.
My brain grinds back and forth between Barton and Village Gate, trying to find some way of making the Gate sound good. But I’ve already shot myself in the foot by causing so much trouble and being in detention four days out of five. And I have to admit (through clenched teeth) that Mother is right in one respect – the teachers and the subjects offered at the Gate are pitiful.
Maybe a boarding school mightn’t be so bad. No, trash that thought! Mother would make sure it was like a prison. Education be damned.
I want to jump up on the bus seat and kick out the emergency window, scream at everyone on the street, ‘Help me! My mother is killing me!’ Then they really would send me away.
In English, I sit at the back and glare at the boys who are stabbing each other under the desks with their rulers. Why doesn’t Ms Rogers do something about it? She reads Wuthering Heights like the end of the world is coming. Someone needs to tell her that she’s living a ridiculous dream. She’d be a good teacher at Barton. Here she’s just spinning her wheels in the mud.
One of the boys, Spike Donivan, catches my glare, leans over and asks me if I want a fuck later in the boys’ changing room. As if! I give him the look I’ve been perfecting on my mother for the past year or two and he withers.
In maths, Mr Canto picks on Goody. For just one second, I think she’s going to tell him where to stick his homework, then she buckles under and grovels so bad I want to hit her. Dad would say she needs a bit more ‘gumption’. She sure needs something.
I waited for hours last night for Dad to come home. Sara arrived from her choir practice about nine and Mother insisted on hearing her sing the new song they’re learning for the mid-year concert. She sounded squeaky and out of tune to me, but that might be the little green monster jumping inside my head. He’s dangerous – he makes me want things I will never have.
I sneaked downstairs after everyone else had gone to bed and curled up on the big armchair in his study. Dad always stops in there for a scotch before going to bed, no matter how late it is. He didn’t see me, just headed for the bar and jumped about a foot off the ground when I said hi. As soon as he turned around, I saw that look on his face, the one that says Don’t serve me up any more trouble, my plate is already full.
Yeah, but what about me, Dad?
He listened to everything I said about Mother and the school, giving his head a little shake every so often like he was trying not to let any of my complaints lodge in there permanently. Then he shrugged. Shrugged! ‘Your mother is just worried about you, Deb,’ he said. ‘I am too, you know. You’re a bright girl. You know I have nothing against state schools but Village Gate is hardly going to extend you academically. Don’t you miss your music?’
I wasn’t going to be sidetracked that easily. ‘Barton is narrow-minded and bigoted. What about all the stuff you’ve said to me about the right to think independently and not follow the herd?’
‘Deb, you could make a difference in the world. You understand issues and you want to fight to make things right. Sara and Louise will never achieve that, th
ey won’t even want to. Why are you wasting your energy and talents on paying back your mother? Even if she deserved it, and I’m not sure she does, it’s a waste of you.’
I couldn’t believe he was sticking up for her! I was so angry with him, I could’ve spat on him. ‘You don’t understand the first thing about me. If you loved me, you’d stop her from doing this.’ I was shouting, but I couldn’t help it.
He didn’t even try to argue. He just gave that stupid shrug and went back to the bar to pour himself a drink. I wanted to tell him I hoped he choked on it, but suddenly it was like he’d moved a thousand miles away from me, across a huge canyon. I wasn’t even sure I could see him clearly any more. I stalked out of the study and ran up the stairs. Mother was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, pulling on her red velvet dressing gown. I stepped around her, went into my room and locked the door, rattling the catch to make sure she heard it and got the message.
I watch Canto trying to discipline the ferals who are firing paper pellets at people. Why doesn’t he just send them out of the room? I keep my fingers crossed that he doesn’t end up giving them detention. Goody McCardle is bad enough.
Canto spots me watching and sidles over to give me a hard time.
‘Exercise 22 giving you trouble too, Deborah?’
I don’t bother to answer, just shove my notebook across the desk at him. My handwriting is scrawly, but I’ve done all the problems and got them right. Usually, if I do anything I deliberately get it wrong. His mouth opens but he can’t think of anything to say. Score one for me! He gives me a funny look and walks back to the front of the classroom.
Detention on Friday is always boring. All the teachers leave as soon as they can, some of them actually run to their cars. Can’t blame them. But there’s no one to eavesdrop on, and half the time it ends up being the principal who has to supervise me. That’s a drag because he always finds chores for me to do. One time it was filing, another time it was washing all the leaves on the ugly rubber plants in the teachers’ lounge and his office.
Bone Song Page 3
