‘But nice.’
‘Yeah. Wonder if she’s got a boyfriend?’
‘Has Rambo got muscles?’
‘It’s our stop. Wait till she gets off.’
But we don’t have to worry; Miss Rosewall gets off without looking back once and strides off in the direction of the front entrance while we duck behind some parked cars and slink round the back behind the prefabs. Once you’re on school property the Education Police can’t spring you for being outside the grounds. Well, they’ve got to prove it, don’t they?
Art’s boring. Followed by Japanese. Equally boring unless I was about to fly out to Tokyo next week, which I’m not. Mr Ashiwoto says I’ve got a very good ear for languages: it’s not cool to be good at anything round here. Maybe growing lupins to music is okay, but that’s about all.
‘What’re you gonna wear tonight, Leanne?’ says Fern when we’re finally at the lockers and another yawn-filled week’s finished at last. Friday night. The movies.
‘Dunno. The mini, I guess. White top. I’m actually thinking of washing out this colour and putting in ‘Red Flamboyant’. What ya reckon?’
‘I like it black myself.’
We rave on as we get the bus home. I won’t have time to change the colour by tonight, that’s for sure. Anyway Dren-baby mightn’t recognise me with red hair.
My stop.
‘See ya tonight on the seven o’clock bus?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where are you going on the seven o’clock bus, Leanne?’
It’s Germ Face in the flesh.
‘Rack off. D’ya have to haunt me?’
Sam doesn’t take the hint. That kid’s got mud for brains. He clomps along next to me looking like a total reject as usual, shirt-tail hanging out, holes the size of footballs in his jumper, hair all over the place. Gross.
‘Mum says you’re grounded.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
We get to the gate. Our place looks like the city dump.
The flowers have dropped dead and no one’s pulled them out. There’s mega weeds, grass that’s supposed to be a neatly-mowed lawn about half a metre high.
‘Why don’t you cut the lawns instead of buggin’ me?’ I go.
‘Lawnmower’s busted.’
The paint’s peeling off the house like giant dandruff flakes. No wonder I don’t invite guys home unless I can con them to pick me up in their wheels outside in the pitch dark. Okay, so Mum tries. The inside’s neat and tidy. But doesn’t she realise that the outside counts more?
I go into the kitchen and drag the margarine container out of my bag.
‘What’s that?’
‘Take-away Mexican, what do ya think?’
I go into my bedroom and put the container right up next to the ghetto blaster. I drop in Guns N’ Roses and turn up the volume.
‘Leanne!’
It’s Mum, back from the hot bread shop. She stands in my bedroom doorway bellowing. Can’t hear her.
‘Turn that off. Now.’
‘Can’t’, I yell. ‘It’s an experiment for science.’
I wave my copy of 9J Class Science Experiment Rules under her nose as I get into the beat.
‘Turn it down.’
‘Can’t. I’m proving it’s got to be loud rock or it won’t work, as loud as the volume’ll go. L.O.U.D.’
Mum marches across and turns the volume to L.O.W.
‘Look, Mum, this experiment won’t work unless the Gunners are full bore.’
‘Who says?’
‘I say. It’s my experiment, not yours. These lupin seeds are getting reared to loud rock and you better believe it. You’re always on about how I’m not interested in my homework. Well now I am and what are you doing? Mucking up my experiment.’
I glare at her and turn up the volume.
Mum leans over and plugs in the headphones.
‘Read my lips,’ she says. ‘These lupins can enjoy loud rock as much as they like. But I don’t have to put up with it!’
And she puts the headphones over the margarine container and storms off.
Betcha Madam Curie and the chick who invented Myxo for rabbits didn’t have to put up with a geek of a mother. I hope these lupin seeds can hear the music. I bend down and it’s bellowing out so I guess they can.
‘Leanne!’
Now what? Is she trying to drive me crazy?
‘We’re going shopping. You coming?’
‘Get real. I’ve got to babysit me lupins.’
‘Leanne.’
‘What!’
‘You are not to leave this house. You’re grounded, not for life, but for this entire weekend. Do you hear me?’
‘Yeah? Well, it may as well be life, then,’ I hiss at her back. Just as well we’re seeing the early show; she won’t get home from late-night shopping till ten. I wait till I hear the car back down the drive, take the headphones off the lupins and let them have the full-on treatment as I peel off my school gear. Now I’ve got exactly one hour to get ready.
I pull on the wardrobe door. Funny. Must be jammed. I give it a real yank. Nothing happens. Then I wake up. She’s locked my wardrobe. All my clothes are inside. Wait. Not all. The ironing basket. I rush out to the laundry. I don’t need Kryptonite eyeballs to see that it’s empty. Right. It’s war.
I go into her room. More locked wardrobes. I go to Sam’s, look in his wardrobe and nearly puke. It stinks. Sweaty t-shirts, rotten sneakers. Forget it. I slam his door shut and head for the phone. And she’s locked it, too. It’s got a chain and padlock on it so I can’t lift the receiver. Good one! I can’t even phone my friends and get them to bring over any gear. What else has she done? I look round. Everything else seems to be okay. Well, I’m not beaten yet. There’s got to be something round here I can wear apart from my poxy school uniform.
Three quarters of an hour and I’m ready, showered, hair done, make-up on, lupins Gunnered, and a brand-new outfit. Pity about no shoes: I’ve had to spray my slippers with white paint. The dress is a bit over the top but what else can you do with a heavy Spanish lace tablecloth? So suffer, Mum, I’m going out raging. I’ve got exactly enough money for the bus.
Slamming the door I slope down the street to the bus stop.
‘Whoa. Where’s ya pumpkin?’ says this guy cruising by on a mountain bike.
‘Take a hike.’
Who needs smart comments? I slither up the steps when the bus pulls up and walk towards the back.
‘Wow, Leanne. White lace. Unreal gear.’ Fern’s stoked. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d bought a new dress.’
It makes the new navy skirt look like schoolgirl stuff.
‘Yeah, well …’
I can’t keep it to myself: I’ve got to tell her. We both crack up laughing.
‘Your Mum’s tablecloth? I don’t believe it.’
‘Just as well we’re only going to the movies. It’s held up with safety pins!’
‘Hope Drenton Faberge keeps his hands to himself.’
‘I don’t.’
We giggle, get off the bus and cruise down the main drag.
We check out the foyer of the Village Twin and can’t see the guys so we stroll some more.
‘Not past K-Mart,’ I say, pulling at Fern’s arm. ‘It’ll be just my luck to run into Mum.’
‘Yeah. She might want you to set the table!’
I punch her on the arm and giggle.
‘Yeah.’
We turn and go back to the movies.
‘They’d better show soon, it’s starting in five minutes.’
We stand in the foyer and wait. And wait.
‘Know something?’ says Fern. ‘I think we’ve been stood up.’
‘Everything all right, girls?’ says this sleaze-bucket with tight jeans and greasy long hair.
‘Was till you showed, Greaseball,’ I go.
‘Thought you might like to see the movie.’
‘Yeah? Well, you thought wrong. Shove off.’
He goes. I look at Fern
.
‘Now what?’
She droops.
‘Dunno. I was looking forward to … well, Cameron’s kinda cute.’
‘We don’t need Year 12 dorks.’
I can’t stand being stood up.
‘Come on. We’re going to the Golden Cue.’
‘But …’
‘You wanna date or not?’
‘Leanne, there’s tough stuff on there. Bad news. Let’s just go have a Coke or somethin, right?’
‘What are ya?’
I’m so boiling mad I don’t care. I storm out of the Village Twin foyer with Fern struggling to keep up in her tight skirt.
‘This is the end,’ I rage.
We sweep down the street.
‘Locked out of my wardrobe, stood up. Who needs it? And as for Mum … I wish she’d take a slow boat to Mongolia.’
‘What she needs is a man in her life,’ puffs Fern. ‘That’d keep her off your case, you know.’
‘Yeah. But who wants an overweight slug with greying hair, double chins and a mean personality?’
‘Leanne!’
My blood turns to water.
It’s the overweight slug with the greying hair, double chins and mean personality. In the flesh!
SAM
*
I’ve never seen Mum so mad. I think she’s going to explode all over the footpath. We’re standing there, our arms full of grocery bags, facing Leanne who looks like Madonna on a bad day in this weird white lacy dress.
‘Well, hi,’ drawls Leanne, ‘thought I’d come and help you with the shopping.’
She makes a grab for one of the bags. Mum pulls back. Leanne tugs. Next thing the bag’s split and there’s smashed eggs, a busted packet of flour, a jar of honey in a million pieces, a split packet of tea, brussels sprouts and new potatoes, a bottle of brandy (cooking purposes only) and two packs of tampons with new silken sheaths in a jumble all over the footpath. Fernita yelps as egg yolk splashes all over her skirt.
‘Hey. Leanne. Sorry we’re late,’ says this hunk looming up behind Mum, ‘but now we’ve found you chicks, let’s roll. Change of plans. Thought a trip down the coast, a few beers, game of pool, then see how the rest of the evening pans out, okay?’
Leanne gives this strangled groan, flings her arms out and wails at the moon. The lacy dress gives this sigh and collapses round her ankles into the mess of foodstuffs and she’s standing there in her bra and knickers right in the main street.
I’m leaning against a shop window with my eyes popping out. And Mum?
She starts to laugh. She’s clutching the last bag of groceries like it’s a baby, doubled over cacking away fit to bust.
‘Er,’ the other guy nudges the first. ‘Some other time, eh.’
They take off up the street. Fern takes off in the opposite direction. Leanne gathers our best lace tablecloth up over herself and glares at Mum.
‘Once me lupins grow I’m leavin,’ she says. ‘That’s it!’
Mum stops laughing and straightens her shoulders. She looks tired.
‘Let’s go, Leanne.’
I quickly kick all the mess into the gutter and walk ten paces behind them. I don’t want anyone to know we’re related. Everyone’s staring at the tablecloth, part of which is dragging on the ground. Leanne looks like some escaped psycho.
We’ve got to walk right through the Bay City Plaza with all these people gawking and sniggering. Some know Leanne and say ‘Hi’ but she doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead. Mum’s promised me a bag of Cookie Man biscuits and a box of assorted donuts (out on special) but this doesn’t seem the time to remind her. We sail past the Tattslotto booth and I don’t know whether to tell Mum that she hasn’t bought her Quick Pick No Super Sixty Six for Saturday night, but somehow I don’t feel this is a particularly lucky moment. They get on the down escalator and I leap on at a safe distance behind them. The car’s in the underground car park, free for the first two hours and Mum’s going to be spewing because we’re five minutes over the limit. Thanks to Leanne. We reach the Falcon and Mum chucks her bag of groceries in the boot.
‘Hurry up, Sam.’
I dump in my two bags and there’s a mad scramble for the back seat. Leanne doesn’t want the front for a change and neither do I. It’s the suicide seat and with the mood Mum’s in I’m thinking back rear, safety first. Mum roars up to the barrier and starts arguing with the check-out chick that she’s only five minutes over so why should she have to pay five bucks for the whole hour. Leanne and I cringe. I think Mum’s really flipped into insanity mode and even Leanne looks scared.
She drives down the highway like a maniac flat out (or that’s how it feels) and it’s a real relief when a siren sounds, there’s this blue flashing light and the cops pull us over. One gets out and strolls over. He asks to see Mum’s licence which luckily she has because half the time she forgets to put it in her purse.
‘Have you had any alcohol to drink today, madam?’ he asks, sniffing. Leanne’s tablecloth has dragged in the cooking brandy and the whole car reeks.
‘No,’ says Mum.
So he breath tests her. At first she doesn’t make it, runs out of wind. The second time she cracks the green light and she’s zero. The cop sniffs again and looks at Leanne and me in the back seat. Leanne gives him a wink. Bad move.
‘You were doing 103 in a 100-k zone,’ he says, but he’s only guessing because he hasn’t zapped her with the speed camera or radar.
Sometimes Leanne’s so thick. She gives him the old eyelash flutter and another wink.
‘Your registration plate’s almost illegible,’ he says, ‘and that’s against the law.’
He’s determined to bust us for something.
Mum looks apologetic.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It needs a good wash. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.’
Leanne crosses her legs and lets her tablecloth gape open.
‘Right,’ says the cop, showing off for Leanne’s benefit. ‘I want to check your brakes. Take your front wheel off.’
Mum looks helpless. I know for a fact we haven’t got the wheel brace and stuff in the Falcon because Mum lent them to her friend Virginia. She might have a zero reading but the young cop wants a hero reading … in Leanne’s eyes. But then the real hero arrives in the form of the other cop. He’s older. He’s not straight out of police school and he doesn’t think he can walk on water and drive at 200 ks. Phew.
‘What’s going on?’ he says. He looks human.
Leanne pulls her tablecloth up to her neck and crosses her legs at the ankles.
‘Unroadworthy,’ says the young cop.
He thinks he’s so good!
The older cop susses out the situation. He checks in the back, sees Leanne and looks at Mum.
‘Yours?’
He jerks his head in the direction of Leanne.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ says Mum.
He nods.
‘I had one at home just like it.’
Leanne bristles but he’s looking at our old Falcon.
‘Built to go,’ he says. ‘How many on the clock?’
‘Two hundred,’ I say as Mum peers at the dashboard trying to find the kilometre counter.
‘Yeah. Solid vehicle. Does your husband do the maintenance?’
All she had to do was say ‘no’ but Mum looks him straight in the eye and gives a weary smile.
‘No husband.’
‘Ah.’
He asks for her licence and studies it briefly. Leanne nudges me as he gives it back.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Ms Studley. Safe driving.’
He waves her on. Mum floods the engine and I’m praying I won’t have to climb out and dong the terminals because that’ll earn us a big fat yellow canary for sure, but miracle of miracles the engine kicks in and we’re off.
‘Way to go,’ crows Leanne. ‘He was trying to crack onto you, Mum.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
But Mum pats her hair as we
stop at a red light and starts to hum a little tune under her breath.
‘Betcha he’s married with ten kids,’ says Leanne. ‘Betcha his wife’s real skinny and he’s got the hots for a chunkier chick with love handles like yours, Mum.’
Mum stops humming.
I punch Leanne really hard. She can be so mean sometimes.
‘Get real. He came to the rescue when he saw the young cop giving Mum a hard time,’ I go. ‘There are some nice cops in the world, you know. I thought he was cool. And I think he liked you, Mum. Don’t take any notice of Leanne. She’s just crappy because she got sprung in the main street in her knickers and bra.’
That shuts Leanne up. She doesn’t say another word all the way home. I’ve never been so glad to see our driveway in my life. We unload the groceries and Mum puts the kettle on. Then she goes to Leanne’s bedroom and unlocks the wardrobe.
‘Put some clothes on, Leanne.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a little kid,’ she says.
‘Well, you get treated the way you act. You and I need to have a talk, young lady.’
Leanne comes into the kitchen wearing her old tracksuit top and pants. I settle in for an interesting session.
‘Go to your room, please, Sam. Or watch TV. Leanne and I need to have some private time.’
‘But …’
‘Go!’
I go. I can hear the rise and fall of their voices over LA Law It’s not fair. I get tangled in Leanne’s schemes then don’t get to hear the replay. After a while I figure they’ve got everything sorted out so I cruise in to get a Coke. Leanne’s at the kitchen sink dunking the tablecloth up and down in sudsy water and Mum’s ironing on the table.
‘Mum, did you remember that I need a ride to Torquay tomorrow? Mike wants me at Strapper.’
I’ve got this unreal part-time job sanding surfboards, every Saturday, and sometimes after school in the busy season.
‘Sure,’ says Mum calmly.
Leanne squeezes the suds out and turns on the taps. Then she wrings the tablecloth out carefully and carts it off into the laundry. She looks so sweet as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
What does Mum do to tame Leanne? Fire a tranquilliser dart into her butt? Hypnotise her? Bribe her?
‘How did you sort out Leanne?’ I go.
‘Sam, it’s really none of your business.’
Living With Leanne Page 3
