Girl Next Door

by Alyssa Brugman

  'Good thinking,' I whisper, digging through the bags as Declan clambers up. He's brought water, bags of pretzels and fruit.

  'What's all this healthy stuff?'

  'I have diabetes,' he protests.

  'Yeah, but I don't.'

  'You have a menstrual cycle, remember?'

  I pop open a bag of pretzels.

  'What are you doing? It's not a picnic, Jenna-Belle. We're supposed to be holding the fort, aren't we?'

  I have one pretzel, then roll the top of the pack down and put it back in the shopping bag. We're not going to be very comfortable. I scoot over to the hole and stick my head out. I can see through the doorway and down the hall a little way.

  'WILL!'

  A few moments later Will stands in the doorway to the room below, frowning. 'I could hear you, but I couldn't find you. What are you doing? You should come down and see what's happening. There's . . .'

  'Yeah, I know. Declan and I are building a fort,' I interrupt. My face is going red from being upside down. 'Can you bring us some pillows?'

  Will disappears down the hall. He comes back with three pillows and his doona, which he stuffs up into the hole before him. Once he's in, Declan places his boogie board over the hole and sits on it. Will doesn't have a boogie board so he puts a pillow under his bum and balances across two beams.

  It's very dark and it takes a minute or two for my eyes to adjust.

  'What are all these beer bottles?' Will asks.

  'They're an experiment in insulation. I saw it on Discovery Channel,' I lie.

  Will eyes off Declan's hoard. 'Can I have some pretzels?'

  'No!' Declan says, moving the bags out of reach. 'They're for later.'

  'So what's happening downstairs?' I ask.

  'The sheriff is there. He has paperwork. Mum's pretending that she doesn't know what he's talking about. It's pretty pathetic. There's a locksmith too, he's leaning on his car waiting. He'll change the locks as soon as they get us out.'

  'No way!' Declan says.

  We can hear thumping from downstairs.

  'What's that?'

  Will says. 'I think they're moving our furniture onto the lawn.'

  'Can they do that?' I ask.

  Will shrugs. 'I guess so. Can I have some pretzels now?'

  Declan huffs. 'This isn't going to be a very long siege, is it?'

  'We're going to have to pee eventually,' I say. 'It's a shame we can't see, because then we could sneak out to the loo when no one's around. There should be a window up here.'

  Will unfolds the open bag of pretzels and we share them, listening to the bumping and thumping below.

  Declan says, 'Did you know you're not supposed to menstruate as much as you do?'

  'What?' Will and I say in unison.

  'They've done studies on women in Africa who start childbearing at about the same time as they start menstruating, and they actually don't menstruate all that often – maybe once a year – because most of the time they're either pregnant or breastfeeding. They reckon the incidence of cervical and ovarian cancer is so high in Western women because they menstruate much more often than nature intended.'

  'Really?' says Will, crunching on a pretzel.

  I cross my arms. 'And what is the life expectancy of women in Africa?'

  Declan shrugs. 'Dunno. Maybe forty.'

  'And how many women die during childbirth?' I ask.

  'I'd say one in sixteen.'

  'How do you know all this stuff?' Will asks.

  'He reads medical journals,' I say.

  Declan clarifies. 'It was in The New Yorker.'

  'You do not read The New Yorker!' I scoff.

  Declan blinks at me in the gloom. 'My dad has a subscription.'

  'He does too,' Will says. 'I've been taking them out of their recycling. That's how I got my scholarship. I take them to class with me and my teachers think I'm an intellectual.'

  Declan and I stare at him.

  'What? I don't read them. Not all of them.'

  I ignore Will. 'So basically my options are to have thirteen kids starting now, and then die, or I can get cervical or ovarian cancer and die?'

  Declan shrugs again. 'Procreation, Jenna-Belle. It's the goal of every species on the planet. You're born, you procreate, you die. That is the meaning of life.'

  'Obviously our dad hasn't heard of this philosophy,' I mumble.

  'Actually,' says Declan, 'there's an argument that it's a biological urge making middle-aged men leave their menopausal wives to seek a younger, more fertile mate in order to spread their genetic material . . .'

  'Okay, you can shut up now,' interrupts Will.

  'It's just a theory,' says Declan.

  'Mum is not menopausal,' I say. 'In fact, she is obviously still fertile.'

  'Yes, but this is exactly my point. Your father has procreated as much as he's likely to with this mate and so now he's going to . . .'

  'I said SHUT UP!' Will warns.

  We eat pretzels.

  After a long time I ask, 'How come you two never ended up being better friends?'

  Will smirks. 'I always thought Declan was, like, a . . . you know.'

  'A what?' I asked.

  'Gay, or whatever. You know how gay guys always seem to have girl friends? It's like a rule that you have to be friends with the opposite of who you want to have sex with.'

  'I'm not gay,' Declan says.

  'Oh. Sorry, man,' Will mumbles. 'But, you have to admit that you seem gay. Like reading magazines about African women menstruating. That's pretty gay.'

  Declan frowns. 'Wouldn't it be more gay not to be interested in menstruation? It's about vaginas.'

  I put my hands over my ears. 'Don't say vagina.'

  'It's gay to only be interested in it as a kind of, you know, functioning organ,' Will says.

  'Don't say organ!' I say.

  'No, that's cool,' Declan says to Will. 'You're not the first. Dad thinks I'm gay. Mum doesn't, though. She thinks I'm sleeping with Jenna-Belle.'

  'She does not!' I say.

  'That's why she walks past my room all the time when you're there – to make sure we're not doing it,' Declan adds.

  'In your dreams!' I protest. It would explain why she hates me. She thinks I'm a skank too.

  'What about the other day?' Declan grins. 'You know.' He holds his hands out and squeezes. 'Honk, honk!'

  'I don't want to know!' Will says, covering his eyes.

  My face reddens. 'Declan! You have such a big mouth. It was outside clothes so it doesn't count! And you tricked me into it anyway.'

  There's another bumping sound, closer this time. Then we hear a thump directly beneath us, and muffled conversation.

  'Are you kids in there?' says a voice.

  We sit silently and stare at each other. I'm not really sure what we're supposed to be doing. 'I don't think we've thought this through,' I whisper. 'Are we hiding or are we sieging?'

  'Hiding.' From Will.

  'Sieging.' From Declan. 'Don't worry, I'm prepared for this.' He gestures for us to stay out of sight, then removes the cover and calls down through the hole. 'I'm diabetic, you ignoramus, and when I collapse Jenna-Belle is going to call Today Tonight. How's it going to look for you when I get dragged out of here on a gurney?'

  Then there's some more barely audible talking disappearing down the hallway.

  Declan is smiling, pleased with himself.

  'Good thinking! That was ace,' says Will with admiration.

  A few minutes later the voice is back.

  'Declan, is it?' the voice asks. 'How are you going to ring Today Tonight?'

  'With my mobile phone,' Declan says, feeling his pockets.

  'A blue Nokia with an Astroboy cover? I'm looking at it. Jenna-Belle and Willem, your mother is waiting for you outside. We've removed your furniture and David is changing the locks now. That's going to take an hour or so. You can stay up there as long as you like, but once you do come out the house will be locked, and if you attem
pt to enter again you will be charged with trespass. You don't want to put your mother through that, do you?'

  Will frowns and I can see tears of frustration building in his eyes. He covers his face with his hands. Declan looks deflated and embarrassed. I just feel bone weary.

  'I appreciate that this is a difficult day for you kids, but this isn't making it any easier for anyone. It's probably best just to come down, don't you think?'

  As I climb down the ladder I'm wishing we had come up with a better plan. There would have been a way to make it work, but I was secretly hoping something would happen. I'm not used to having to do things for myself – not the big things anyway.

  Outside, Declan's dad and Will move the heaviest furniture into Declan's garage. Mum still has the bag that I packed for her to take to the hospital. I put a change of clothes into a green shopping bag. At the last minute I also put in Dad's t-shirt, Albert Bear and my pinch pot.

  Declan's mum and I stack washing baskets full of clothes in their garage. Bryce Cole's box has been plonked on the front lawn, next to the letterbox. The rolled-up sleeping bag pokes out of the top.

  Declan and Willem walk in to the garage carrying parts of the dismantled cot. Declan's mother and Mum exchange a fleeting, horrified glance.

  'Er, put it behind that other stuff, can you?' Declan's dad mumbles. He chucks an old blanket over it when he thinks our mums aren't looking.

  'They can stay with us, can't they?' Declan says to his mum and dad.

  Declan's mother grabs the chain around her neck. She's tugging on it. There's a franticness to it. She's going to break it, or hang herself. She's staring at her husband.

  Declan's dad's throat is going a deep beetroot red.

  'Where else are they going to go?' Declan asks.

  'I'm sure we'll . . .' Mum trails off, because there is no way to finish that sentence. Manage? Does it look like we're managing? We're all sinking into this etiquette quicksand.

  'You know, Sue, we could really use your fridge,' says Declan's mum. 'Could we buy it from you?'

  'Don't be silly!' says Mum. 'You can use it as much as you like until we come and pick it up. It won't be long – maybe a few weeks.'

  'How about we buy it now, and then when you come to collect it you can buy it back from us?' Declan's mum says.

  Mum finally twigs that Declan's mum is trying to lend her cash without embarrassing us. 'That would be okay with me,' she whispers.

  'It's such a nice fridge.' Declan's mum runs her hand down the handle. 'Do you think five hundred would be reasonable?'

  Mum's lip trembles.

  'Let's make it a thousand. It has such a lovely stainless steel finish. And there's not a mark on it!'

  Mum's legs crumple and she crouches on Declan's driveway, sobbing.

  16

  JENNA-BELLE

  SHARES HER

  MOTHER'S

  VALUES

  We're sitting in the formal lounge at Declan's house when Bryce Cole pulls in. I'm glad to see him because about five minutes after we finished moving our stuff, Declan's mum ushered us in here for a cool drink. Declan's dad disappeared into his study. I was going to run up to Declan's room, except Mum coat-hangered me. Our mums have been discussing weight loss programs for half an hour. They've pretty much exhausted that line of conversation, and we're all panicking about where to go next.

  'There's your friend now,' Declan's mother says in her smooth voice. There's a red mark around her throat where she's been fidgeting with her necklace.

  Bryce Cole stares at his stuff next to the letterbox. He stacks it in his boot, and then he stands there tossing his keys in his hand.

  I rush outside and tell him what happened.

  'Go get Will and your mum. I've got an idea.' He grins at me.

  Bryce Cole drives us into the city. We pull into the driveway of a fancy hotel near Circular Quay. The concierge wears a top hat and white gloves. I ask him if he has a whole stack of them behind his desk, because no one could wear the same white gloves all day. I'm rabbiting on because normally we would have suitcases when we check into a hotel. Mine was pink, with those stickers on it from every country we've visited. I think we sold it at the second garage sale. I don't want the concierge to notice that there's only one decent bag between us – Mum's overnight bag. I've got my green shopping bag. Will hasn't brought a thing. If the concierge does notice, he doesn't say anything. He directs us to the reception desk in the lobby.

  Bryce Cole checks us in to a suite. As we stand in the lift, Mum is looking a bit shell-shocked.

  Our suite has three bedrooms and a view out over the Bridge. I'm not sure who's supposed to have which room, so I hang back, but we're all hanging back, until Will calls the main bedroom with the king-sized bed. Bryce Cole swiftly kicks him out of that one, so he goes for the next biggest bedroom. Mum and I plonk our stuff on two single beds in the other room.

  I take out Albert Bear and lean him against the pillow.

  Will checks out the mini bar. He cracks himself a beer, hands one to Bryce Cole, then flops on the lounge with his feet on the coffee table. Mum has a wine and I have a Coke.

  It's dusk and the cars crossing the Bridge have their lights on, leaving a trail of red inside my eyelids when I blink. Ferries cross the harbour. Nobody says anything. All I can hear is my drink fizzing inside the can, and the low thrum of the train pulling out of the station under the Cahill Expressway below.

  This is it. This is the rescue we were hoping for. I can see how living in a hotel is actually better than living in a house. You don't have to worry about all that rent in advance and electricity deposit stuff that Will was talking about, or furniture, or washing, or anything. We can just order room service for our meals. We should have done this ages ago.

  Mum sighs.

  'There's a spa off the master,' Bryce Cole tells her. 'How about I take the kids out while you have a bath? We'll come back in an hour or so and we can go for dinner. You can take this with you.' He hands the wine bottle to her. 'In the meantime, we'll be in that pub down there.' He points to a building in The Rocks.

  'Jenna-Belle can't go in there. She's under-age,' Will says. He's under-age too, but it's my youth he seems to be worried about.

  'Getting into pubs is all about attitude,' Bryce Cole says. 'Come on.' He hustles us out the door.

  On the way out I ignore the concierge. It's time for me to get a handbag. It's worth the nuisance of carrying around a handbag just so I can rummage through it to avoid conspicuously ignoring people.

  The pub smells like the bar at the track, a combination of old spilt beer and trough lollies. We're the only ones in here, although I can see through a corridor to another bar on the other side where a few tourists are chatting.