by Kate Gordon
When we get back to civilisation, we stop for drive-through burgers, chips and ice cream. Rhino grosses me out by dunking his chips in his chocolate sauce. We gossip about work and sing along to Aqua and Eiffel 65 in fits of giggles.
When we pull up at my house there’s a moment of awkward silence. It’s clear that neither of us knows what to do.
Rhino talks first. ‘You’ll be okay?’
‘Peachy.’ I force a smile.
Rhino taps me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t just sit there …’ I raise an eyebrow. I know what’s coming. Rhino flashes me a cheeky grin, and then breaks into yet another nineties dance song; this one maybe worse than all the others. I roll my eyes and open the car door.
‘Night, Rhino.’ He’s still singing as I slam the door shut. I can hear tinny music wailing from somewhere deep in the house. As I get closer, it transforms into echoey synths. Enya? Oh, golly. She must be really anxious.
She switches it off as I come through the front door. I hear her trying to move, stealthily, towards her bedroom.
‘Auntie Kath?’
Her footsteps halt.
‘I was … just getting a glass of water?’ she says, guiltily.
I let it hang. She gives a little cough.
‘I love you, Auntie K,’ I say.
Her voice softens. ‘I love you too, Tigesy.’
I go up to my room and I get out my box to put a gum leaf in it for her.
I sit for a while, staring at the box. Trying not to think; trying to be a shadow.
‘Bugger this,’ I whisper.
I go out into the hall and see there’s light coming out from underneath Auntie Kath’s door. I knock. ‘You still awake?’
‘Yep,’ comes the answer. ‘Just reading a very dodgy novel. Do you need to talk?’
I think about it. ‘No,’ I say, finally. ‘But I could use some cake. You want some?’
Auntie Kath opens her bedroom door. She’s dressed in windcheater pyjamas with old-school My Little Ponies on them. ‘I couldn’t think of anything better,’ she says.
Dear Mum,
My friend Rhino says,
Our parents mess up our lives,
But everything does,
Doesn’t it?
You’re born perfect,
Then, slowly,
Life makes you something else.
Empty
Or rotten
Or sad
Or it makes it so you wish
You weren’t alive at all.
I want to go back.
But this time, I want you to hold me
Closer, tighter, longer.
Maybe then I could have stayed perfect.
Maybe everything would have been okay.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Melody is standing behind the canteen counter, wearing a blue apron.
Melody is not a canteen monitor.
Something very wrong is going on.
‘What are you doing here?’ I yank my own apron off its hook.
‘Volunteering,’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s good for mental health. Now, tell me, is it one scoop of ice cream or two in the milkshakes?’
‘One and then two squirts of …’ I shake my head. She’s trying to distract me. ‘Melody, seriously. What are you doing here?’
She shrugs. ‘I figured if we’re trapped behind a counter together ...’
I sigh. I knew it. It’s another ploy to get me to talk.
Thankfully, I have the advantage over Melody. I know that once the shift begins, we’ll be so busy making toasties, salad rolls and Milos that talking won’t be an option. I look at the clock. Three minutes until the canteen doors are unlocked.
Two can play at this game.
‘All right, then. So, I should take you through how to put the salad sandwiches together.’ I move over to the food preparation benches. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks. And you won’t know any of the prices, will you? Hmm, okay, so bags of mixed nuts are fifty cents, and chips and gravy is—’
‘Resey, I came early, so I could learn all this stuff. Mrs Butcher’s already taken me through it. I know I asked about the milkshakes, but you don’t have to—’
‘But there’s heaps of things Mrs Butcher always forgets to tell you,’ I interrupt. ‘Like how to clean the tongs and what cycle to put the dishwasher on and how many pieces of beetroot—’
‘Resey!’
I glance pointedly at the clock. ‘Oh, look at the time. Mrs Butcher, can I open the doors?’
Mrs Butcher peers at her watch. ‘Okay, girls. Melody, do you feel confident about your responsibilities here today?’
Mrs Butcher is very serious about her job as canteen manager.
She never really forgets about beetroot.
‘One hundred percent, Mrs Butcher.’ Melody’s voice trembles. I look over at her and I’m shocked to see her eyes are red.
Melody never cries.
‘Mel?’ I say, reaching out for her.
She shakes her head. ‘Just open the doors, Resey.’
‘Um, okay.’
I unlock the doors. Peter is first in line, surrounded by some of the other footy boys—Brad Petterwood (Petta), Tim Faulls (Faullsy) and Jarryd Groenewegen (Groesey). They’re jostling as well as hip-and-shouldering, and I know they haven’t always been at the head of the queue. There are some Grade Sevens behind them looking mortified.
‘Resey!’ Peter says, cheerfully. ‘Stunning apron.’
I can’t help smiling. I’ve missed him.
‘How’s it going, Peter?’ I ask, ushering him and the footy boys inside. I let another five people in (including the poor Grade Sevens), then pull the rope back across.
‘Peter,’ Brad says, mockingly, elbowing Peter in the ribs as he walks past. He winks at me. ‘Rese. See you at rehearsal, later?’
I nod. Brad barely notices. He’s already turned his attention to Melody, even though he knows trying to use his charm on her is about as worthwhile as trying to kick a goal from the defensive 50.
Peter’s ears are pink. ‘The blokes call me Johnno,’ he whispers.
‘Oh, do they?’ I raise an eyebrow.
When the footy boys are out of earshot, I whisper, ‘You enjoying hanging out with them? Melody says you don’t go to the lunch spot at all anymore.’
‘Neither do you,’ Peter counters.
I nod. ‘It’s fine. It’s fine that neither of us do.’
‘Thanks for your permission,’ Peter snaps. ‘I’m happy. Just like Wally wanted. And, you know, he was wrong about, “just be yourself and the footy boys’ll like you”. Melody was wrong, too. Maybe they just never saw me before. Now they see me. And they like me just fine like this. Sometimes they even call me Casanova.’ He does a little head wiggle and a wink. My stomach drops. ‘Now, I’m going to get a sausage roll,’ he goes on. ‘Is that okay or do I need your go-ahead for that, too?’
‘Peter—’ I begin, but he’s shaking his head, moving away.
‘Johnno,’ he corrects me. ‘Call me Johnno.’
‘Um, okay,’ I croak. My chest feels hollow.
His eyes narrow as he lowers his voice, ‘And you know what? I don’t actually give a shit about what Wally wanted. He’s dead, anyway, so who cares? Hanging from a fucking tree, so who gives a shit about any of it? I know you’ve got some secret with him that makes you “special”, but who gives a shit about whether a dead guy thinks you’re special? What matters is now. And now, I’m happy. I’m happy hanging out with those guys, yeah. They see me. I’ve moved on, Resey. You should, too.’
I watch, eyes stinging, as he walks over to the counter. He barely looks at Melody as he orders his lunch and I can see the hurt on her face.
I know it’s my fault. I know I’m the one who broke us;
even after Wally made the cracks, it was me who made us shatter. But I always had, in the back of my mind, the idea that we’d glue back together when … when I’m ready.
But what if, when I’m ready, our pieces are too scattered? What if, when I’m ready, the others aren’t?
I watch as Melody hands Peter his sausage roll and smiles.
She’s always so brave. I miss her. I want to tell her that right now.
But I can’t leave the door. I have to keep my position, letting people in, ten at a time. And Melody has to bag up the sausage rolls and pasties, putting scoops of ice cream in the milkshakes.
She’s not a natural at it like I am. She doesn’t take pride in it like I do.
She chats too much to the kids she’s serving. I hear her tell a little Grade Seven boy that if he ever needs to talk about his crush, she’ll make a time.
She puts too many slices of tomato in the rolls and not enough cheese. She squirts far too much sauce on the pies. She flirts with the girls and argues with the boys. She is, generally, the worst canteen helper of all time. But that’s why I love her.
Melody only cares about the things that matter. She cares about feminism, and LGBT+ rights. She cares about psychology. She cares about her friends.
She doesn’t give a shit about sauce-to-pie ratios.
We switch, so I’m frying chips and handing over Paddle Pops.
And, before we know it, the bell is ringing for the end of lunch. I’m stuck serving the last stragglers and Melody’s taking off her apron and walking out the door without looking back.
And I feel like it’s all falling down around my feet. Everything used to be so solid and sure. A perfect, unbreakable little universe. We lived above the clouds and we were okay because we were so strong and so high.
Just us.
Why the hell did Wally have to fall?
Why did he have to pull us all down with him?
Why can’t I stop feeling all this shit?
Why can’t I be the good griever, who goes to therapy and leans on her friends and cries?
I look down at the pie in front of me on the counter. Just the right amount of sauce. I am a bloody awesome canteen helper.
But the important stuff?
I don’t have a clue.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It’s the last musical practice before the first performance.
Jarrod and Mandy are fighting because Mandy has decided that if Jarrod ‘goes through with this’, and ‘does the stupid kissing show’, he’s ‘so yesterday’.
Jarrod is in chaos. Mandy is refusing to leave the rehearsal space until he makes a decision. Brad is yelling at him to ‘dump her, Jazza’.
Brad’s new sort-of-girlfriend, chorus-girl Kelsey, is punching him on the arm, telling him not to be so insensitive.
The other footy boys—‘Johnno’ included—are standing outside, pulling faces at him through the window, as they wait for training to start on the oval.
Mr Lohrey is struggling to maintain any sort of control.
I’m finishing my maths homework while I wait for it all to blow over. I’m a bit behind because of all my adventures with Rhino.
But I’m also struggling to care.
I just keep thinking about that pie in the canteen and how the sauce was perfect.
It doesn’t matter.
And maths doesn’t matter.
And this musical doesn’t matter.
Last night, I dreamed I was running through a wide, open field and when I reached the end of it, panting and broken, there was a tree with a rope hanging from it. Tied to the rope was Wally’s guernsey, covered in blood.
And there was a note on the ground, under the rope. But it wasn’t the note that Wally left. It was a different note. It was a poem.
If I had only had a moment more
And in that moment you had come
And if you had told me then what I meant to you
I never would have fallen.
I woke up, curled in a ball, shaking. And wondering; wondering if he ever knew.
If he really ever knew how important he was to all of us. How important we all were to each other. All of us just us—bright some days, dark the next, but always there.
I think now of Wally and his notebook. I wonder what he wrote in it. Did he write poems, like I do?
I wonder if he wrote about the chook shed or how my lips felt on his.
I wonder when we’ll kiss again.
‘Are you okay, Resey?’
‘Hmm?’ I look up. Mr Lohrey is standing over me, his frizzy brown hair even more frenzied than usual. Mr Lohrey’s hair always reflects his mood. Today it’s as anxious as he is.
‘Are you okay?’ Mr Lohrey rubs at his forehead. ‘It’s just, you’re ...’
He indicates at my maths exercise book. The writing is smudged, the pages are wet. My hand flies to my face.
I’m crying.
‘Don’t let all of this bother you,’ Mr Lohrey says, gently. ‘Jarrod has decided to go ahead with the show and it’s going to be a cracker. You’re doing so well. We’re all … in awe of you. So proud of you. And we’re all here for you. I hope you know that. You’re not alone.’
When I don’t answer, Mr Lohrey clears his throat. ‘Everyone is going to just love you as Audrey. If I can only get Brad to concentrate more on remembering his lines than slobbering all over that poor girl, I think this is going to be the best show we’ve done at this school since Gumshoe, back in 1997.’
Mr Lohrey puts his hand gently on my shoulder, his face softening again. ‘Resey … you know what, scratch what I just said about being proud of you. I mean, I am. We all are, incredibly. But don’t let that make you think … you have to do this. Any of this. If you pulled out today, it wouldn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that you’re okay. We’ll still be here for you, we’ll still be proud of you, if you did decide you can’t do this. If you weren’t … okay.’
He looks so uncomfortable saying all those soft, kind things. It makes my heart feel so withered. I don’t want him to worry about me. I don’t want anyone to worry about me.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, wiping roughly at the tears on my face. ‘I promise. But …’ I look around the room, at the other kids. Still wondering.
And, suddenly, the room feels too small.
‘Can you spare me?’ I blurt. ‘I mean, would it be okay if I just … wasn’t here?’
‘Well …’ Mr Lohrey hesitates, examining me with a furrowed brow. ‘Well, yes, of course. If you need to leave the show … I said that and I meant it, but—’
It’s all I need to hear.
‘I’m not leaving the show.’ It’s true. Despite how meaningless it all feels, I can’t run away from this show. Because it did mean something to me once, and I hope it will again, because if I lose hope … if I lose that something to look forward to then …
‘I promise I’ll be back tomorrow,’ I say, hastily gathering up my books. ‘And the show will be great. But I just need to … go.’
As I run from the room, feeling all the eyes on me, like so many tiny bee stings, I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the one I need; the person I need to help me with this thing I have to do.
‘Rhino?’ I say when he answers. ‘I hope you’re not busy because I’ve decided I’m taking you on an adventure.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The year before I was born they went to Marrakech, to the same ashram where Grandma T had lived and researched.
My dad didn’t really want to go. He’d just finished his business degree and had been offered several jobs in town at accountancy firms and two of the banks.
‘Jobs can wait,’ she said. ‘Boring, adult responsibilities can wait. Life won’t wait. We have to grab it now.’
She
asked Auntie Kath to go, too, but she was in the middle of her final honours year at the art school and couldn’t leave.
‘I wish I’d taken that adventure with them,’ she says now. She stares out the window, when she says it: remembering and regretting.
They went to a retreat in the hills near the High Atlas Mountains. They did yoga and cooked organic food. They meditated by the river and chanted every morning at daybreak.
They went on day trips to the souk, to see snake charmers and spice stalls, with their undulating hills of red and yellow and green. She ate saffron for the first time, and said she wanted to start a farm back home.
They saw porcupines and cheetahs, lions and mongoose. She wondered, aloud, if they’d see a tiger—her favourite animal—and was told there were no tigers in Morocco. She’d have to go to India for that.
‘Next year,’ she declared, ‘we’ll go to India and we’ll see a tiger.’
As the sun set, they drank fragrant tea and learned the Arabic names of the constellations. My dad held her hand and kissed her neck beneath a sky that seemed so much bigger than the sky of our small town.
And they talked about leaving; about running away. My dad was reluctant, but she was bursting with the prospect of a life of adventure. That was what she was made for. A life of nights like this, under a foreign sky, her head on the shoulder of the man she loved.
‘And then she came home with you in her belly.’
She’d never meant to get pregnant. She’d never thought of kids at all. Her life was boundless, and that’s exactly the life designed for someone like her. But on those hills, by that river, below that magic sky, on the other side of the world, she lost herself.
She found out a month after they came home.
Everyone told her that now Marrakech would be her last adventure.
Everyone, apart from Auntie Kath, who told her that I would be her greatest adventure yet.
Her Wonderland.
Mum cried for a week.
‘But she must have wanted me,’ I say to Auntie Kath. ‘At some point she must have wanted me. Otherwise, she would have ...’ The thought is sharp and scraping in my head. ‘Otherwise, she would have given me up. Or ... or got rid of me.’
