“Hi girls,” she says with a smile nearly as big as Gabby’s. “Jazmine, would you please just call me Ann? You make me feel like my mother-in-law when you say Mrs Smeeton.”
I grin, embarrassed. “Sorry,” I say, but my mouth won’t let me add the ‘Ann’. It seems too personal. Too close.
Gabby launches herself up to the bar stool and looks around with hungry eyes. “There must be food, right?” she says. Her mum raises her eyebrows and Gabby gives an exasperated gasp. “Please, then.”
“Yes, dear,” says Call-Me-Ann. “We have food.” She says it pointedly, to make a thing about Gabby forgetting her manners, but not like she’s really cross. “I made croissants.”
“Oh yeah,” sings Gabby doing a happy dance. The bar stool is wobbling on its base. “Jaz. You have to taste these.“
Gabby’s mum pulls out a tray of—honestly, I am not joking—fresh, steaming croissants that look like they should be on the shelf of a bakery. A classy one. My mouth actually waters. Which is rare.
“Did you make them yourself?” I ask. I’m amazed. “Are they hard? How did you get time? After work?”
Ann laughs. “Oh, no,” she says. “I don’t have a job. A couple of times when we’ve moved I’ve been able to find some work, but it doesn’t always happen that way. This time I haven’t really bothered. Maybe in the next place.”
A small switch goes off in my head. I’m immediately curious and open my mouth to ask a question but it doesn’t even get out of my mouth. I am loudly, doggedly interrupted by Gabby. “Mum,” she says. “Don’t.”
Her mum looks hurt. “I was only saying that—” she begins but Gabby speaks over her.
“Well don’t even start,” she says. “Come on Jaz. We’ll eat them in my room.”
Gabby’s room is a mish-mash of over-stuffed cushions, pop posters and books spilling out of two shelves, with piles of extras on the floor. She has stuff. Lots of it. Every time I come I try to act like, hey this is normal for me too, but you can’t compare the cupboard of a girl like Gabby with me. She spends Christmas with 15 different aunts, uncles and assorted cousins and her parents don’t think twice before buying her the latest iPad or gadget any time of year. Me? I get two small gifts from one person—my mum—at Christmas and maybe three, if I’m lucky, on my birthday.
The fact is, when your mum works a basic reception job and there are only two of you and rent that has to be paid and you don’t ever see your relatives because some time in the ancient past someone argued with someone else and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—make up, you simply don’t have as much stuff as other people.
I always thought I was okay with that. Before. When I didn’t know people. When I didn’t know that maybe I could have a friend some day. Today, as I look at Gabby’s pictures and listen to her music and eat her home-made croissants which taste like buttery bliss, I miss my life.
I mean, I miss what my life could have been.
I especially miss my grandma.
“I asked Mum if l could go visit my Dad’s mother. My grandma,” I say to Gabby who is licking every single one of her fingers in turn. She looks up at me with a puzzled face.
“I didn’t know you had one,” she says. “Grandma, I mean.“ She picks up the last croissant. “Do you want this?”
I shake my head and point to an uneaten half still on my lap. “Of course I have a grandma,” I say.
“Where does she live?” asks Gab.
“I think it’s Moruya,” I say. “Some town on the South Coast.”
When I look up, Gabby’s face has turned as white as her freshly painted walls. Her mouth is tight and her eyes seem pained.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “You okay?“
She nods, miserable for a half second. Then she flashes her regular Gabby smile at me and looks around for Wally. “I think he’s hungry,” she says. “He definitely wants something to eat. Maybe I should go and ask Mum for more.” She bounces off the bed and heads towards the door.
That switch goes off in my head again when she mentions her mum. It comes with a command. Hey, ask that question again.
So I ask it. Straight out. No faffing around.
“Hey Gab. When your mum said ‘next time’ did that mean that you’re going to move again?”
Gabby stops. Her hand, reaching out for the doorknob, is frozen. There’s just a tiny twitch in the back of her neck. Then, slowly, she turns to look at me. She takes a deep breath. And she talks.
“What are you on about? What a stupid subject. Plus,” and here she looks down at Wally, cradled in her other arm, “you are depriving a very hungry wombat from eating his dinner.“ She brings out her cheeky face. “Wally won’t be your friend if you don’t let him eat.“
I make a mock sorry face to Wally and watch Gabby leave the room, yelling for her mum. I flop back onto her bed and my eyes go straight to a poster of Gabby’s favourite boy band pinned to the ceiling. Cameron Ellis, the cute, charming one of the group with the best voice looks a little like Liam, I decide. Except I can’t imagine him getting mad, he’s so gorgeous. I examine all of their faces and the different colours of their messy, tousled hair and I forget all about Gabby’s plans or not-plans to move on.
Chapter 6
There’s something up with Mum. I can tell the second I walk through the kitchen door. Her usual cup of tea is on the table, but she’s sitting straighter than normal. She looks jumpy.
“Hi,” I say. Carefully. And then, “you okay?”
She beams a very large smile at me. It’s the sort of smile they put on in ads for painkillers. Look! My back doesn’t hurt any more!
“You’re going,” she says.
I narrow my eyes slightly. I’m puzzled.
“You’re going,” she says again. “In the holidays.”
I tip my head to one side. “I’m sorry. What?”
The smile hasn’t let up. “You’re going to her place. Your grandma. In the holidays.”
“Woah. Are you kidding?” I drop my bag and my jaw meets it on the floor.
“No.” Mum’s face goes a little more normal when she starts to talk. “After this morning I thought to myself, you know, she’s right. There’s no reason you shouldn’t see your grandmother just because she and I had an argument. Especially now you’re older.” She sips her tea and brushes something off her nose. “So I rang her and you’re going for the school holidays.”
I fiddle with my hearing aid. “What?”
“Say pardon, Jaz. It’s more polite,” says Mum. She’s looking away from me. She hasn’t noticed that I’m still standing in the same spot, too shocked to move.
“But the holidays are in, like, a week. Ten days away.” I stop talking. I don’t need to give Mum reasons for me to stay home. I change tack. “Are you sure?” I say. “And do you mean the whole holidays? The full fortnight?” I’m pinching myself. Surely I’ve misheard.
“It’ll give me a chance to sort a few things out,” she says. And then adds, “Things at work. Work things.” She turns to the sink. I can’t see her face. “It’s getting pretty full-on at the moment. Lots to do.”
Odd. I’ve never seen Mum show more than the barest amount of enthusiasm for her job. But, whatever. I need to get a straight answer to the most important question. “How long am I staying for?” I ask.
“The whole holidays. Grandma insisted.”
“So you actually spoke to her?” My voice goes high. Excited. “Today?”
“When do you think it was?” Mum turns around. She has her ‘silly Jazmine’ face on. She uses it to tease me. “It’s only this morning you mentioned it, right? It’s not like I’m some guru prophet person who can see into the future and organise stuff before you’ve even thought of it.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe it, I sign. I’m saying it to Mum, obviously. But I’m really saying it to myself, to my absent-for-four-years Grandma and to my Dad. I wonder if he ever thought about what would and wouldn’t happen after he died. I can’t believ
e it.
Well, it’s true, signs Mum. So I hope you two will get along.
There’s a hint of snark. Just a tiny one. But I bite my tongue. No point fighting about this, a thing we haven’t talked about for years, even in our post-landmark-event/ brand-new-life-of-Jazmine era because we both know it will end with her tight-lipped and me sulking, holed up my room, only coming out to eat and drink and go to the bathroom.
No. Be thankful for what you’ve got, I tell myself. I decide to smile. “Mum. Thanks. I really… well, just… thanks.”
She smiles too. “I think it will work out well for both of us.”
I look at her for a second, my eyes narrowed. And then I leave it. Not worth it, whatever it is, I think. And I pick up my bag.
“Is there time for me to go out to the garden before dinner?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says. “Dinner’s not even close. I haven’t given a single thought about what to have. I’m not that hungry. You?”
I shrug. “I don’t mind. Had something at Gabby’s.” I throw my stuff in my room and head outside to the garden.
The spring evening air is quivering. It’s its own being, its own entity. And when my legs push launch me, in one jump, from inside to outside my face bursts into the bloom of a smile that seems to have grown up from deep inside. Out here it’s high, wide and wild and around me I can feel a growing, glistening green that’s alive and pushing life into the most unlikely places, even up through cracks in the concrete.
I check that no neighbours can see me (they’re not often out but you never know) and throw my hands in the air. But it’s more than a ‘throw’. It’s really a reach, a stretching into the space of the sky. I want to see how far I can go, how much I can be part of this life-force, this blue and sunset-gold energy that reaches into my throat and demands a gasp of delight from me every time.
At my feet, the seedlings are singing and even the weeds seem to be choosing to stay out of the beds, leaving my plants alone. They’re heading in different directions, finding other water to suck up and other nutrients to gobble. Everything is more green, more alive, more shiny than yesterday.
I am going to visit my grandma. My heart is full. My hands are happy. The world is good.
I stay in the garden until the reds and pinks of sunset have muted into purple and grey and the plants themselves seem ready to rest for the night. I’m ready too. And the entry back into the house seems welcome. The garden has given me its gift of peace and I will take it inside, put it under my pillow and sleep with it.
Well, I would, if there wasn’t so much homework to do. Maths, History, English. Even an assignment for Drama to hand in before the holidays.
I shovel down a TV dinner—Thai green curry and rice, courtesy of the corner supermarket and Mrs Billingham’s Fresh Home Cooked Kitchen—and think (slightly wistfully) of Gabby eating freshly crumbed schnitzel with roast potatoes and her mum’s Caesar salad. I saw her whipping the dressing as I left. She waved from the kitchen bench and all I could smell was herbs from the pots on her patio.
“Have you got homework?” says Mum, looking up from the couch where she’s watching the news. It’s her nightly routine; sit in front of the telly, surf the channels, complain that nothing’s on and then read a magazine with something stupid playing in the background.
“Why don’t you turn it off?” I asked once.
“It keeps me company,” she said. She shrugged. “I don’t know. It makes me feel less lonely.”
“I’m here.” I said it quietly. But I didn’t make it a point. Even though it was true, I didn’t want to sit all night with her on the cracked leather lounge, making conversation. Just the two of us staring at each other all night and thinking of things to say.
The TV stayed on.
Tonight I notice Mum’s got her phone by her on the couch. She looks down at it every so often. Just checking. But quietly. Like she hopes I won’t notice.
“Homework?” I say. “Um. A bit. There’s a Science project coming up. I should probably think of some ideas of what to do.”
I’m pretending not to watch her pretending not to watch her phone. She can’t help herself. There’s a small movement of the eyes, a sneaky walking of the fingers to touch the screen.
“Are you waiting for someone to call you?” I say.
She jumps slightly. Her chin goes up. Just a millimetre. But it’s up.
“What?” she says, but I know what she’s doing. That’s my trick. Pretend you haven’t heard the question so you can buy time and think of an answer.
“Phone,” I say, gesturing with my head towards her handpiece, now transferred to her lap. “Someone calling?”
She shakes her head and throws both hands off her lap as if to prove she’s got nothing to do with her phone. Mine? No. I don’t even know how it ended up here. “No. No-one’s calling. Why would you think that?”
I open my mouth but she’s quicker. She’s going on the offensive. Attacking is better than defending. It’s something Gabby taught me. Get people to notice you for the things you want to be noticed for. Turn up with socks on your head and they’ll forget about your smelly feet. I guess that’s what Wally the Wombat was all about.
Obviously Mum’s been talking to Gabby too. She puts her phone down on the other side, away from my eye line and looks right at me. “So. Homework. Science project. You going to do it? Do you need any help?”
“Yeah. No. I’m alright,” I say. “I’ll be in my room.”
I turn away, out of the room and into the hallway, pulling the door behind me. It slams slightly. Just a little bang. It’s not what I meant to do, but I keep walking anyway.
In my room my journal’s on the desk. I flip it open to the next clear page, pull up a chair and grab a pen. I’m ready to write. About Grandma. About Gabby. About dreams and nightmares. Gardens and sunsets. But something is stopping me. It’s a tiny¸ curly thought, nagging in the back of my head.
What is with Mum?
I make a quick decision. Instead of writing I draw. Quickly and firmly, pressing down on the blank page. It’s a question mark. At first it’s plain and large. Simple and clear. I sit back in my chair and look at it. And then I begin to add. Flourishes, dashes, dots. Flowers, even. And more question marks in different styles, shapes, sizes. First just a few, and then more and more. The white space fills up; the doodles are nearly falling off the page. The more I draw, the more I see to draw. The more there is inside my head, the more there is that wants to spread itself across the paper.
And then, it happens.
Over on the bedside table, the phone buzzes.
My hand freezes for a mini-second and a tiny shot of dread travels from my throat to my stomach. Why am I worried? The question passes through my head, almost unnoticed, but not quite. It’s not like I don’t want to talk to anyone who would text me, right?
Gabby. The twins. Liam.
Liam.
I let a small puff of air out of my mouth. I thought when you were going out with someone the nerves were supposed to disappear. Before he asked me out I was tingles and jingles and will-he/won’t-he every second of the day. Now we’re going out. But I’m nervous again. And I can’t figure out why.
I push back the chair, get up and drag my feet across to the side of the bed. The mail notifications are all lit up. One new message. And yes. It’s from him.
I hesitate for a second, and then I press the button. Get it over with.
The message is long. I sit down on the bed to read it. And then, well, I don’t really get up again. I let my back flop onto the doona cover and lie there with my knees still bent, feet still touching the floor. Liam’s text plays through my head on repeat.
I love u so much but u don’t seem to care. Don’t u know guys have feelings too? We don’t just turn off because it’s not the right time or place. Yesterday at the park u pushed me away and this morning you didn’t even tell me where u were. UR not being fair. If u like me, u have to prove it.
I r
ead the last line again.
If u like me, u have to prove it.
And then again. And again. And again.
Prove it. Prove it. Prove it.
My heart is still beating. I like Liam. I like his eyes. His smile. His hair. His everything. I like him more than he realises. But what I don’t like is that scared, out of my depth feeling I get when we’re together these days. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I do need to prove it.
I just don’t know if I can.
Chapter 7
While I’m asleep, I’m assaulted.
Well, nearly.
A greenish-black goblin balancing awkwardly on two back legs, is swinging a baseball bat at my head. But I’m not looking at the bat. All I can see is his blue eyes. Evil, blue eyes. I turn and run, panting, down the long, concrete corridors at school, desperately searching for somewhere to hide, someone to save me.
But there’s nowhere.
And there’s no-one.
At 2.41 am (that’s what the green glow of the digital clock tells me) I wake up, skin sweaty and heart thumping and stumble to the bathroom. The tiled walls are cool against my hands. I lean my head on them, just for a different sensation. My eyes are open in the dark. They feel normal, like they could see anything I put in front of them, but I’m not fooled. I know if I turned the lights on they’d cower in fear. My body is prickly-alive, my chest breathing so quickly I feel like I might hyperventilate if I don’t sit down.
But it’s my mind that’s really awake. My thoughts are zooming like a roller coaster on continuous replay. Around, down, swirl underneath, pull up up up, smash to the bottom, and then around, down and everything all over again.
Liam, Grandma, how can I prove it? Why is Mum acting weird? Gabby eats croissants. Should I get a pet wombat? What do wombats eat anyway? Grass. Standing on the grass with Liam. Kissing. Drowning. Falling. Grandma.
Invincible (Invisible 2) Page 4
