I'll Tell You Mine Page 12

  ‘Grow up!’ Maddy and I say in unison.

  Gabby looks at us gratefully. ‘Maddy and Kate. How will you two survive without each other for five whole days?’ she says.

  Louise’s mother arrives – an elegant blonde lady behind the wheel of a shiny BMW station wagon. She winds down the window. ‘Louise. Quick!’ she says. ‘We’re late for Emmie’s match.’ Lou looks weary at the prospect of watching her sister play in yet another tennis tournament. She drags herself over to the car and throws her bag in the boot. Then she hugs me and Maddy.

  ‘See ya, slappah!’ says Maddy.

  Lou presses her face against the glass, making a kissy face. As the carpark empties, the sun dips behind the boarding house, throwing long shadows over the steps.

  ‘I read it,’ says Maddy.

  I’ve been waiting anxiously for her to say something about my confession.

  ‘It was an accident,’ she continues. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  My tough girl façade crumbles and I start to cry.

  ‘All right. It’s only a few days. I know you’ll miss me,’ says Maddy.

  I laugh and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ she says.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I’ve gotta run. My limo leaves in an hour,’ Maddy says. Maddy’s taking a bus to the station. It’s a long walk but she won’t accept a lift. She hauls her backpack on, groaning.

  ‘Dead body?’ I ask.

  ‘Wardrobe options. I need to look hot for Steve so he changes his mind about ditching me. Or at least really, really regrets it.’ Maddy beetles slowly towards the school gates, waving her arms.

  Me and a few other girls are left waiting. The school is emptied of noise and students. There’s something strange about a school without kids in it. Sad, almost. I walk to the front gate and look down the street, checking Mum hasn’t parked in the wrong spot. No sign of her. I’m so nervous about going home I feel sick – my pulse is banging and my nerves are jangling like loose change.

  She forgot me once.

  I’d been on a Year Seven camp for a week in the country, staying in wood cabins, eating chewy, burnt damper and drinking hot chocolate around the fire. The teachers forced us to fling ourselves through ropes courses and wander aimlessly around the drizzly bush with compasses.

  I was lonely and homesick – the new girl who didn’t fit in. I liked creative writing and art. The other girls liked boys, pop songs and doing each other’s hair. I didn’t link arms with them on walks. Didn’t have someone saving my seat with their hand. Didn’t have a crush on a boy. I was desperate to go home almost as soon as we arrived. I couldn’t windsurf, I got stuck on the rock-climbing wall and my fire wouldn’t light – no matter how much twisted newspaper I added. Most of all, I had to get away from the rosy-cheeked girls having the time of their short lives.

  We piled onto the bus back to the city, the other girls closer than ever – bonded by dirt, games and nights around the fire. Camp just made me drift further to the edges. Even the teachers noticed. They tried to include me – making me the lead in one of the corny skits on the final night. After one ridiculous rehearsal I refused to be in it. Instead I sat with my back to the group and listened to music on my headphones.

  Alone in my seat I watched out the window as the trees became petrol stations, the cows became supermarket trolleys and the fields of grass became carparks. I couldn’t wait to see my family, to lie on my bed and eat normal food. Free of the bus, I dragged my bag over to the gutter, waiting for Mum’s car to pull up. Most of the parents were already there, some of them had even brought snacks for the ride home.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  I strained my head whenever a white car came up over the hill. Feeling more and more abandoned as the other girls left. Eventually one of the teachers asked me who was coming to get me. I called Mum but there was no answer – just her voicemail. I got onto Dad, who was furious.

  ‘She’s not there yet? Bloody hell. I’ll come get you.’

  It was dark by the time Dad arrived, screeching down the road with Liv in her PJs in the back seat.

  Even though he took me for drive-through Maccas and I had a quarter-pounder meal with a sundae and cookies, I still felt disappointed.

  Where had she been?

  A work meeting.

  What had happened? You’d think that to forget to pick your daughter up from camp she must have been in an accident or broken her leg. But it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as that. Mum was campaigning for the election – spending nights, weekends and every day travelling, talking and hustling for votes.

  She. Just. Forgot.

  She apologised, of course, but a part of me never quite forgave her.

  I’m about to call Mum’s mobile when she glides into the carpark in her government-issue Toyota Camry with its creaky leather seats and new car smell. She pops the boot and I chuck my bag in and step into the immaculate interior – feeling dirty.

  We’re so close it seems like there’s no air in the car. I don’t know if I should kiss her or just sit there. She leans over and offers me her cheek. She has a lot of make-up on. More than I wear and she looks thinner than usual in a fitted suit.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she says. ‘I had a lunch meeting that ran over.’

  I look down at my lap and pick at the chipped black nail polish on my thumb. My hands are shaking and I clasp them together to steady them. ‘That’s okay,’ I say.

  She pulls out between the steel school gates with their heavy painted emblem and obligatory Latin saying in curvy metal writing: Sine labore nihil, which means ‘Nothing without work’. As if we need a daily reminder.

  ‘How’s school?’ she asks. Years ago we used to make fun of each other. Now it’s like we’re polite strangers who have to make small talk.

  ‘Okay.’

  She smiles without her teeth. I used to be able to read her moods. Lately her features have closed up like a fist.

  ‘Just okay?’ she asks.

  ‘What else do you want me to say?’ Annoyed, I kick the bottom of the glovebox with my boot.

  ‘Do you mind not doing that?’ she says. ‘I have to give this car back at some point.’

  I stop kicking, cross my legs and fold my arms over my stomach. Out the window a jogger strains to get up the hill, his face beetroot red. I’d almost rather be him.

  ‘So. I thought perhaps we could do something together this week,’ she says in the fake bright tone she uses to talk to the media. ‘Maybe an art exhibition. Do you still like doing little drawings? Or there’s a writers’ festival on.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe,’ I say.

  I won’t get my hopes up. Something will come up. An important paper to write. A matter to attend to at the office. I’ve given up thinking she will actually do the things she says she will.

  Her phone rings and she answers it in relief. Anything to avoid talking to her difficult teenage daughter. ‘Hello. Isabel speaking.’ The silver wafer sits between us on a hands-free stand. I think about taking it off and throwing it out onto the road. Watching it break apart with a crunch.

  ‘Oh hi, Jeremy. How’d it go? Mmm. Mmmm. Well, listen, I think that’s not an acceptable result for a number of reasons.’

  A car jumps out in front of us from a side street and nearly takes off our front end. Mum brakes heavily, the car jerks to a stop and the belt cuts into my neck.

  ‘Idiot!’ Mum screeches at the driver.

  It’s an L-plater – a teenage boy with his white-faced instructor in the passenger seat. They wave apologetically out the window but Mum doesn’t wave back.

  ‘Are you okay, Isabel?’ asks Jeremy from the speaker phone.

  Mum picks up the conversation as if nothing happened. She seems oblivious
to the world slipping by around us. Does she even register that I’ll be going for my learner’s in a few months’ time? ‘Yes. Fine. Look, I think we need to go back to them on this.’

  When it becomes clear that Jeremy is the person that Mum wants to talk to for the drive home, I wind my seat back, put my iPod on and close my eyes. I don’t open them until the car pulls into the driveway of our house and Mum switches the engine off. She yanks one of the headphones out of my ear.

  ‘Hello, earth to Kate. We’re home.’

  Mum slips the key into the door and the smell of damp washing and frying bacon hits me with a familiar punch. It feels like I’m burying my nose in the scrap of blanket I used to cart around when I was a kid, the blankie that still lives quietly under my pillow.

  Dad walks out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron with two droopy plastic boobs on the front. He is a complete embarrassment. ‘Kate returns!’ he booms, sweeping me into a meaty hug. ‘Nigella and Jamie are in the kitchen creating a classic family barbecue.’

  Ears flapping, Chilli wheels around the corner and nearly knocks me over, pawing madly at my thighs. I lift him up and let him lick my ears and neck. I’ve missed him so much.

  ‘We’re making potato salad! Your favourite!’ Liv says as she appears in the hallway wearing an apron that drags on the floor. On the front it reads: ‘Head Chef.’

  I put my bag politely at the foot of the stairs, feeling like a visitor in my own house.

  Mum likes to keep the front room neat as a pin with her travel knick-knacks, antique furniture and pristine grey-wool couches. She stiffens as she runs her eyes over the papering of newspapers and magazines, a crushed soft-drink can, a half full coffee cup and a plate of old toast crusts. Classic Dad mess.

  Nirvana screams from the speakers.

  Mum shoots Dad a look. ‘I thought you were going to clean up while I was picking up Kate,’ she says, sounding tired. She flicks off the music. ‘Honestly, David, can we not have this noise on.’

  ‘That noise used to be your favourite band,’ Dad reminds Mum. He picks up the Nevermind CD cover and throws it at me. ‘Your mum and I saw Kurt Cobain at The Palace in St Kilda in 1992. Before they blew up. They played the big ones, remember, Issy? “Come as You Are”, “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. We didn’t meet until three years later, but we both stood at the right of the stage, down the front, witnessing a little bit of music history.’

  Mum rubs her eyes. ‘I can still rock out,’ she says, yawning. ‘But first I’ve got a proposal to draft.’

  Dad and Liv drift back into the kitchen to finish up and Mum starts clearing up, letting out a deep sigh.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say. ‘I’ll make you a coffee . . . if you like?’

  What I mean or what I should say is, ‘Let’s talk about what happened.’

  She tucks a pile of newspapers under her arm and picks up two glasses. She doesn’t look up when she says, ‘Who else do you think will do it?’

  And I don’t have an answer for that because she always seems to do everything before we get a chance to.

  *

  My room is exactly how I left it but it looks smaller. I’m surprised Mum hasn’t cleaned it while I’ve been away. My bed is still unmade – tangled, dirty sheets, pillows mashed down the side. After making my bed every day at school it feels wrong to leave it. I pull the cover up, pat it down and puff up the pillows. Then I lie down on the floor.

  The walls of my room are black with dozens of photos stuck up and a huge stencil of a skull and cross bones that Annie designed. Below it I’ve written FML in white spray paint. On the floor are the entire contents of my wardrobe, sketching markers, my camera cords and lenses, a guitar I don’t know how to play yet and an easel with a half-finished painting. My journal is hidden under a pile of books. I decided not to take it to the boarding house in case someone nicked it and posted excerpts on Facebook.

  I read back on some old entries. Pages of scrawled handwriting and sketches, postcards, photos and bits of stuff I’ve picked up from cafes and shops. You never know what will be significant later. I run a finger over the stub of a ciggie Nate and I shared at Luna Park one day and a flat pink shell Annie gave me after a walk on the beach.

  Most of the recent entries are about HATING Mum and HATING school. And LOVING Nate. It’s embarrassing to read. Especially since Nate has moved on with Jemina and he hardly even messages or calls me anymore. Annie says to give up on him until he falls out of lust and remembers he has friends.

  My poetry is so sad it’s painful to read.

  You say that you love me,

  Then you screw with my head.

  You say that you love me,

  But you wish I was dead.

  You say that you love me,

  Then you shoot me down.

  You say that you love me

  But you let me drown.

  I wrote that happy ditty just after I found out I was being kicked out of the house. ‘Kate, we love you, but Mum is being upfront and saying she can’t live with you at the moment,’ Dad had told me. ‘Moving you into the boarding house for a while seems like a good option for you both to get a little breathing space.’

  ‘If you loved me, you wouldn’t just get rid of me,’ I’d argued.

  ‘Look, I know you must feel like we’re kicking you out of the house. But that’s not what’s happening here,’ Dad had said.

  ‘Oh yeah? So I’m just going away on an exchange program . . . to South Yarra?’

  ‘It won’t be forever. Trust me. We’re going to work on patching things up between you and your mum. Issy and I are going to work on our relationship, too. We know we haven’t been setting the best example either with our bickering.’

  ‘Case closed?’ I’d asked. It was how Dad and I often ended chats when they weren’t going well.

  ‘Case closed,’ he’d said quietly.

  After that I’d gone to my room and laid down in bed, with my shoes and clothes still on. I hadn’t moved, except to go to the toilet, for eighteen hours. Eventually my parents had forced me to come downstairs to eat. But as soon as the plates were cleared I’d gone back to my room.

  Mostly I’d cried and written in my journal. I’d felt like the ugliest, most unlovable girl in the world. Even my parents couldn’t stand to live with me anymore? Could I sink any lower?

  Dad had flipped out after my third day exiled in my bedroom, asking me if I would like to go to a psychologist. Someone who ‘helps kids who feel sad and depressed’. Did I think I felt depressed?

  I hadn’t even had the energy to answer him.

  They’d tried to make me go – even booked the appointment but I’d locked myself in the bathroom. I hadn’t wanted to talk about my feelings with a complete stranger. I wasn’t crazy. Was I?

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘What?’

  Mum enters my room tentatively, showered and in her house clothes – jeans and a loose T-shirt. She looks better without all the make-up. ‘Settling in okay?’ she asks, trying to hide her distress at the state of my room.

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’

  ‘I wanted to give your room a good clean while you were away but Dad wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘That must have been hard for you,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. It was. Look, I wanted to tell you something. Dad and I, we’ve been having some problems lately.’

  My heart stops. Is this where she tells me they’re getting a divorce?

  ‘To be honest, those problems have been going on for a long time. Years. We’re very different people. And I know we’ve been arguing in front of you guys. And that’s not something either of us want to continue.’

  ‘Are you getting a divorce?’ I ask.

  She laughs. ‘No, no. We’re actually seeing a counsel
lor who works with couples. We’re trying to sort out some of our problems so we can be a happier family. I just wanted to let you know that was happening. It might take us some time but we are trying.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. That’s good, I guess.’

  Mum looks relieved.

  ‘We’ll eat around seven? Is a barbecue okay?’

  ‘Sure. Anything’s better than boarding house food.’

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you to, um, chill out for a while, then.’

  Usually Liv hangs around my room in the hall but today I let her sit inside the boundary line, just for half an hour. I’m listening to The Cruxshadows and Liv’s pretending she’s into it too. She gets up and wiggles her hips.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ I shout at her.

  ‘Rage!’ she screams.

  I get up and dance with her. We’re both yelling the lyrics so loud that Dad comes in. He picks Liv up and swings her around. Then he does some daggy air drums.

  ‘I love this song,’ he says, shaking his head.

  Then Mum comes in and says, ‘What in the world?’

  I think, ‘Uh oh, the party’s over’, but Dad sweeps her into the room and doesn’t let her pull away.

  ‘David! No!’ She laughs and lets her body go slack and I catch a glimpse of the old Mum. Her hair messy, face flushed. Having fun.

  Dad twirls Mum under his arm and dips her. They seem to forget that Liv and I are in the room – smiling, making eyes at each other. Dad pulls Mum into him by the wrist and she rests her cheek on his shoulder and they’re slow dancing. I haven’t seen them touch each other in months. Not even a hand hold. Maybe this counsellor thing is working.

  Dad remembers he’s on dinner. ‘Barbie’s on!’ he says. ‘Come on, Issy. Let’s leave these kids to their clubbing.’

  After they’re gone Liv lies on the floor, flipping through my big girl magazines.

  ‘Hey, I have something for you,’ I say.

  I reach for my wallet and pull out three crisp twenty-dollar notes. I’ve been saving my pocket money. I’ve even stopped buying chocolate doughnuts from the tuckshop. It’s been a sacrifice. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘For your money box.’