Twenty

First thing in the morning, I re-check all of Dad’s spots, then I call Ginge.

“Sorry, haven’t seen ’im. I’ll let ya know if I do.”

I lean back against the toilet block wall; the clouds are black, heavy. I’m sick of snow. Bear climbs on my lap as I type a text to Libby; I delete it, then rewrite it a billion times, before settling on: Would you like help to finish the ball stuff?

I hit Send. I can see she’s online by the green dot by her name. No matter how much I will the little dots to show she’s typing back, they don’t appear.

It’s Monday tomorrow, and the ball is Wednesday. Am I going to be that person who goes alone without the excuse of being part of the ball committee? Surely she wouldn’t turn down help on the day if she really needed it. I should go just in case. I bury my head in my knees and wrap my arms around my head; what the hell has happened to me? I used to think balls were dumb and stupid, and here I am stressing about one.

Mum’s birthday is the day before the ball. It’s a hard day for Dad; at least he’s consistent and predictable, and he’ll go on a bender. For how long, I never really know. And then I realise there’s one spot I haven’t looked for him.

Before I leave, I check my phone again. Libby is offline and hasn’t read my message. On the ball Facebook page, Libby has posted a list of all the best second-hand shops to get Gatsby-themed costumes.

I ride up the road to the cemetery, and a chill runs down my back. I haven’t been here since we buried her. Graves line either side of the sweeping drive; I lean my bike against the crematorium building, and memories flood back, watching her coffin being lowered into the grave, propping up Dad, who was too drunk to speak.

The good times – the art missions.

The bad times – always Dad related.

I weave my way through the graves till I reach Mum’s tree at the top, her grave underneath. I drop to my knees and frantically pick grass until her name shows, brush her plaque clean. My body shudders as if it’s been turned inside out, raw and exposed.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying.” I gasp in a breath. “I miss you.” I swallow hard; she’s too close, the missing is too heavy to fight, and for once I let the tears flow.

I look around for flowers; there are none, only mounds of snow.

Behind the tree is a bench seat with empty booze boxes scattered underneath. Hidden under the seat, I notice a black rubbish bag. I pull it out and untie the handles; inside are a sleeping bag, a pillow and an old jersey – definitely Dad’s. My chest tightens, and I want to swing my arm back and punch the tree. But Mum would hate that. I breathe out hard, force myself to stop.

I pick up all the rubbish and bottles, take them to the skip bin behind the crematorium and slam each bottle in. It does nothing to calm the rage at Dad. I hate him. I can’t believe he’d drink here.

The bare sidewall of the crematorium is begging to be bombed. I spray the outline of me and Bear looking up at the indigo sky bursting with silver stars, and along the top in loopy white handwriting, You are the brightest star we see. I don’t add Dad. I’m taking a picture when my phone beeps.

It’s Libby, and I boxer-punch the air.

You can help on Tuesday? Lots to do. Meet at the gallery after school. 1. Finish painting banner. 2. Help shift it from the gallery to the school hall and hang it. No one else is free to help. Dad is out of town, and Mum has a massive catering event the same night.

I reply: I can definitely help and attach a GIF of a fluffy baby penguin wearing a top hat and cane that says, Help is on the way.

And wait for her to reply with another GIF, but nothing comes.

I ride into town and spot heaps of seniors up Main Street. I slot my card into the ATM; there is twelve dollars available. In the dairy next door, I buy gum and get ten dollars cash out. I find Recycling Boutique – the shop Libby recommended on her Facebook post as the cheapest and best place for second-hand suits, shoes and shirts. A buzzer goes as I walk in. An older lady sits at the front desk, unpicking the cuff of a pair of trousers. She smiles.

I search down the back, and there are people from school in every aisle. A guy I recognise stands in front of the mirror and holds up braces, clips the clasps to his jeans and yanks them over his shoulder. I want some, and grab the only pair left, which are hanging off the corner of the mirror. Given how many people are in here, I don’t bother trying them on. Behind me are rows of neatly hung and perfectly pressed white shirts. It doesn’t smell like a second-hand shop; it smells like Mum’s just done the washing. I flick through the shirts till I find one my size, and hold it up against me in the mirror.

“Lovely,” the lady at the front says. “Perfect size.” She comes out from behind the desk. “For the ball?” And she flicks through a rack of trousers.

“Yes.”

She pulls out three pairs: one pinstriped with thick cuffs at the bottom, the other two plain black. “These would look fabulous on you.” She holds out the pinstripes and passes me three pants on hangers. “Try them all, and this.” She pushes another shirt onto the pile. The shape is more fitted, better suited to the Gatsby style.

I’ve never had help shopping before, possibly because I never buy new things. Store clerks tend not to be helpful when I uplift things, and there’s never an option of trying on for the best fit. It’s more a “grab and run” kind of deal.

Mum would love it in here, and they’d love her.

I survey the line of shoes on the rack, unsure if I’m allowed to try them on or if it’s more of a “good luck if they fit” kind of thing.

“These would be perfect,” the lady says and holds up a pair of black patent shoes with white tips on the toes. Possibly a smidge too big, but worth it.

“You will look wonderful.” She spins me towards the changing room.

I pick up the price tags that dangle from the collar and sleeves. “I don’t have enough for all of this, sorry.”

“Try them on.” She repeats it, turning to help a girl pin the bottom of her dress.

Inside the changing room, I pull on the pinstripe pants and white shirt with a fine white stripe that you can only see if you look closely. I push my feet into the shoes.

“And this.” The lady’s voice comes from behind the door, and she drops a waistcoat over. “Really, I don’t have enough ... money.” I whisper the last word, aware that everyone in the changing room would be able to hear.

Is she waiting for me outside? Her feet are still there – immaculate, polished leather; old woman’s shoes. Not a single scuff.

I tuck in the shirt, pull the braces over my shoulders and slip the waistcoat on. I stare into the mirror. Damn. I turn slowly, admire each side of me. I’ve never seen myself in anything this tidy. I like it. I can only afford one of these items, and I can’t decide. I deflate, sure Luka will laugh at my mismatched suit.

I open the door, take off the jacket and hang it on its hanger.

“Oh, that’s absolutely spot-on,” says the woman. “But the waistcoat’s too big. Take it off. I’ll bring the seam in. Are you uptown long?”

I look at all the price tags, adding them together. Thirty-seven dollars. I’m twenty-seven short.

“Sorry, I don’t want to waste your time. I don’t have enough money.” I can’t steal from her; she’s too lovely.

“What’s your budget?” she asks, walking up to the front desk and immediately starting to unpick the back of the waistcoat.

I check no one is close. “I’m sorry, this is all I have.” I unfold the ten-dollar bill and place it on her desk. “So sorry, I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“Consider it a ‘fill a bag for ten dollars.’” She lowers her voice. “Grab the entire outfit, and pop it here.” She winks and passes me a plastic bag. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Gratitude swells within me. “Thank you so much.”

She bags all the stuff, throws in one of those bow ties on elastic, and takes the ten dollars. “Come back on your way home, and this will be ready.”

I don’t have a home, but I’m up to be adopted as her grandson, if she’s keen.