Later that night, Mum, Taylor and I watch a reality television show that I can’t stand. I sit with them anyway. I want to get some snacks, but know Taylor will yell at me if I make too much noise while she’s watching High Life.
‘I heard about that dog,’ Mum says. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Dad found him,’ I say. I can’t stop thinking about Matthew. I’d sat with him for an hour, until he’d stopped crying and his breathing had returned to normal. I’d asked if he wanted to do something, go to the river, or go get some food. I’d even asked him back home, where I knew one of us would have to sit on the floor of the annex because there aren’t enough chairs. He’d shaken his head and disappeared. I keep craning my neck to look out the window, although it’s too dark and wet to see anything even if he did happen to wander past.
Mum looks up at me. ‘What?’
‘Dad found him. If he hadn’t, Jube would’ve died.’
‘Oh.’ Mum blinks. ‘That’s good. That’s great.’
‘Is that the black dog?’ Taylor asks. She’s spent the day at the beach with Adam. They’d gone hiking around the bay. She smells like salt and keeps leaving little piles of sand everywhere.
I try not to think about her sandy feet in our shared bed. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m glad he’s okay.’ Taylor stretches. ‘Now, stop talking. High Life’s on.’
‘Stell?’ Mum says, still looking at the television.
‘What?’
‘How’d you go? With the letters?’
‘Fine.’
She glances at me then. I wonder if she can tell that, instead of opening them, I’ve been running my fingers over them, guessing at the unknown shapes and words inside. I wonder if she’s gone looking for evidence of torn envelopes. It’s stopped raining. We look at each other and then there’s a cough from outside, the sound of the hammock creaking as Dad lies down in it.
‘I might go talk to your dad,’ Mum says, standing up and heading outside to where Dad’s stretched out on his hammock. He’d strung it up under our clothesline because that was the only place with space. It’s pretty hot out there, but if you hang a sheet over the top of the clothesline, it looks kind of nice. Not that I’ve ever touched it – there’s no way to tell what sort of germs could be festering in it.
I lean against the doorway, watching my parents outside. Taylor glances at me and then back at the television. I strain to hear what Mum’s saying to Dad, but I can’t. After a moment, she climbs into the hammock next to him and I wonder what it means.
***
‘This is pathetic,’ says Lara, sitting in the water up to her waist. She flicks at the surface of it and grimaces. She’s come back from her stay at her family’s caravan in the holiday park with sunburnt cheeks and shoulders. It’s the evening of Clem’s birthday and his parents had said they’d do a special dinner for us, but then they’d both forgotten and we’d ended up at Lara’s.
‘He’s – how does one say it in Stella-speak? – processing. And the pool’s not pathetic. It’s relaxing,’ Zin says. ‘You’re so negative.’
Clem’s up one of the trees at the back of Lara’s garden and doesn’t comment. He’d taken one look at the plastic pool, which was way too small for him, and headed to the back of the yard. He’s in a pair of board shorts and has the belt I made him tied around his head.
‘Can you fix him?’ Lara asks me in a low voice, nodding at the tree.
‘Fix him?’
‘Yeah. Just do your usual Stella thing and fix him.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Anyway, I’m seventeen,’ says Lara in a louder voice. ‘I just don’t get why Mum thought a blow-up pool was an appropriate early Christmas present.’
‘It’s a big one,’ Zin says helpfully. ‘And it’s super hot today.’
‘Still.’
‘It’s nice to have a break from all the rain,’ Zin says. ‘Don’t you reckon? They’re going on about the river flooding if it keeps raining like it has been.’
‘The river won’t flood,’ Lara mutters.
‘It has before.’
‘It won’t again.’
I close my eyes and tip my head back against the inflated edge. I can feel Zin’s feet against my shins and a few rocks beneath the plastic bottom of the pool.
I used to daydream about my friends – about what our next big adventure would be; about what they were getting up to. When I was with them, I felt peaceful, like I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Right now, I keep thinking about Fairyland. I’m wondering if Cora’s keeping her kids cool enough in the heat. I’m wondering if Richard’s been given any more money for Jube and whether Matthew’s calmed down about the whole snake-bite thing. I wonder how Jube’s going and whether everyone’s in the pool. I’m thinking about them all so fiercely that I don’t notice Zin and Lara talking to me until Lara pokes me in the head.
‘We know about Fairyland.’
‘I didn’t tell them!’ Clem calls from the tree.
‘Heard it from some Ascott kids,’ Lara says. ‘Some guy called Adam’s been telling people.’
‘He what?’
‘Anyway – Clem explained it to me. Sort of. I’m not mad you didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m a bit mad,’ says Zin. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Because it’s embarrassing.’
‘But we’re your best friends,’ Zin says.
‘Sorry. It’s just all so messed up. Can we talk about something else?’ I glance up towards Clem, who’s climbed higher into the tree.
‘It must be depressing,’ Lara says. ‘Living there. It’s like a homeless shelter.’
‘Not everyone there’s totally broke,’ I snap. ‘And so what if they are? Some people like the village feel, you know? It’s got a real sense of community.’
‘And drug busts,’ Lara mutters. ‘And violence.’
‘So? What about the guy around the corner from Clem’s who killed his wife? What about your uncle!’
‘Don’t bring my uncle into this, Stella. He made a mistake.’
‘I’m just saying, some people at Fairyland have problems, same as anywhere. But most people there are great. They’re doing their best.’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Zin says, glancing at Lara. ‘I’m sure Fairyland’s great.’
‘I didn’t think so at first, okay? I thought I was going to die if I moved there. I was so freaked, I couldn’t even bring myself to say anything to you. But I was wrong. And so are you. The people there are . . . they’re good people.’
‘We never said they weren’t,’ Lara says, sounding tired.
‘What are our plans for Christmas Day?’ Zin asks as Clem jumps down from the tree.
Clem, Lara and Zin all have huge family Christmases where their houses end up festooned with wrapping paper and chocolates and puddings. They all invite me to Christmas lunch.
‘I’ve told you, I’ve got plans,’ I say.
‘But we’ll still meet at night-time, yeah? The four of us? Christmas movies and leftovers?’ Clem says, and there’s a note of panic in his voice.
Lara and Zin are quiet.
‘Right, well. I’m heading off,’ says Clem. ‘Thanks for the cake and presents and stuff.’
‘Where?’ Lara asks, but Clem doesn’t answer.
‘Stella!’ she mouths, making waving motions. ‘Go!’
So I climb out of the pool, pull on my shorts and t-shirt, grab my satchel and follow Clem out into the street.
‘Where’re you going?’ I ask.
‘Home.’
‘Alright. I’m staying over.’
He glances at me. ‘You are?’
‘You’re too pathetic to leave alone.’
We walk to Clem’s place in silence and the house is locked up and dark.
I blow up the air mattress and drag the sleeping bag down from the top shelf of his wardrobe. Anywhere else would be hot and humid for a sleeping bag, but Clem’s parents have ducted heating and cooling and the house is almost too cold.
Clem hasn’t moved from the floor.
I roll over to face him. ‘I’m so full of pizza I can barely move.’
‘Hmph.’
I prod his arm and, after a moment, he prods me back. ‘You okay? You wanna talk about it? I’m good at talking about stuff like this.’
‘I know. I know you are.’ He sighs. ‘You’d think I’d be used to them doing this, but it hurts every time.’
‘They love you.’
‘I know they love me, in their own screwed-up way. Just not enough to actually make any time for me.’
We hear the sound of a car pulling up, the opening and shutting of the door.
‘Clem?’ his father’s voice calls up the stairs.
Clem sighs and stands up, going slowly downstairs. I can’t hear what they’re saying, just the low ebb and flow of voices belonging to people who no longer really know how to talk to each other.
I look around Clem’s room. People’s rooms fascinate me. Taylor had regularly thrown out everything in hers and redecorated with things she’d got cheap from the op shop. So much of Clem’s bedroom is just as it’s always been; the same toys and figurines he’d had on his shelves when I met him in kindergarten when he was still living in his old house. The same wooden aeroplane hanging in the corner. The same little chest of drawers, the same wardrobe.
Clem comes back upstairs, his feet heavy on the steps.
‘What did he say?’ I ask.
‘Not much.’ He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. ‘You can take my bed. I don’t mind the blow-up one.’
‘Nah, I’m all settled. Seriously. What did your dad say?’
‘I told you, not much. But he did give me money.’
I peer at it. ‘Bloody hell.’
Clem shoves it at me. ‘Take it.’
‘No way. It’s yours.’
‘I don’t want it, okay? I don’t want it. Take it or I’ll toss it out the window.’
I reach for it slowly and tuck it under the blow-up mattress, knowing that I’ll hide it in his room before I leave in the morning.
‘Have you read your letters yet?’
‘I will,’ I say. ‘After Christmas.’
Clem gets into bed and I must fall asleep, because suddenly I’m awake and it’s after midnight and I can hear both Clem’s parents moving around the house, arguing with each other in voices that aren’t quite low enough. I reach for my letters, which are tucked into my backpack. Clem is sitting on his bed with his knees up under his chin, listening to them and staring out the window at the trees and the sky and the moon.
I drowsily stretch up one of my hands and Clem reaches down and takes it.
‘Thanks for staying, Price,’ he murmurs. His fingers squeeze mine, just as I’m falling back to sleep.
***
I wake up to a squeal and Clem swearing. I sit up and blink as Clem’s mother drags him out of bed.
‘This is not on!’ she says. She grabs him by the arm. ‘How dare you? Under our roof! You’re a child!’
Clem jerks free. ‘Nothing happened, Mum! And I’m not a kid – I’m eighteen!’
She turns to me. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Stella. I’m calling your mother.’
‘My mother?’
‘She needs to know you’re completely off the rails.’
‘Off the rails?’
‘Both of you, stay up here. No touching. And keep the door open.’
I sink back down onto the blow-up bed, frowning. Clem puts his head in his hands and groans.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask, rubbing at my eyes.
‘Mum’s happening,’ he says.
She comes back into the room, looking calmer. ‘Your mum’s on her way.’
‘Um. Alright.’
She sighs and sits down at Clem’s desk. The books on parenting I’ve read say that it’s good to do that. That it makes parents seem more approachable and open, or something. It suddenly occurs to me that those particular types of self-help books are full of crap because there’s nothing approachable or open about Clem’s mother, right now. ‘I know you probably feel like grown-ups, but sex is a very adult thing, with adult consequences.’
‘Sex?’ I echo. ‘Huh?’
‘Mum! Oh my God! We’re friends!’ Clem bellows. ‘We’re just friends!’
‘Oh, please! Anyone can see the way you look at her!’ His mother rolls her eyes. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’
Clem goes bright red.
‘Mrs Liu?’ I say, my voice very quiet. ‘I promise you – there’s nothing going on. Clem was just really upset you both missed his birthday and I stayed to make sure he was okay, that’s all.’
Clem’s mother goes very still.
‘Mum, you’re so embarrassing,’ Clem says, burying his head in his hands. ‘You’re so old-fashioned! Girls and boys can be friends!’
She shakes her head. ‘Not when they look at girls the way you look at Stella.’
The buzzer sounds. ‘That was fast,’ she says.
I hear a familiar nervous laugh drift up from downstairs and the sound of feet across tiles. ‘My mum’s here now. Great.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Clem. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Mum comes into the room. ‘What’s all this?’ she asks. She’s gone blotchy and her hair’s standing on end, just the way she doesn’t like it to.
‘They missed his birthday yesterday, so I stayed over to make sure he was okay. I slept on a blow-up bed!’ I snap. ‘We’re just friends! You know we’re just friends!’
‘It’s all okay,’ Mum says, sitting down on Clem’s laundry hamper. Clem’s mother sits back down at the desk and crosses her arms.
‘Sex can be great,’ Mum says. ‘It really, really can. And you’re getting older. I get it. I do. But you’re still too young. You can’t understand all the consequences, not how you need to.’
I press my hands to my ears. ‘Please stop.’
‘Were you safe?’
‘Mum!’
‘Because I know it can seem like a great idea, but then . . .’
‘I know. I’m adopted, remember? I know what the consequences are! And, just for the record, if we were sleeping together – and, I repeat, we are very definitely not – we wouldn’t be dumb enough to get caught!’
‘I don’t think there’s much point going on,’ Mum says to Clem’s mother. ‘They’re not going to listen. C’mon, Stella.’
Clem’s mother nods. She points at us. ‘You’re not to be up here alone together, understood? I only want you in the living room. With the doors open.’
‘Because you can’t have sex on a couch,’ Clem mutters.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
In the car on the way home, I glare out the window.
‘I know that was humiliating, but it’s for the best,’ Mum says. ‘We’ll come up with some boundaries so it can’t happen again.’
‘We didn’t do anything!’ I say. ‘I wish you’d listen to me!’
Mum pats my knee. ‘You want some pancakes? We can stop for pancakes.’
***
Christmas Eve dawns still and sticky a few days later, like the world outside is holding its breath. Our Christmases have always been quiet, even when we lived at our house. We always went to church on Christmas Eve, which I complained about but actually didn’t mind. I loved the candles and the hymns and the smell of worn wood and old paper.
Mum had been brought up religious, but now only went to church at Easter and Christmas time. She’d sung in the choir as a teenager, although she was too shy to sing for us now.
Mum plays Christmas carols on her old, portable CD player, and Taylor and I take turns in the bedroom to wrap our presents. I wonder who Dad’s buying for; I wonder if he bought the present, or whether it was just another thing Mum had to do to pick up after him.
‘Done,’ Taylor says, coming out of the room, looking glum.
‘What?’ I ask.
She pokes me and goes and sits down on the couch, just as there’s a knock on the door of the annex. ‘Yoo-hoo!’
Muriel stands on the little doormat, wearing Christmas earrings and a t-shirt with a reindeer on it. ‘You coming to the Christmas party?’
‘The what?’
‘At the pavilion,’ she says.
‘What time?’ Mum asks, coming up behind me.
‘Five,’ Muriel says, smiling at us both before wandering off. She’s wearing elf slippers with bells on the toes.
‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
‘What about church?’ I ask.
‘We can go to this first,’ Mum says, but her voice is flat and I wonder if we’re going to church at all this year.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.
‘Lying down,’ Mum says.
Dad spends a lot of time out in his hammock, now. And I think he’s relieved to get away from us, particularly in the run-up to Christmas. He’s even slept out there a few times, although nobody’s ever mentioned it. Not out loud.
Mum and Dad don’t talk very much these days. But three times I’ve seen them dancing. Nothing flashy, nothing energetic. Just the two of them swaying in the annex or out near the hammock, in the dark. To music that I suppose must mean something to them, although to me it’s just the sort of background stuff that’s been played all through my life.
‘Why do you dance?’ I ask Mum as she settles down behind her sewing machine. As soon as I’ve said it, the words feel wrong, inadequate. I want to know why she dances when her feet are so sore from work. I want to know why she dances with Dad when she’s too angry to look at him properly most of the time. I want to know whether they whisper things that I’ve never been able to hear, or whether they come together and dance and part all in silence. There’s so much you can’t get from books.
‘It makes me think of all my happiest moments, Stell,’ she says, not looking up from her sewing machine.
‘With Dad?’ I ask. I think of how much I’ve been pestering them to talk to each other, but maybe there aren’t words for everything they need to say.
‘Some of them,’ she says, fanning out the fabric.
***
The Christmas Eve party in the pavilion is a blur of crackers and mince pies and bad music and even worse t-shirts. There are more people than at the garden night, and even with all the portable fans on, it’s dizzyingly stuffy and I end up sitting behind the pavilion in the place where the snake bit Jube. Matthew’s whipper-snippered it down to the dirt and I trace shapes in the dust with my fingers. I think about going into Richard’s lean-to, but know it will be suffocatingly hot.
‘We’re going to the church,’ Taylor says, appearing from around the edge of the pavilion in her netball skirt.
I stand up. ‘Dad coming?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t think so.’
Taylor and I fight over who’s going to sit in the front seat and the little purse I’d made for her falls out of her pocket, and I’m so touched that I forget to hang onto the doorhandle and she swings into the car, triumphant. Dad’s standing outside the annex as we pull away and I wonder what he’s thinking.
The service at the church is the same as it always is. I see Clem’s mess of hair and his mum’s sleek bob a few pews ahead. His mum had sung with mine in the choir when they were young. I don’t think she sings anymore, either.
I wonder what she said to Clem about missing his birthday. Or if she said anything, or if Clem had just been presented with another roll of cash with not even a card. I think about what she said, about the way Clem looks at me. It’s alarming how wrong she is about her own son, thinking that we’re anything other than friends. Clem’s not interested in me – he doesn’t exhibit any of the eighteen classic signs I read about in The Unspoken Language of Love. For instance, he never ignores me and the book explains in a lot of detail how if a boy ignores you, it means he likes you. He also smiles a lot when he looks at me and the book clearly states that if a boy likes you he’ll gaze moodily off into the distance a lot and not smile at you, at all. I’d have explained it all to her, if she’d given me the chance.
Mum hums a little during the gaps between songs and the sermon. I’ve never noticed her do that before. I recognise snatches of songs that she dances to with Dad and I wonder if she’s thinking of him.
After the service, we mill around outside while Mum chats to some of the other ladies she’s known for years. Normally, Taylor rushes her home – wanting to watch the Christmas Eve High Life special that’s always on – but tonight she just leans against the side of the church and plays with her hair.
I feel a tug on the back of my top. ‘Price.’
Clem has damp, wild hair. He’s wearing a terrible shirt covered in cartoon reindeer that his mother bought him a few Christmases back. He stretches and I see that he’s wearing the stupid belt I’d made him.
‘I’m not going to ask if you’re alright,’ he says, tugging his shirt back down. He stands so close that the toes of our shoes touch.
‘Good.’ Neither of us moves. I think of dancing, of Mum humming. Of things that can’t be captured properly with words.
‘Stell! Taylor!’ Mum calls, already at the edge of the car park.
Clem is slow to step away. When he speaks, I can smell the candy-cane sweetness of his breath. ‘See you tomorrow?’
He’s wearing too much cologne.
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to explain that everything has changed too much. I stop myself panicking and give him a weird, forced smile. ‘See you, Clem.’
‘But what about tomorrow?’ he asks.
I stride quickly away and pretend not to hear him, even when he calls my name again, loudly enough to carry to where Mum and Taylor are now waiting beside Mum’s car.
‘What’s he want?’ Taylor asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘You can ask him tomorrow,’ Mum says. ‘When you lot do your little Christmas dinner. I’ve always thought it’s so sweet, your little dinners together.’
‘Shotgun,’ Taylor says, and I climb quietly into the back seat and look out the window, away from the church.
***
Late on Christmas Eve, I pull my letters out and don’t open them. After Christmas, I’ll be ready to face whatever Kelly wrote to me about. It’s not avoidance, I tell myself. It’s just good strategy. It’s planning. It’s being the architect of my own future.
Christmas morning is strange. Mum has Taylor for Kris Kringle and Dad has me. He gives me a fine gold necklace that I smile at and put on, even though it makes a lump lodge in my throat that I can’t quite swallow away. Nobody asks where he got it from, but the question fills the spaces between us, anyway. We eat pancakes for breakfast and don’t talk much. Afterwards, we sit around the television, which is playing a Christmas movie marathon. Dad walks to the local grocery store – the only place in Sutherbend open on Christmas day – and comes home with a backpack full of food.
Mum stares. ‘Three roast chickens?’
‘They didn’t have any turkeys.’
‘But . . . three of them? That’s nearly one each, Charlie.’
‘It keeps.’
‘You just don’t think!’ Mum starts savagely pressing buttons on the CD player and Dad stands there forlornly, cradling one of the roast chickens.
Matthew knocks on the pole near the annex door and we all jump.
‘Oh, Matthew,’ Mum says. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, good. Just wondered if you’d like some candy canes? I got some for the kids, but I over-estimated.’
‘Think we’re all pretty full from brekkie,’ Mum says. ‘But come in – there’s plenty of food. Too much, really.’ She glances at the backpack. ‘And some crackers.’
Matthew doesn’t move. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’
‘Get in,’ Taylor snaps, and he does, not looking at her.
‘Not having lunch with your dad?’ Mum asks.
Matthew winces. ‘We eat at night.’
We spend the next couple of hours eating chicken and salad and watching a Christmas movie. Dad goes out for a walk. We spend a good half-hour trying to fix the portable fan. Mum reads Little Women like she does every Christmas, and then there is the sound of crunching gravel and someone swearing as they try to undo the annex zipper.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Mum says, tucking her book away.
I look up at Clem, who’s trying to juggle a cooler bag full of leftovers while he unlaces his shoes. Mum beams at him.
Clem glances at Matthew and tries to smile. ‘Not with your family?’
I frown. ‘Clem.’
I want to explain about Matthew’s dad and the yelling we hear every few nights. But I know Matthew well enough to realise he wouldn’t want anyone outside Fairyland to know about that stuff. And Clem would just feel pity and I don’t want that, either.
Matt shifts a bit in his chair and I see Taylor notice.
‘It’s actually been an acceptable day,’ Taylor tells Clem.
‘She’s only happy because Adam’s taking her away for the weekend,’ I tell Clem flatly. I’d been meaning to tell Taylor about Adam blabbing to everyone about us living here, but I hadn’t been able to quite bring myself to do it.
Taylor rolls her eyes.
‘That’s not happening,’ Mum says. ‘You’re not going away with Adam.’
‘Mum!’
‘You’re sixteen!’
‘Seventeen.’
‘You’re seventeen! Too young to go away overnight with your boyfriend.’
‘You’re such an old fuddy-duddy!’ Taylor moans. ‘And honestly – if I wanted to do it, I’d have done it already! I wouldn’t bother waiting to go away for the night!’
Every part of Mum stiffens. ‘Have you slept with Adam? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No! I’m saying teenagers are inventive and that I don’t get what the big deal is about us going away – it’s such a sweet idea.’ She spins around to face Clem so fast that he winces. ‘Isn’t it a sweet idea?’
He crosses his arms. ‘Very, very sweet.’
‘No, Taylor.’
‘Why?’
‘Because people will talk!’ Mum snaps. She flushes immediately and pours herself more soft drink.
Taylor bursts out laughing. ‘More than they do already? Get real, Mum!’ Taylor starts counting things off on her fingers. ‘We live at Fairyland – no offence, Matt.’
‘None taken.’
‘You stole all Stella’s letters.’
‘I just kept them safe!’
‘I already got expelled over that whole misunderstanding about the school library.’
‘You set it on fire,’ I mutter. Matthew clears his throat.
‘And Dad’s probably at the pokies right now. And you’re worried about people talking? Seriously?’
Mum stiffens. ‘What about the pokies? What do you mean? He’s at the shops! It’s Christmas.’
‘He’s not at the pokies, Taylor,’ I say.
‘He’s getting cream! He forgot the cream this morning. Bought three chickens but forgot the cream. He’s getting cream.’ Mum pours another glass of soft drink. ‘Don’t say things like that, Taylor. It’s mean and ridiculous.’
‘It’s true. And you know what else is true? I’m going away with Adam.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘Did you guys have turkey?’ Clem asks hopefully and we all stare at him.
Matthew points at the remains of the supermarket chicken carcasses in the middle of the table. ‘Chicken.’
Clem looks at him. ‘Chicken.’
‘Don’t you two sit too close on the couch,’ Mum says to Clem and me. I feel my face flush and Clem does an awkward scoot away from me.
Taylor frowns. ‘Huh?’
‘Don’t think I’m not keeping an eye on you all,’ Mum says, pointing at us. ‘Because I am. I’ve been distracted lately, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with acting like animals.’
‘This is fun,’ says Taylor as Muriel pokes her head in with a huge bowl of leftover trifle. ‘Yoo-hoo! Want some trifle? You young’uns will have to go easy on it – my arthritis played up when I was pouring in the sherry.’
‘Yes please,’ we all say at the same time.
***
Later, I walk Clem out to the gate of Fairyland. The place is a mess of tinsel from the discount store near the cinemas and the oily smell of barbecues. Kids ride bikes and run toys up and down the pathways between the cabins. Richard and Ginny wave from the doorstep of their cabins and I wave back. Clem kicks along with his hands in his pockets and turns to face me when we reach the road. I keep thinking about Kelly, wondering how she’s spending this Christmas.
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘No I’m not. What was that?’ I ask.
He runs his hands through his hair. ‘What was what?’
‘You were rude to Matt. That whole time.’
He squints towards a chipped angel statue by the gateway. ‘Was I?’
‘You know you were.’
‘Huh.’
‘His dad’s awful.’
Clem doesn’t respond.
‘Clem! Why were you horrible to him?’
‘I wasn’t horrible.’
‘You were!’
‘You bailed.’
I blink. ‘What?’
He sighs. ‘We always do Christmas together. It’s a thing, Price. An important thing – to me, anyway. And you just bailed.’
‘Can’t you see? Everything’s different this year.’
‘You know what’s driving me nuts? The fact that not everything’s different. So much is still exactly the same and you can’t even see it.’ He closes his eyes. ‘It just . . . it only feels like Christmas when I see you.’
‘Clem . . .’
‘Merry Christmas, Price.’ He backs away and starts running down the road.
‘Clem!’
I’m not sure if he hears me. He begins to run faster towards the corner and then he disappears.
***
Back at home, the radio’s on. Something about the wettest start to summer in a decade. I think of the river, of the swollen banks. I hope they’re wrong about the rain continuing.
‘It’s nice,’ Taylor says.
‘What?’
‘The necklace Dad got you.’ She casts a disgusted look at the school shoes Mum had given her.
I reach up and touch it. I’ve wanted to take it off since the moment I put it on, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to. I’m very aware of it, the chain against my skin. The little abstract charm sitting just below my throat.
‘Not really my thing,’ I say.
‘Because it’s probably stolen?’
‘No. It’s just not the sort of thing I’d normally go for.’
‘Why are you wearing it, then?’
‘Because.’
‘Because why?’
‘Because I feel like I need to! Are you really that dense?’
‘Do you reckon he stole it?’
‘No.’
‘Do you reckon he bought it with money he got from gambling?’
‘Probably. I don’t know.’
‘Are you going to open them or not?’
‘After Christmas.’
‘Christmas is pretty much finished.’
I don’t bother with a response. I’m trying to work out how to put the letters into some sort of chronological order. It feels important to read them in the same order that she wrote them. Whoever she is. Whoever Kelly is.
‘Stella Russo,’ I mutter.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Mum and Dad called you Stella,’ Taylor says. ‘She must’ve had another name picked out.’
‘I doubt it. She was pretty young, according to Mum. I don’t think she ever planned on keeping me.’
‘But you have names picked anyway – even when you’re a kid, you do. You know what you’d call your kids.’
‘Really? You’ve got names?’
‘Lacey and William.’
‘Lacey?’
‘Yeah. I like it.’
‘Wow.’
Taylor sits up and studies me. ‘Maybe you’re a Ruby.’
‘No.’
‘Amy? Samantha? Charlotte? Bronwyn?’
‘Stop saying random names!’
‘I’ve got it,’ Taylor says very gravely. ‘Kelly Junior.’
‘You’re distracting me.’
‘Calm down, KJ.’
‘Do not call me that.’
Taylor flops onto her stomach and peers at the letters. ‘Are they postmarked?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Maybe she dated them? Like, the letters themselves?’
‘You reckon?’
Taylor shrugs and reaches for one. ‘Why’s this so hard for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, you do.’
‘I guess because it makes it real. Like, she’s always felt a bit make-believe and now she’s a real person who gave me up.’ I frown. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it about Fairyland?’
I glance up. ‘What?’
‘Like, do you think you’re embarrassed or something? About living here? I know Mum is. I think she’s secretly hoping you’ll put off meeting Kelly until we’ve left here. If we leave here, I guess.’
‘No. I’m not embarrassed.’
Taylor picks at a scab on her leg. ‘Then what is it?’
‘I don’t know. I want to open the rest of them, I just can’t.’
Taylor suddenly rips open one of the envelopes and hands it to me. ‘There,’ she says. ‘It’s open.’