One hundred and twenty hours and seven family meetings later, Mum and Dad finally have my punishments sorted for, in their words, ‘lying, stealing, joyriding and abusing their trust’.
Grounded. That’s a first.
Taking on extra shifts at the bookshop. At least I’ll get paid.
Covering the cost of getting the work car fixed. There goes the extra money.
Then there’s the lucky-last punishment: working through my goals for the year with Dad, who’s made the whole me-taking-the-car situation about him. He thinks he’s not ‘present’ enough in my life, so he wants to bond. Not only that, but he wants answers. What am I doing with my life? Where? When? Apparently he’s done waiting for me to sort it, so he’s going to figure out my ‘life plan’ for me. Bloody self-development books.
This is it. I’ve found it. The purest form of torture: my life planned out by Dad.
And I thought Trent’s BO was bad.
Triple zero? Hi, Milo Dark here, I have an emergency. Please send help immediately.
Quickly losing the will to live through another Durnan day, I lie on the couch in front of one of those generic breakfast shows where everyone looks like a clone of each other. All white teeth and boofy hair. I hate myself for watching it, but I’m too lazy to reach for the remote.
While I stare mindlessly at the telly, Mum’s in the armchair across from me, mulling over a sudoku. After a few minutes she gets up in a huff and snatches the remote.
‘It’s drivel, Milo, rots brains,’ she says, turning it off.
‘Mum, it’s just telly.’
This is what my life has come to: fighting to watch a show I don’t even like. Maybe my brain has already rotted to the core.
‘Your father and I meant what we said: something’s got to change around here.’
Mum likes talking, not listening, so I don’t say anything else. If I do, I’ll just be getting in the way.
She straightens a picture frame by the window that reads Follow your dreams, then stops to peer through the glass. ‘Darling, have you seen the Robinsons’ place across the road?’
‘Course I’ve seen it.’
‘Tone, Milo. Well, it’s been on the market for seven months now. Can’t budge it. Such a shame for them.’ She pauses. ‘Have you … have you thought about what you might do with the money you’re saving?’
She looks out the window again, then back to me. And then I get where she’s going with this. Oh.
‘Er … not yet,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘That’s kind of the point though. Probably uni once I know what I want to do, or —’
‘Uni?’ Mum claps her hands together, beyond thrilled to hear that word come out of my mouth. ‘Yes, wonderful. I was thinking, you’re good with technology and computers, aren’t you? You could study that.’
She says it like I’m the next Bill Gates, when I’ve only ever helped her to update her laptop software and introduced her to YouTube.
‘Er, maybe, Mum. But one of Sal’s friends went on an exchange to Scotland and —’
‘Or there’s always property.’ She waves me over with a manicured hand.
I heave myself off the couch, hating myself for not sleeping in longer and avoiding this conversation.
‘It’s one of the benefits of staying here in the country … and if you ended up studying via distance education then you could move in across the road,’ she adds. ‘That way I’ll always know you’re looking after yourself. We could still have dinner together every night. Can you imagine?’
I stare at the house with its double garage and overgrown tree in the front and shabby brick finish. It’s one of the few unrestored homes on the block.
Oh, I can imagine.
Mum rushing over unannounced to make sure I have enough clean boxers for the week. Dad berating me for not mowing the lawn often enough. Trent scabbing the keys to throw a piss-up for every dropkick in town.
But mainly I can imagine my whole future mapped out for me in an instant. Durnan forever. No surprises. Just an endless life of same-same: work, sleep, lectures from Mum and Dad, repeat. It’s enough to make me want to hurl myself through the window.
Suddenly the only thing that seems worse than having no plan is having a plan I don’t want.
‘Something to think about anyway,’ Mum says, wrapping an arm around me.
I swallow. ‘Ah, maybe.’
She roughs up my hair and says, ‘Good boy,’ like I’m a toddler nailing potty time.
My head aches. It’s too much to think about at seven forty-eight in the morning. I collapse back on the couch and pull out my phone to reply to Layla.
‘Who are you texting?’ Mum asks, sitting next to me.
‘No-one really.’
Her lips tighten into a straight line.
‘Mum, whatever you’re thinking, stop. I begged her to drive me. Anyway, the car’s getting fixed and I’m paying for it.’ Trust me, I’m paying for it in every way. ‘She’s telling me about her job, okay? That’s all.’
‘I thought she was going out with someone.’
‘So? Guys and girls can be friends, Mum. We’re not all sex maniacs.’
Shouldn’t have said ‘sex maniacs’. Should not have said that.
‘Sometimes they can be friends,’ she says, side-stepping my last sentence with the skilfulness of an acrobat walking the high-wire. ‘I have a good memory though. Even as kids, you followed Layla around like a puppy dog, back when she was all about your brother.’
I snort.
‘You did. And she was.’
‘Good pep talk, Mum. We done?’ I stare at the blank telly screen, scared of what she might see etched across my face.
‘I don’t want you to get hurt, my darling,’ she adds, her voice softening. ‘Or Sal. You two have been through a lot together. Two years of dating, that fancy couples award at the formal —’
‘It was just a stupid award, Mum. Relax. Trust me, Sal is fine. I mean, we’re fine.’
Trent stumbles into the living room scratching at his left armpit. I’ve never been so relieved to see him. Anything to get Mum off my case.
She cringes as he grabs the remote, turns on the television and collapses into a chair, almost in a single non-stop motion. Releasing a yawn, he plonks his feet on the coffee table with a thud. Mum gestures for him to move them and he releases a deep grunt as he readjusts himself.
Once Mum’s headed into the kitchen to make breakfast, Trent rolls around to face me. ‘So you do have the horn for little Montgomery. Although I guess she’s not that little now, huh? Pretty crazy-hot these days.’
‘Yeah.’ I freeze. The word fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Trent hoots with laughter. ‘You sly dog, you have been paying attention. She’s a legend. Can’t blame you.’
I throw a cushion at him.
He catches it and laughs. ‘Hey, don’t be mad at me for your unrequited thirst. It’s not my fault she threw herself at me for like forever.’
‘You’re dreaming.’
He plants his feet back on the coffee table. ‘Why do you even care?’
‘I don’t.’
Mum pokes her head into the living room. ‘Poached or scrambled eggs, boys?’
I have no idea. And now I’ve lost my appetite.
* * *
Layla: You ignoring me? Or dead?
Layla: I’ll feel pretty bad if you’re dead
Layla: But if you’re NOT dead, I stand by what I said. Bad. At. This
Milo: Just busy. Still grounded. Still working. Fun times
Layla: So what’s up? How’s grounded life?
Milo: Spectacular
Milo: Heard you were in love with Trent back in the day
Layla: With Trenticles? Please
Layla: I was like two
Milo: Ha. But you liked him?
Milo: Trent?
Milo: TRENT?
Layla: Thought you were busy with work?
Milo: I am. Going … going …
Layla: Gone
* * *
Milo: Hey stranger, how bout a visit at work tomoz?
Layla: Hey, sorry, can’t make it. I’m working too. Boo but $$$
Milo: Alright. Cluck you
* * *
Milo: 24 hours. Now who’s crap at texting?
Layla: Sorry! This is prob past your bedtime so you won’t get it til later
Layla: Grandpa
* * *
Milo: It’s 7 — I’m up
Layla: You’re UP? Flirt
Milo: Mind out of the gutter, flirt
Layla: Back chat! Detention for you! See you after class
Milo: Can’t wait, Miss Montgomery
Layla: Now who’s the flirt?