10

Saturday morning. Mum’s vacuuming the lounge. A spoon gets caught in the nozzle. She switches off the vacuum and smacks the hose against a chair. The spoon clatters to the floor.

I stack the dishes in the sink, wash them quickly and leave them to dry on the rack. Then I go to my room and slip into swimmers under my jeans, before texting Charlotte to invite her to the reservoir. I toss my camera into my bag.

She answers with a photo of her holding up a one-piece swimsuit. It has a Mondrian design.

‘See ya, Mum. Don’t worry about lunch,’ I call.

I have five dollars left from school. Enough for food but no drink. I race around the side of the house to the plum tree and pick as many as I can fit into my bag.

On the way to the reservoir, I pass Mr Rosetti weeding his garden. He waves and struggles to his feet. I open the bag to reveal the plums.

‘As many as you want, Mr Rosetti,’ I say.

He picks out a ripe plum and bites it. The juice dribbles down his jaw. ‘Grazie, figlio,’ he says.

Even I know he’s not swearing.

‘Come on, Mr Rosetti. You can do better than that.’

He reaches into the bag and takes a few more plums. ‘Grazie, segaiolo!’

I heap a few more plums into Mr Rosetti’s arms. ‘The translation?’

‘Thank you, wanker,’ he grins.

‘You’re welcome, stronzo,’ I answer.

‘Blood plums. Perfecto for cakes.’ He winks, then carries the plums inside.

I head down the street to Buster’s house and stop at the gate. No-one home? Who cares!

‘You want to meet my friend, Buster?’

He runs alongside the fence.

I unlatch the gate and swing it open just enough for Buster to decide for himself. I walk away and he bounds after me, licking my hand and almost tripping me over.

At the reservoir, he runs off chasing birds again as I scan the surrounds for Rodney. A new wreck blackens the hill just off the fire trail. I walk up to the car, take out my camera and start taking photos, looking for the perfect angle to connect charred ruin with towering forest and blue sky.

Whenever I look through the lens, my whole body relaxes; the world is reduced to what’s in the frame. 
A cicada lands on the bonnet of the car. I zoom in close, admiring the burnished metal through the insect’s wings. I check my settings, adjust the aperture and click the shutter. The insect makes a high-pitched thrumming sound with its torso. I switch the camera to burst mode and snap ten photos per second.

Buster barks from the shoreline.

Charlotte is walking along the track, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and carrying her schoolbag. Buster keeps barking and bounds towards her. She bends down and holds out her hand. He stops a metre away from her.

‘His name’s Buster,’ I call.

I walk down to the shore and sit on a fallen log.

Charlotte whispers something I can’t hear. Buster moves forwards and takes a tentative lick. She pats his side and he burrows close.

‘I’ve heard about this place,’ Charlotte says.

Buster runs back to me as if he wants to introduce his new friend. Charlotte tries to sit down beside me but Buster demands attention. He rolls over on his back for a stomach rub.

‘I come here when I wag school,’ I say.

She looks across the water.

‘It’s not deep, but it’s clean,’ I add.

‘I used to swim at Bondi,’ Charlotte says, ‘the home of protein ponies and boardheads.’ She unzips her bag and pulls out two bottles of beer and an opener. ‘I’ve made some sandwiches as well.’ She hands me a bottle.

I take a long swig. Buster jumps up and chases a honeyeater, barking and wagging his tail.

‘This is much better than Bondi.’ She notices my camera on the log. ‘Are you hoping I’ll pose for you?’

I shake my head. ‘I take photos of the reservoir, the forest, natural stuff.’

‘So, I’m not good enough?’

I blush. ‘No-one is themselves in front of the camera. They look nervous or embarrassed.’

‘Or pout.’ Charlotte extends her lips in an exaggerated pose.

‘Or go cross-eyed,’ I say.

‘At my old school, the girls would teach each other how to apply lipstick so it looked like they were always pouting.’

‘Even those with thin lips?’

‘Especially those with thin lips.’

‘But not you.’

‘I was off having sex with my Art teacher, remember?’

Buster returns from his adventure and wiggles in close.

‘There was a girl called Anastasia,’ Charlotte begins. ‘She had blonde hair and perfect teeth. I called her the Ice Queen. Her parents lived in a mansion with a view down the harbour. Everybody wanted to be invited to her place. Even me.’

Charlotte looks across the reservoir, remembering.

‘We were friends,’ Charlotte adds, ‘at least I thought we were. Until a boy Anastasia liked made it clear he preferred me to her.’ She shakes her head. ‘I never flirted with him. I was just polite, but he got the wrong idea.’

I scratch Buster’s stomach. I don’t want to interrupt.

‘The Ice Queen went cold. A week later, Anastasia and her parents complained to the principal that her gold necklace was stolen.’

‘How do you steal a necklace?’ I ask.

‘She wore it before and after school. The rest of the time she kept it in her schoolbag, even though it was worth a fortune.’

‘Blake would have swooped the first day, just to teach her a lesson,’ I say.

‘Anastasia’s parents had a lot of influence at school and our bags were searched,’ Charlotte continues. ‘Guess where they found it?’ Her lower lip quivers.

‘Bullshit.’

‘I was set up,’ she says, ‘because a boy preferred me.’

‘Why didn’t she leave it in his bag?!’ I interrupt.

‘Girls like her don’t work like that.’

A flock of ducks fly across the surface of the reservoir.

‘And you got expelled,’ I say.

‘In the end, the school sided with the most influential parent.’

‘Is that why you’re at our school now? So your father can throw his weight around?’

She nods. ‘Mum wanted to move to the mountains, Dad wanted to punish me.’

‘Didn’t you tell them you were innocent?’

‘It didn’t matter.’

Buster whines. I’ve been so involved in Charlotte’s story, I’ve stopped rubbing his stomach.

‘Mum and Dad made so much money from selling our house, they bought a small flat in the city for when they get tired of commuting,’ Charlotte says.

‘Which leaves you alone up here.’

‘Don’t get too excited, big boy.’

‘That’s the second time you’ve called me that.’

The sun comes out from behind the clouds.

‘Let’s go for a swim?’ Charlotte reaches for my hand. ‘To wash it all away.’

She removes her boots, stands and takes off her t-shirt and jeans.

Not even Mondrian can hide what I know is underneath. I try not to think of it, which only makes it worse.

‘I’ll … I’ll be a minute.’ I hold up my beer as an excuse.

Charlotte runs into the water, dives and paddles a few metres before turning around. It gives me time to wriggle out of my jeans and remove my shirt.

Now or never.

I run towards the reservoir, almost trip over a dirt mound and plunge into the water. Charlotte laughs as I go under. She stands in chest-deep water. When I get close, she flicks water at me and paddles away. I struggle to keep up. She leads me around the reservoir until I’m too tired to follow.

‘I give up,’ I say.

She turns and swims back to where I am.

We stand a few metres apart.

Buster barks from the bank.

‘Buster and I …’ Charlotte says.

‘Yeah?’

‘Buster and I want to kiss you.’

‘I choose you.’

Charlotte rummages in her bag and pulls out a foil-wrapped chicken breast. She offers it to Buster.

‘He’ll love you forever,’ I say.

He leans in close, sniffs and looks at me as if he needs approval.

‘It’s organic, free-range and boneless,’ Charlotte says.

‘Eat it, boy,’ I add.

Buster gently takes it in his mouth and carries it away. He trots up to the high ground where he’ll have a good view of anyone approaching to steal his treat.

‘Master of the Universe,’ I say.

Charlotte leans back on her towel and reaches for my hand. I lie beside her and we both stare at a cloud floating in front of the sun.

‘I’ve told you my story,’ she says. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

I don’t know what to say, where to begin.

‘What makes you happy?’ Charlotte asks.

‘This does,’ I answer.

‘You know what I mean.’ She rests my hand on her stomach. Every fibre in my body pings at the thought of her skin through the thin fabric.

‘Tell me a positive story,’ she adds.

I think for a minute, before beginning in a quiet voice. ‘I was thirteen years old and my parents weren’t home.’

‘That’s a good start,’ she says.

‘Dad left his Holden in the driveway,’ I continue. ‘Unlocked, as always.’

‘You didn’t,’ she says.

‘Are you going to interrupt every minute?’

Charlotte makes an elaborate gesture of zipping her mouth.

‘I sat in the driver’s seat and played music on the stereo. It was an old car, but years earlier Dad had replaced the vinyl seats with real leather. Mum was pretty angry. She said, “Leather in the car and canvas in the house” because for years all we had were camping chairs in the living room.’ I laugh to myself. ‘Me and Dad would take the chairs outside and sit in the garden looking at the stars. We’d stay there for hours. Mum would bring her beanbag out and sit between us.’

Charlotte clears her throat to bring me back to the story.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Mum and Dad came home drunk, as usual, after the races. Dad opened the passenger door and hopped in. He didn’t say anything, just sat there rubbing his hands along the leather. Mum yelled from the front door that there was nothing in the fridge to cook for dinner. Dad looked at me and smiled. So I started the car, put it in gear and steered out of the driveway. The fish shop was only a few blocks. I knew the way.’

Charlotte squeezes my hand. ‘He trusted you.’

‘Maybe.’ I shrug. ‘Or he was too drunk to care.’

She leans up on one elbow, bites her lip and looks at me with an intensity that goes beyond the story.

‘No, Luke. He trusted you.’

Buster and I walk Charlotte to her front gate.

‘I’d invite you in,’ she says, ‘but I reckon Mum’s home and …’ She looks at Buster.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I should be getting him back anyway.’

Charlotte leans close and kisses me quickly then drops to her haunches and gives Buster a big hug. ‘Your breath smells of meat,’ she says.

He responds by licking her on the cheek.

‘That’s what you get for giving away food,’ I say.

‘There’s more where that came from.’ She begins walking away, then turns. ‘Are you coming to the recital tonight?’

‘The what?’

‘At the school hall. Everyone from year twelve is doing their exam pieces. I’m playing as well.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

She shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t want to do it. My father talked Pakula into letting me perform.’ She scoffs. ‘Pakula couldn’t say no, not after Dad’s donation. Ms Gough, the music teacher, is really pissed off.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I say.

‘So will my parents.’ She walks up the winding driveway.

I watch until she reaches the door, then Buster and I turn and head home. He stops and sniffs every few metres, but always catches up when I get too far ahead. He celebrates his day by cocking a leg on a hydrangea.

We walk home past Frank’s Corner Store. It’s been boarded up for years, ever since Frank retired and moved to the central coast. But in the last week, I’ve noticed a middle-aged couple painting the facade and loading the shelves with stock. It means Mum and I won’t have to cross the highway to get bread and milk.

I stand under the awning and admire the lurid purple paint job. The windows are trimmed with vibrant yellow.

A lady brings out a bowl of water for Buster. She doesn’t seem to mind me standing around, taking up space on her footpath.

‘In Vietnam, dogs are very popular,’ she says. ‘It brings good fortune when a dog walks into the house. What’s his name?’

‘Buster,’ I answer.

She puts her hand to her mouth.

‘He’s not mine,’ I add. ‘Just a stray.’

Buster whines.

‘He heard that.’ The woman smiles.

She looks down the street, perhaps hoping for customers.

‘Is your name Frank?’ I joke. The real Frank was a cranky old stronzo.

She laughs. ‘Mrs Tran,’ she says. ‘Betty.’

‘That doesn’t sound Vietnamese,’ I say.

‘I’m from Sydney,’ she says. ‘My father moved to Australia forty years ago. He met my mum and they celebrated by having me.’

Buster slurps the last of the water and Mrs Tran picks up the bowl and walks inside. She returns with another full bowl and hands me a brown paper bag. It contains a sausage roll. I look at her.

‘Think of it as an opening day gift,’ she says.

I carefully break the sausage roll in half and offer Buster the treat.

‘We both say thanks,’ I smile. ‘How come you moved up here?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Sydney.’ Her tone of voice tells me she couldn’t wait to leave.

‘It’s an interesting paint job,’ I say, pointing at the shop.

‘Purple is very calming. Yellow signifies enlightenment,’ she says.

I look at Buster’s messy fur. ‘What does dirty brown mean?’

Betty laughs and reaches down to pat Buster who licks her hand. ‘Brown is the earth. Stable. Trustworthy.’

‘You hear that, boy? We trust you.’

Buster takes a long slurp of water to acknowledge his new-found aura.