I SAW JANE AGAIN TODAY, and she asked me how this letter was going. (Yep, two sessions a week now. They must think I’m really nuts!) And I think I’ve figured out what she’s on about. She thinks this is all about you.
Well, she’s wrong. It’s no big deal. Not anymore, anyway. I mean, we’re talking three years ago now, so I’m over it. Poor old Nina still finds it really hard, though. Sometimes I hear her crying in her room, and once I heard a noise in the middle of the night and I got up and there was Nina sitting on the kitchen floor, pulling all the junk out from under the sink. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, ‘Mum’s sick. She needs some medicine. I’m just looking for some medicine.’ I was so freaked out, it took me a while to understand that Nina was sleepwalking and then I got even more freaked out by the fact that she was talking to me while she was asleep. Anyway, I told her I’d already found some medicine and everything was all right. I steered her back to bed and the next morning when I asked her about it, she didn’t remember a thing.
Nina was about ten when that happened. You know, we used to fight all the time when we were little. She was always going through my stuff and finding out all my secrets. I used to think she was a real pain, but now I feel responsible for her, like it’s my job to look after her. And I don’t just mean saving her from the KGB. I mean all the other stuff, you know, the domestic stuff – just like you said. Remember? You used to say, ‘Nina’s always dancing but her feet never touch the ground.’
And Dad was the same, you said. He could name every Factory Records release between 1978 and 1981 but couldn’t be trusted to renew the car registration or pay the gas bill. You were right. Dad tries to be organised but he is pretty hopeless. It’s not really his fault, though. He works so hard and sometimes if there’s a tight deadline he even has to work on the weekends. It makes sense that I have to keep things going at home – cooking and washing and cleaning and all that stuff. The place would just fall apart if I didn’t. Someone’s got to take charge, otherwise we’d all starve to death and have to go to school naked.
So I made up a chart that hangs on the kitchen wall beside the fridge. It tells me everything I have to do before school, and after school, and on the weekends, so I don’t forget anything. For instance, this is what a typical weekday looks like:
WEDNESDAY
| 6.30 AM | Get up, have shower, get dressed. | |
| 7.00 AM | Wake up Dad and Nina. Iron shirt for Dad while he’s in the shower. | |
| 7.15 AM | Make breakfast. Wake Nina again and drag her to bathroom. | |
| 7.30 AM | Eat breakfast. | |
| 7.35 AM | Yell at Nina to get out of shower. | |
| 7.40 AM | Yell at Dad to hurry up. | |
| 7.45 AM | Make lunch for myself and Nina. | |
| 7.55 AM | Pack Nina’s schoolbag and ballet bag. | |
| 8.00 AM | Yell at Nina to hurry up. | |
| 8.05 AM | Do Nina’s hair. Find the car keys for Dad. | |
| 8.15 AM | Sit in car and yell at Dad and Nina to hurry up. | |
| 8.20 AM | Leave for school. | |
| 8.30 AM — 3.15PM | School. | |
| 3.30 PM | Ring Dad and remind him to pick Nina up from school. | |
| 3.45 PM | Ring Dad and remind him that since Nina and I go to the same school, he should probably come back and pick me up too. | |
| 3.50 PM | Remind Dad to drop Nina at ballet. | |
| 4.10 PM | Dad drops me home and goes back to work. | |
| 4.15 PM | Collect all the dirty clothes and put the washing on. | |
| 4.30 PM | Wash dishes and clean kitchen. | |
| 4.45 PM | Make beds and tidy bedrooms. | |
| 5.15 PM | Hang out washing. | |
| 5.45 PM | Start dinner. | |
| 6.00 PM | Ring Dad and remind him to pick up Nina from ballet. | |
| 6.30 PM | Start my homework. Make sure Nina does her homework. | |
| 7.00 PM — 7.30 PM | Dinner. | |
| 7.45 PM | Do dishes. | |
| 8.00 PM | Finish homework. | |
| 8.30 PM | Watch TV. | |
| 8.45 PM | Fall asleep on couch while watching TV. |
Oh all right, some of that stuff isn’t really on the chart – I just made it up. But altogether that’s a pretty realistic outline of a typical weekday. It’s not as bad as it looks. At least I don’t have to watch Danny Baldassarro and Dad bonding!
You know, I don’t mind being busy. In fact I prefer it. As long as you’re organised like me, it’s not a problem. That’s probably why I was so annoyed with Mr McGregor when he ‘volunteered’ people to assist with my projects for the fete. It was as though he didn’t trust me, which was a bit insulting because I’m probably the only kid in the whole school who has never handed anything in late. Never! Not once!
Working on the second-hand CD stall, the mocktail bar and the fashion show just meant I was going to have to be slightly more organised than usual. I still think I could have done it. Let’s face it, it would have been a better use of my time than attempting to ‘liaise’ with the bunch of no-hopers Mr McGregor had found to help me out.
I didn’t even attempt to talk to Kravitz and Goss about collecting old CDs but just went ahead and set up a drive for donations through the PFA. I did arrange a meeting with Edith and Tiahna to talk about the Emerald City Mocktail Bar though. Tiahna offered to buy the ingredients for the drinks, while Edith, who claimed to be ‘artistic’, said she would decorate the Year Ten Common Room to look like the Land of Oz complete with yellow brick road and an emerald-jacketed Toto – which, as you’ve probably already guessed, is where Mrs Blascoe’s dog came in. Of course, Edith forgot about the jacket, which is why I had to rush out the day before the fete and buy inferior quality lamé that didn’t conform to any known fire-safety standards. And why Mrs Blascoe’s dog ended up like a kiwifruit kebab on legs. So not my fault!
The Urban Tribes Fashion Show actually looked like it was going to be fun. Meko had sought out all the various tribes that populated Motherwell High – Death-Rockers, Goths, Dandies (there was only one of those, and he was definitely an endangered species), Ravers, Punks, Emos, Hip-Hoppers – and had even persuaded Mr McGregor to let some of her Goth-Loli friends join in. Kanisha the Cardigan was put on PR duty – which basically involved making the posters – and all that was left to do was to come up with some wicked tunes and choreography to match.
I’d asked Meko to come over to our house after school on Wednesday so we could go through Dad’s and my music collections. She had her J-punk and J-pop, and anything we didn’t have I figured we could just download from iTunes.
I could tell the minute Meko walked in the door that something was wrong. Even though she was usually so polite and inscrutable, I’d discovered that she was also totally crap at hiding anything of major importance. That afternoon she couldn’t even look at me.
‘Okay, what’s up?’ I said. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Mr McGregor has ruled that cardigans are a valid fashion statement and Kanisha now has her own spot in the parade. Am I right?’
Meko shook her head so sadly that I suddenly understood something really, really bad had happened.
‘What, Meko? What? Tell me.’
‘I so sorry, Ruisa,’ Meko whispered, still shaking her head, still not looking at me.
‘Sorry about what? What’s happened?’
Finally Meko looked up. I’d never noticed before that her eyes were shaped like teardrops turned on their sides.
‘You won’t be mad at me if I terr you?’
‘Of course not.’
But even then she didn’t say anything – just twisted her fingers around each other as if she was trying to knit them together. I was beginning to understand how all those kings and queens felt kneeling on the scaffold waiting for the axe to fall. ‘Please, Meko.’
‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You know I had to go to dentist this morning and I was rate for schoor?’
‘Yes.’
‘As I was coming through the schoor gates I saw this orr car drive up with very roud music praying.’ Meko peered at me to see how I was taking it so far.
‘And?’
‘And I see that there is a girr driving this orr car.’
‘A girl driving an old car, yes.’
‘And there is a boy in the car with her. A boy with brond hair.’ She looked at me meaningfully, as if this was the clincher, the detail that would push me over the edge. I stayed calm – on the outside, at least.
‘The girr reans over and she kisses the boy.’
‘And?’
‘And when he gets out of the car I see it is … Jet.’ Meko whispered the last word as if that might make it less painful for me to hear.
‘Oh!’ was all I could say.
Some part of me had been expecting this – knew it was inevitable from the first moment Jet had pressed his phone number into my hand by the lockers. It all made sense. It was the only thing that made sense. But there was another part of me that couldn’t believe – not that he would deceive me – but that he could deceive me so thoroughly and that I would have no idea.
‘Maybe it was his sister?’ I knew as soon as I said it how pathetic it sounded.
‘In Japan,’ Meko said sorrowfully, ‘brothers not usuarry tongue-kiss their sisters.’
In between mild panic attacks, I kept telling myself that there must be a logical explanation for what Meko had seen. Maybe the girl in the car was an ex who was trying to get back together with him and using all her feminine wiles to win him back? Maybe Jet just needed a ride to school because he was running late and she’d taken advantage of him?
It was bound to be something like that. I just needed to talk to him and everything would be sweet.
I must have texted Jet about fifty times that night. I didn’t want to come across like some hysterical, jealous bunny-boiler, so at first I played it cool:
The rest of that long, long night I alternated between manic despair and the ever-more-fragile belief that the moment I spoke to Jet he would make it clear the whole thing had just been a silly misunderstanding on Meko’s part.
By Thursday morning, I was totally sleep-deprived and bouncing off the walls. At lunchtime, I went looking for Jet, but he wasn’t under his songwriting tree with his dribbling groupies, or with his mates at the lunch table in the quadrangle. I even went to the Year Twelve Common Room, but the guy who answered the door just leered at me knowingly and said if I wanted to see Jet I’d have to take a number.
I was so desperate that I actually humiliated myself in front of Danny by asking him if Jet had been in touch to talk about the concert. Danny told me he hadn’t heard from him but I’m pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on.
Meko tried her best to be supportive but it was obvious that she was finding it very hard not to say, ‘I told you so.’ Still, when I told her I was going round to Jet’s house that night, she offered to come with me.
‘I want to see what kind of house a dirtbag rives in,’ she said.
See? Totally supportive.
As Meko and I stood on the front steps of Jet’s house and listened to the chimes of the doorbell echoing inside, I felt as if I had split into two different people – one inside the other like those little wooden Russian dolls. On the outside was cool, calm, contained Luisa who just wanted answers and who – whatever happened – would accept her fate with Zen-like serenity. And on the inside was just-barely-holding-it-together Luisa who was in danger of total emotional meltdown at any second.
I heard footsteps approaching inside and both Luisas squeezed Meko’s hand for courage. A voice – Jet’s – yelled, ‘Hey, babe, pizza’s here.’
And then the door swung open and Jet stood staring at Meko and me in total shock.
‘What … um, hi, Luisa. What are you doing here?’ Jet’s eyes flitted nervously from me to Meko and back again – making him appear even more guilty than he no doubt was.
‘Well, you didn’t answer any of my texts, so …’
‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’ He glanced behind him down the hallway and dropped his voice. ‘Look, now’s not a good time …’
‘Oh, this won’t take long,’ calm Luisa said. ‘I just want to know who the old green car belongs to?’
Jet looked at me like I’d gone totally insane.
‘Simple question,’ I said. ‘But maybe you need a bit more background. You see, Meko here,’ – I gestured towards her like she was a prize in a game show – ‘Meko saw you kissing the owner of that green car yesterday morning – and I’d just like to know who it belongs to.’
I’ve never seen a stunned mullet but I’m pretty sure that’s what Jet resembled most closely at that moment. He literally could not think of a single thing to say – or maybe he knew there was no point in even trying to justify himself. His charm, his cool, everything had deserted him. But even though calm Luisa was totally enjoying watching him wriggle like a fish on a hook, emotional-meltdown Luisa was still waiting – no, longing – for him to say, ‘Oh that! You’ve got it all wrong, Lu. That was my cousin, Matilda. She teaches CPR at TAFE and she was just giving me a crash course in mouth-to-mouth in case of emergencies.’
And do you know what? I probably would have believed him.
But Jet didn’t say anything. He jiggled the door back and forth behind him and stared at the carpet. Then he said, ‘Ah, sorry … I’ve got to go,’ and shut the door in my face.