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The cogs are turning in Harry’s head. I can tell by the way he looks up and to the left, as if he’s searching the ceiling of the bus for something his memory has stored there.
‘A-E-S-T-H-E-T-I-C-I-S-M.’
‘Damn!’
I hand over his prize – the second for this bus ride – but he pushes it back at me. ‘Nah, you keep it. It was too easy.’
‘Was not! Take it.’
Usually, I’d be ahead by at least three Chupa Chups, but lately my head hasn’t been in the game. I sigh and look out as we pass canola crops holding their own in the stinking afternoon heat, their blooms bright as the daffodils Mum used to grow. Before.
As if he’s read my mind, Harry leans in and whispers, ‘How’s things at home?’
I squeeze my hands together, unsure if it’s my memory or his closeness that’s made me tense. I focus on the red vinyl of the seat in front of me; the stitching is coming loose, unravelling, like my family. ‘It is what it is.’
He’s silent for a while, then says, ‘Mum and Dad are always asking. They’d like to help.’
‘Yeah, I know. Thanks.’
Harry’s parents, the Carters, are into voluntourism – volunteering holidays. Always helping. It’s what they do. But they can’t help us.
‘Sorry, kiddo.’ He bumps my shoulder, then grins when I give him a dirty look; he knows I hate it when he calls me that. Just because he’s a year above me, doesn’t make him an adult. He’s done it since I was eleven, when he took me under his wing as part of the headmaster’s first-year mentorship program. I was the youngest in my class, since I skipped a grade, thanks to Mum’s home schooling. ‘Bright for my age’ they called me – not so great when all the just-turned-teens think of you as a kid. I was supposed to be allocated a girl mentor, but that year they were short. I’m glad. So, so glad. But I’d never tell Harry that.
‘Get stuffed.’
‘Fork you.’
I have to work really, really hard not to smile; we’ve both been watching The Good Place on Netflix. The swearing references are killer funny.
The bus slows, close to Harry’s farm, and he leans down, shaggy hair falling across his face as he sticks his Chupa Chups into his backpack. He stands, towering above me, then shoves his pack over his shoulder.
‘Hey, mopey face. You coming over Sunday for a jam? Got a surprise for you.’
I pretend to think about it – as if I’d actually consider saying no to spending time with him, even if my scratching around on vocals doesn’t measure up to his guitar or piano finesse – he’s one of those multi-talented virtuosos you love to hate.
‘What sort of surprise?’
He pulls a you’ll-have-to-wait face.
I try for nonchalance. ‘Yeah, okay. Probably late afternoon. Got some chores first.’
‘Fair enough. Whenever you’re ready. See ya ... kiddo.’
I flip him off, but he’s already turned away. When he’s outside, I slide the window open and call out. ‘Hang on to those Chupa Chups for Sunday. I’m winning them back.’
He turns and waves while the bus carries me forwards. Now that there’s distance between us, I relax, daydream. I imagine him waving like a soldier going off to fight in a war, and me, a nurse, heading off to help the wounded ... only the wounded is Mum.
I sag. Once, soft rounded edges and tight hugs, now she’s all angles and confusion. No. I’m not going there. I shake it off and reach for my backpack. Twenty minutes of travel is twenty minutes I can study and keep my mind busy. Or find new words to challenge Harry.
A hint of red lolly wrapper is sticking out of the front pocket of my backpack. ‘Harry! I said I didn’t want it.’
What will I do next year after he graduates and goes into the mythical ‘real world’ our teachers are always on about? What will I do if he meets someone serious before I’m brave enough to tell him how I feel? Samuel has this old record on vinyl by this band, Smokers or Smoky or something. There’s a song on it, ‘Living next door to Alice’, about a guy who never gets the chance to tell the girl next door he loves her. I have nightmares about being that loser.
I should tell him. Maybe I will. This Sunday. But how will he react? What if I stuff everything up? Or worse, what if he laughs?
~
The bus pulls up near the post office, and I drag myself out of my seat. Bill, the driver, slides a pack of roll-your-owns from his pocket and climbs down in front of me. He’ll be heading across the road to put in his regular Friday fish and chips order. I turn in the opposite direction, and passing the pub, I notice a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. It’d be good to have a job over the Christmas break, earn a bit of money. Even better, it would get me out of the house more. Pity I’m not legal yet.
Our whole street seems to be sagging from the heat. Mary Worthington, one of our neighbours, is pulling her granny trolley along the lumpy footpath. Her huffing carries from three houses away as she approaches, her bloated ankles pouring over the top of her shoes like warm, droopy candle wax. She must be so uncomfortable. How does she cope in this weather?
She catches sight of me and waves. ‘Lauren!’
Damn. I’ll have to wait. Either that or pretend I haven’t seen her. No, I can’t do that. Mary’s a kind sort, and besides, she’s Harry’s gran, so that’s a good reason not to be rude. It’s just so freakin’ hot.
I slump against our fence under the shade of the oleander with its almost-deadly blossoms. I always think of them that way because, when I was little, Mum caught me stuffing the poisonous frilly flowers in my mouth. She nearly had a heart attack. I expect my child brain thought the hot pink blooms looked like lollies. I vomited a lot and wasn’t too good for a couple of days, but hey, I’m still here. I doubt she’d notice them these days. Whatever – they smell nice, and the tree is keeping the cruel sun off me.
‘Here you go, love.’ Mary holds out a sheet of paper – the latest Ladies Auxiliary newsletter. It’s covered in photos of who won the latest bowls competition and other boring small-town pap. ‘Give it to your mum for me, will you? I’d come in, but I’ve got to get the ice cream in the freezer before we have to suck it up through a straw.’
‘Okay.’ If I keep my answers short, hopefully she’ll move on, and both of us can get some relief. That and Samuel is adamant we shouldn’t be sharing anything with people. ‘NTK’ he calls it in cop-speak: need to know basis. I guess he doesn’t think of the council nurses who look after Mum on weekdays as ‘people’.
Mary has sweat rivulets running down her forehead and into her eyes. She squints and blinks a few times. ‘How is she?’
‘Okay.’
‘Well, yell out if you or Samuel need any help, alright? She’s welcome over at my place anytime if you want a break. You know that, yes?’
I nod.
‘Good girl.’ She shuffles off across the road to her house, two doors down.
I creak open our front gate and trudge up the gravel, pulling at the damp collar of my school dress. A dizzy haze is coming off our corrugated roof. The tree leaning over our veranda looks pretty with its pink peppercorns drooping in grape-like bunches, but it’s doing nothing to ward off the heat. Days like this, even the shade is unbearable. Geez, it’s only early September. Summer is going to be hell. Yay for the Mallee. Once the weather clicks over, it’s freakin’ hot one day, dust and spit the next.
I dump my school bag inside my bedroom doorway and head to the kitchen. Mary’s mention of ice cream has me craving an icy pole.
Good. Mum and Samuel are out. Bliss to have the place to myself for a while. They must have kept the blinds down all day, and the air conditioner is quietly buzzing overhead – instant heaven. I open the freezer. Inside are four stacks of meticulously folded socks.
