In lieu of going to school I ran some important errands. I withdrew money, paid a gas and an electricity bill. I purchased cigarettes from the milk bar up the road. Dad might be dead (thanks to me), but his habit lives on. Thanks to me.
I’m under the legal age, of course, but the dope who sold them to me didn’t seem too fussed about what’s legal and what isn’t. I guess he prefers having more money in his till. Or maybe I look older than my sixteen years with make-up on. Maybe I look like an adult. In many ways I feel like one.
Perched on the children’s play equipment across the street, I tore open the pack and smoked one cigarette after another for fifteen minutes. I was alone. There was no one else around to hassle me, to interrupt my melancholy thoughts. But soon I got bored—and restless.
I checked my pockets and found that I had plenty of cash. What to do but spend it?
On a whim, I boarded a city-bound tram packed with conventionally attired workingmen and women, and tertiary students all hailing from Bohemia apparently. I paid for my ticket and was squashed in beside a smelly obese woman and her roly-poly, sleepy-eyed kid, hurtling toward a great unknown, before I fully comprehended what I was doing.
My, aren’t I the intrepid commuter, I thought nervously.
I gulped down bucketfuls of stale air. I stared out a window covered with grime, avoiding eye contact with the other silently staring passengers.
I wasn’t sure where to get off, so I chose a tram stop that appeared to be in the midst of all the finest department stores. I disembarked and was immediately overcome by the sights and sounds of the city. I walked up one busy street that was nameless to me. I turned left and walked up a second busy street that looked identical to the last; also nameless. Colourful window displays announced that shops were currently having their winter sales; 10 percent off here, 40–50 percent off there. The salespeople were always inclined to be helpful. I bought two pairs of pants and a skirt, three winter tops, a scarf, nightie and some attractive pink underwear with bits of lace on them.
Getting home was an even bigger challenge. Between one busy street and the next I became lost. Unbelievably close to tears, I hurried across a road jammed with peak-hour traffic and pounced on the first tram that trundled to a full stop. I showed the ticket inspector my ticket and asked him if I was headed in the right direction. I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t. He told me to get on a tram three blocks back the way we’d come. I hopped off and ran. I asked a girl who looked to be about my age if I was at the right stop. Yes, she said. At long last!
“Anyone would think this was your first time in the city,” she remarked facetiously, to which I shortly replied, “It is.” I didn’t bother mentioning the fact that until now I’ve lived a cloistered life. That Dad once pummelled me so severely with his gigantic fists he warned me against leaving the house—against going to school—for a couple of weeks, uttering something like, with a nonchalant flick of the wrist, “At least until your face heals”. He had informed my teachers I was suffering not from a boxing bout, which was essentially the truth, but from a bout of flu, which was not.
Were the teachers gullible or just sadly ignorant?
I was very relieved to be able to sit down again, and to leave all of the worrying to the driver. Not that he appeared to be very worried. After all, he’s indigenous to that part of the world, and to that hectic way of life. Personally, I hate it.
On the trip home, to take my mind off the gaggle of strangers sitting or standing around me, I thought about school. I’m definitely going back there tomorrow, I decided. I don’t want to fall behind, although I’m clever enough to catch up real quick. Mind you, I don’t look forward to going back. I realise I look different, different as in better, but I don’t begin to suspect how they’ll respond to this ‘new and improved’ me. Especially after last week’s incident. I’m sure no one has forgotten about it.
I’m also anxious about leaving the house unguarded for most of the day. What if that woman—Shirl—comes back and does more than just poke around the house a bit? What if she actually breaks in?
According to her letter, she’s concerned about Dad and curious about where he’s got to.
I’m still quite convinced nothing bad will happen, because Mum’s keeping a close eye on me. She understands why I’m in the situation that I am in. That I had no choice. None whatsoever.
The phone rang twice this evening. I wonder how many times it rang while I was out.