part0012

MR HANLEY SAID THAT Felix would be away for the whole week. He gave me Felix’s email address so that I could communicate with him about the project. He didn’t want me to waste lessons being unproductive. I wondered how Felix knew he’d be sick for so long. Maybe he’d caught the flu Dominique had, though he had seemed fine at the cafe.

I sent him a copy of the adjustments I’d made to the poster design, but held no hope that he’d reply. If I was sick I wouldn’t want to be bothered by school work.

Strangely, I missed him. The woody, citrusy cloud that surrounded him. His unconventional clothing choice — checks and prints that belonged to a bygone era. His brown, wavy hair that always had an unkempt look, due to wearing his bike helmet. His blue eyes piercing behind the black-framed glasses, that he had a habit of fiddling with.

Undeterred by his lack of response, I carried on with the design, putting my own ideas into practice. Too bad if Felix didn’t approve. The project timeframe didn’t account for serious illness.

I spent the next few weeks helping Mom. With Halloween coming up, she had a lot of businesses and homes that wanted decorations, so we were knee deep in all things pumpkin — pumpkin spice scented candles, pumpkin vases, pumpkin lanterns. Mom wanted to create an orange and black color theme for a client’s home, so she was busy sourcing a range of accessories. She showed me a plan of the house — like these people were prepared to spend thousands of dollars for basically one day .

“I’m going to have to set up on Thursday,” Mom said, “I should pay you to help me. You can take the day off of school.”

“Mom,” I growled, “You know I can’t take random days off. I’m trying to graduate. This year preferably!”

Mom didn’t have a college degree. She’d attended a trade school back in the Ukraine, and was a qualified hair stylist. Her styling abilities went way beyond hair though, and when she came to America, she’d discovered she had a flair for interior design. Dad had helped her set up her own company, called Eleven. It was a combination of their names — Elena and Steven. Over the years Mom had morphed it into a house staging business.

“It would be cool if you could have black plants,” I said, perusing the photos of the house. “Are there such things as black plants?”

Mom started gabbling in her native tongue, her fingers flying over her keyboard, a look of wild excitement in her eyes.

“Hmmm,” she said, scrolling down her screen, “tulips, irises, petunias. But they’re not totally black. More burgundy black. Um, even the black rose is not...quite black.”

“Could you spray paint them?” I suggested.

Mom gasped, and covered her mouth. “You’re a genius!” She jumped up out of her chair and moved into the spare room, which was where she kept a range of smaller display items — candles, vases, lampshades, ornaments. I followed in haste. She went directly to a shelf of fake succulents in ceramic planters.

“What if these were black?” She examined it, trying to visualize. “If the whole thing was black. Leaves and planter? But bigger. If I could get big ones.” She let out a long breath, her eyes lighting up. “I know where I can get bigger ones.” She squealed. “Let’s go buy some spray paint and see if it works!”

Mom and I spent a whole evening spray painting forty different plants black, forever praising my idea, saying she would make me a partner in her company, that we would work together and become the best in the business, a mother-daughter team.

For a moment I had visions of not going to college for the sheer sake of it, because that’s what society expected. Young, smart, middle class high school graduates — it was expected that we get a university education, a degree of some type, any type. The type didn’t matter. An undergraduate in accounting, art, business, education, hey, probably even digital design. Nobody cared what it was in, just that you had one. Without one you were going nowhere, a dead end job with minimum wage and zero prospects. Our education system scared us into it. Put the fear into us that a fast food chain was in our future if we didn’t go to college .

And no one wanted a job in fast food.

The giddiness of bucking the trend, the freedom of self-discovery lasted only a week. That’s when my mother had a phone call from Babusia . The shouting was at murderous levels; if they’d been in the same room, only one of them would have emerged alive. The histrionics were fit for a Shakespearean tragedy. In a melodramatic gesture, she ripped open the jewelery box and threw the pearl necklace over the balcony.

Mom wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, what the conversation was about, only that the Ukraine trip was off. She cocooned into her shell, into a depressive state. I’d witnessed it before. She’d go to work, come home and lie in front of the television. She’d neglect her nails, wouldn’t walk the dog, barely ate. It would usually last a week and there was nothing I could do to shorten it. Chocolate, wine, tacos were all ineffective. I had to wait out the storm, knowing that she would wake one morning and everything would be back to normal.

This time it felt like I was holding my breath for six whole days.

On the morning of the day-before-Halloween she woke up before me. I had already decided I would help her with the orange and black house. It didn’t matter that a pop history test was planned, or that the orchestra’s program leaflet was being printed today and needed one final check. Today Mom needed me.

I heard the coffee pot gurgling and my spirits soared; at last my prayers had been answered. I skipped out to the kitchen to see Mom standing in a wide leg position, arms extended.

“Good morning, darling. Look at me, I’m a warrior!” she said, holding the pose shakily. She collapsed her arms to her side and rolled up her yoga mat. “Do you want waffles? I could make eggs. Sit down. Coffee’s ready.” You wouldn’t have thought she’d gone a week with no smile and hardly speaking to me.

“I’m coming with you today,” I said, pouring myself a cup.

“No, no, darling. I’ll be fine. I don’t want you missing school.”

“I don’t have much on today,” I lied. “I’m coming.”

I felt her arms around me, nuzzling into the back of my hair. “I love you, beautiful girl,” she murmured, “you’re my rock.”

I didn’t feel like a rock, solid and strong; I was more like a fluffy cloud — soft, fragile and without substance. And there would be no mention of the deep, dark place she’d been in. There were issues, memories that she kept hidden. She carried her scars, her battles inside, and over the years I’d learnt not to probe .

On the outside she projected perfection, hence her obsession with plastic surgery. A smooth forehead, shaped eyelids, symmetrical nose, lifted breasts. To the world it seemed like vanity, a quest for the fountain of youth, as she let everyone presume; but to me it felt like something more, something darker. Something I didn’t understand.

“Okay, now I’ll make waffles,” she said, “with maple syrup and butter. What do you say?”

I nodded, giving a wry smile. Making waffles meant getting a box from the freezer.

Mom rang school to report me sick and we set off to work. The house was in Cedar Drive, one of the best streets in our area. It was a multi-million dollar mansion, meticulous in all facets of design and decor. A silver Maserati was parked in the driveway. When I asked who lived here, Mom frowned and hushed her lips — she took client confidentiality very seriously. A housekeeper was overseeing our work. One of Mom’s employees was decorating the living room and outdoor area, leaving Mom and me to do the kitchen and dining area. Apparently this was the focus area for the orange and black Halloween Party, and Mom was excited to stage our black plants. It was a three foot tall faux cactus that was our piece de resistance, it looked spooky and awesome, and was the main feature in the commercial-grade kitchen. The client had fallen for Mom’s idea, already asking if we could do a pumpkin theme for Thanksgiving.

Mom’s attention to detail was meticulous. She showed me how to fold the perfect napkin, how to place every accessory to its maximum. Presentation was everything, she said. Nothing was left to chance.

Just before three o’clock a video crew arrived. It seemed the party was being filmed. Mom made us leave quickly, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. I would have liked to have hung around, in case someone famous turned up.

Mom dropped me home and went out to another job. I messaged my friends to see if I’d missed anything, or if they’d missed me. Ella had put an important message in our group: We were all to meet at her place TONIGHT! It made me curious, what was the big deal? On a weeknight, when she had piano practice? Texts went back and forth, until there was a time that suited everyone: seven thirty sharp!

I panicked for the next few hours, worrying about the urgent need to meet: Was I being kicked out of the friend group? I hadn’t been around much, especially in the last week with Mom not feeling well. I’d been hurrying home to see if she’d needed me. And the design project had been taking a lot of my time. And I’d had so much reading for my history class.

I hadn’t supported Dominique, who I knew was struggling on a number of levels — her injured knee, Damon’s departure for college, the volunteer work she seemed to have immersed herself in. And I’d fobbed off Ainsley a few times, too. She’d wanted me to go shopping and help her film a makeup video. Selina had asked if I’d help with the Well-being Club fundraiser. It wasn’t until later in the year, but I’d been non-commital, too.

The thing was, I didn’t want to tell them that Mom was on a meltdown. So I told lies; Mom’s business was busy, she needed my help, I had a history essay to write, a design project to finish, a dog to walk. So many little white lies.

And amidst all the stress, a message from Felix Northcott appeared. It read: Printed out program, Mrs Lu loved it, has given us tickets for concert tomorrow night .

I pondered his words, obviously pleased that Mrs Lu was pleased. But what was he insinuating about the tickets — did he mean for us to attend together? Or that there were tickets for each of us, but we could go separately? Why hadn’t he clarified that?

He could see that I’d read his message so I couldn’t ignore it, and I didn’t want to not respond. So I wrote: Good job by us :)

I watched as the dots bubbled on the screen, breathlessly awaiting his response. They disappeared, reappeared — and then disappeared for good. I shook my head in frustration. In the next hour, my life had the potential to go from bad to worse.

I stopped at the cafe and bought hot chocolates and cookies. If I was being kicked out from the group, they might at least remember me for my generosity.

Dominique was already there, dressed in her leotard and leggings. She and Ella were smiling and joking. They didn’t appear to be about to deliver bad news to me, but I smooched anyway.

“Domi, how’s your training going?”

“Slow and steady.” She laughed. “Though I’m doing dismounts into the foam pit.”

“That sounds promising,” I said, “Ella, how’s your music? Are you in the orchestra’s concert tomorrow night?”

“No, I have my own little concert tomorrow afternoon.” She paused and giggled, like she was harboring a secret. “Actually, that’s why we’re all here. We have some news.” Even more mysteriously, she winked at Dominique. I felt totally isolated, I was definitely not in the loop. I slumped in my chair, my fears returning .

But over the next hour I discovered that I’d been stressing for nothing. It wasn’t about me at all. Ella revealed that she and Damon, Domi’s older brother, were a thing. They were not only writing songs and singing as a duo, but they had romantic intentions. I was shocked — Ella had never dated, ever. The only boys she crushed on boys were unattainable celebrities and actors. To find that she and Damon were together rocked me.

But not as much as Dominique’s news: the volunteer patient that she visited was a burn survivor, I kind of knew that. She’d vaguely said that he had been in an accident and her older brother was his plastic surgeon, doing his skin grafts. She visited and read him books. Well, that’s what she’d told us.

But now it seemed she was in love with him. This sent me reeling. Apart from the brief encounter with Taylor Jensen, Dominique hadn’t been into dating. Her parents were strict with her, overprotective in my opinion. She had ridiculously early curfews and many times her father insisted on picking her up from parties and sleepovers. So, to learn she was in love with a nineteen year old boy who was very badly burned and scarred sent me into a spin.

“Why didn’t we know about this?” I demanded to know, as we joined in a group hug, Ainsley squealing in my ear about how amazing it was that Domi and Ella were in love. I cheered too, but momentarily felt like an outsider — I had no one special.

“Hold up, guys,” Dominique said, calming us down, “there’s more...” Ella hushed us, and Domi told us the story of Malachi, a boy who had been tattooed on his face at the age of eight, by his own father. I tried to hide my surprise — after all this was Domi, diligent, dedicated to her sport, a goody-two-shoes of sorts. She was not the type to fall for bad boys .

The story got wilder. Malachi’s father was in a gang, he was in prison for double murder. His mother had been a drug addict who had died in a car crash. Malachi had been raised by his grandfather in a trailer park. There was not one dry eye in the room, as she revealed details of Malachi’s life, his sad childhood, his fight with pneumonia and the uncertain future that awaited him. And in the biggest shock, to me at least, Domi said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I lied about him. But I was scared, because I thought you’d think I was crazy to fall for him. I was scared you would judge me...”

“But we’re your best friends,” Ainsley said, “and we love you. Unconditionally.” We all nodded in agreement. Dominique showed us photos of Malachi. It was hard not be affected by the gaunt looking boy, a spider web tattooed on his cheek, his body covered in bandages. It was harder to imagine Dominique loving him.

Ella took Dominique in a hug, and her shoulders visibly released, like a giant weight had been lifted. I was jealous in that moment, because she had the courage I didn’t. She had bared her soul to us, opened up her heart. I wished I was brave enough to do the same. I wished my mother was, too.

“So, will you come to my concert tomorrow after school?” Ella asked us, “I’m playing to the cancer patients.”

“And I want you to meet Malachi,” Domi said shyly, “he’s going to be there, too.”

“How about Damon? Is he back?” Selina asked.

Ella blushed furiously. “No, he’s not. He’ll be back at Thanksgiving.”

I CRIED WHEN I TOLD Mom about Dominique and Malachi. It surprised me as much as it surprised her. I generally wasn’t a cryer, my emotions were usually tucked tidily inside. I shielded my true feelings by a facade, a perfect exterior. Much like her.

Mom sniffed and dabbed at her eyes too, shocked at the terrible story that was Malachi’s life. She empathized with his situation and insisted on doing something to help.

She told me to buy flowers and candy for him. She said she would talk to her cosmetic surgeon to see if there was anything more she could do. She praised Dominique and Ella for their volunteer work and said she was proud of them.

“And I’m proud of you, darling, for being such a good friend to them,” she said, “it’s great that you all support each other.”

I smiled tightly, because I hadn’t been a good friend. I hadn’t helped, or supported, not until they had asked. I was a fraud, a fake, a liar. I hid my true self, hid my problems. I was a horrible friend.

Sure, I could buy flowers and gifts and turn up to the concert, but that required no real effort.

A message came through from Felix: So, hey, did you want to go to the concert?

Four hours it had taken for him to write that! With everything that had gone on this evening, I had no energy to worry about Felix and the concert.

I replied: Sorry, I can’t, I have other plans.

But he had triggered an idea and I quickly called Ella, hoping she wouldn’t be in bed yet. I could design her a program for her concert, just as Felix and I had done for the orchestra. I could use that template as a guide and print it out for her.

Ella was enthusiastic, but she said it was such short notice, that she wouldn’t expect me to be able to get it done in time.

I made her send me through the details and I set to work. A shot of adrenaline flooded me, and I was on a buzz, better than any caffeine or energy drink. And it wasn’t because I was doing something I loved, but more that I was doing something useful, helping out a friend in need.