I Am Out With Lanterns Page 9

  Hari taps the edge of her phone gently on her lips. ‘You’re stressed. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing … Fine, I’m worried about Milo walking home by himself.’

  ‘He’s a big boy, Wren.’

  ‘There are some arseholes from The Hall who target him. Ben Brearley – know him?’

  ‘Heard about him from Luca. Typical jerk, wins every sports trophy going and he’s going to study medicine and everyone with a vagina fancies him, blah, blah.’

  ‘He’s a bully. Had me and Milo cornered the other day just off the high street. But what can we do about it? He never actually swings a punch. He licked Milo’s face – can you believe it?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She arches one eyebrow. ‘We could have some fun – want to?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Let’s prank call the school.’ She’s already searching for the number on her phone. ‘We’ll make a complaint about Ben’s behaviour on the high street, but make it sound like it’s coming from an adult. Look, Mr Everett’s got headphones on. I bet he’s watching Netflix; he won’t have a clue.’ She gestures to the Science teacher who’s on duty.

  ‘I’m up for it. How can I sound like an adult?’

  ‘Dial up the British. They’ll take you more seriously.’

  ‘They will?’

  ‘I dunno. My mum thinks British people sound more intelligent.’

  ‘Awkward.’ I’ve never thought of my voice that way. ‘I’m not posh, you know.’

  ‘Surely you’re distantly related to the Queen.’ Hari’s serious face blooms into a smile. She kicks me lightly.

  ‘Her Maj gave me this nose-ring. Okay, let’s do this. Get me the number.’

  While Hari searches, I practise saying ‘Hello’ with my lips pulled tight over my teeth, and I think up a few choice phrases. When she hands me the phone it’s already ringing. I can either press the red button and chicken out, or go for it.

  ‘Hello? I wish to speak to the headmaster, if you please … Yes, I am sure he is terribly busy, but this is a matter that I am sure will interest him … My name is Cordelia ahhhh Shakespeare, and yesterday I bore witness to a very disappoint ing incident involving several of your students … Yes, I’ll hold.’

  Hari is on the floor, shaking with laughter.

  ‘Ssshh, stop it. I’m going to lose it in a minute,’ I whisper. I check on Mr Everett, but his eyes are glued to the screen.

  A male voice comes on the line.

  ‘Hello. Yes, thank you for taking my call. Cordelia Shakespeare. Yes, that is correct … Now, it gives me no pleasure whatsoever to report some appalling behaviour from a group of your students. On Monday afternoon I was collecting some chuck steak from the butcher for my little Toby, you see, and a herd of boys came towards me so fast that I was in fact knocked to the ground … Yes, indeed, it was quite shocking. But what made it worse, I’m sorry to say, was the extraordinarily foul language that came out of their mouths and – to top it off – one of them was holding a large, open can of lager.’

  While the man on the other end is talking, I get down on the floor with Hari because I can’t keep it in any longer. I hold my finger over the speaker so he can’t hear me collapse into hysterics. When I’ve got myself together, I catch him asking me approximately how old the boys were.

  ‘I believe they were around sixteen,’ I say. ‘And I did hear one of them call the boy with the lager can “Brearley” if that is any good to you.’

  I widen my eyes at Hari as he says that a full investigation of these appalling antics will take place. Then he assures me that their school policy is very strict on the matter of behaviour in public.

  ‘Sir, the only compensation I require is that this Brearley lout is severely punished.’ I don’t think I can hold it any longer. ‘Good day to you.’

  I hang up. Hari and I exchange a look of pure and powerful mischief.

  ‘That was really fun,’ she says.

  Afterwards, she works on a Science prac write-up. I take a small piece of charcoal in my fingers and watch Hari’s face as she works.

  By the end of the session, my fingers are black but the paper is blank. I think I’ve lost my nerve.

  Tuesday: Dad needed me for a sitting.

  Wednesday: Dad needed me for a sitting.

  Thursday morning: I’m lying in bed wondering how I actually go from a shitty life to a decent one.

  Enrolling in school seemed obvious. Attending school every day is the challenge. It’s not that easy when your only parent would rather you stayed home. But I plan on going today no matter what Dad says.

  He knocks once and comes into my room holding a plate. It doesn’t look like he’s slept.

  ‘Hey, kiddo, look what I’ve got: breakfast.’ He lowers the plate so I can see it: a yellow fan of fifty-dollar notes.

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘This one’s yours.’

  I take the note and hold it above my face. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thanks – is that all I get? Misery guts strikes again, does she?’

  ‘No, Dad. What else do you want me to say?’

  ‘Just get up and go buy something new for this room. It looks bloody awful in here.’

  ‘I’ve got school.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to get my hands on this cash? I’m sick of looking at this dump. It needs brightening up. Here, take another.’ He hands me another fifty.

  ‘Fine, I’ll skip the morning and go to school after lunch.’

  ‘Most girls would love a shopping trip. Sound a bit grateful, could you?’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  I stash the money and go to school. The way he is at the moment, he probably won’t even remember this conversation.

  Friday

  I take the tram part of the way home because it’s roasting outside. It’s an old, narrow one, overcrowded with boys. By the look of their haircuts and blue blazers, they’re rich kids. The smaller ones are holding hats with wide brims. Poor things, they look like they’re in a musical. They’re all loud and swear a lot. It’s hard not to find them obnoxious. Especially one who knows he’s good-looking and keeps trying to catch my eye.

  I get off the tram and walk slowly, inhaling the heat, wondering what the mood will be like when I get home. Dad’s been painting Dara for two days, but they went out last night and still weren’t back when I left for school.

  There’s an armchair waiting for me on the corner of my street. It’s brown and orange, hideous to the point of being cool. I sit in it and it’s perfect.

  I drag it all the way to the house and reach for my key, checking around me quickly. I lock eyes with a woman in a sharp blue trouser suit across the road, and she flicks her head away as if she’s been caught staring at me. Then she walks off. I’m being paranoid. That woman definitely didn’t look like she’d own a chair as old and unfashionable as this. I lift it through the gateway, clumsily, and wrestle it up the path.

  ‘Cool chair,’ says a man’s voice behind me.

  ‘Yep.’ I turn and give a cursory smile, barely glancing at him.

  Gate latch, footsteps – he’s walking up next door’s path.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he asks.

  ‘No, thanks.’ The damn key won’t work.

  ‘You have to jiggle it, like ours,’ says a child’s voice.

  I stop what I’m doing. Just visible over the fence is the top of a head with Dutch braids and the big brown eyes of a little girl who’s maybe six or seven.

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile at her. Finally, the lock shifts and the door opens. The girl gives me an enthusiastic round of applause and a laugh escapes me as I haul the chair inside.

  ‘I’m Piper and this is Tav,’ the girl calls out when I’m halfway inside.

  I roll my eyes and step back out again. Piper’s fingers grip the fence and her chin rests on top of her hands. I see now that the guy is only a few years older than me. He’s tall and stringy in a white t-shirt and black jeans, fair skin and thick
reddish hair grown out in uneven twists.

  ‘I’m Adie.’

  ‘Tav’s my uncle,’ says Piper. Actually, she shouts it like she’s at a rally.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, smiling.

  She smiles back with her tiny set of milk teeth, with one space at the bottom where she keeps poking the tip of her tongue. I remember that sensation, tongue touching raw gum. The memory extends to the feel of an arm reaching under my pillow while I pretend to sleep. A kiss on my cheek that’s soft but smells strange and metallic and makes me sad. The click of my bedroom door. My hand reaching under my pillow. The small thick shape of a two-dollar coin.

  ‘Tav is short for Octavius,’ says Piper, snapping me out of it.

  ‘Right, better get you inside,’ Tav says to her. I think he’s blushing. We make eye contact for a second as he says, ‘Welcome to the street, Adie.’

  I’m about to tell him that I used to live here a long time ago, but he’s opened their front door and I get a glimpse of Piper’s scowl at being pulled in backwards by her oversized backpack. I smile as I go into number twenty-nine. I haven’t known any little kids since I was one myself.

  ‘Hello?’ I yell down our hallway. It echoes.

  Their bedroom is a state: clothes flung everywhere, towels stinking wet, wine bottles dead and fallen, Dad’s half-finished sketches, Dara’s open diaphragm case, brown-stained cups and crusted plates, a toilet roll half undone.

  I drag the armchair into my bedroom, put it in the corner by the window and plonk down on it. It’s like being swallowed. I look out at the terrible view of the leaning fence, and for the first time I know who’s on the other side of it. The cat leaps over the window ledge and lands on the arm of the chair. She’s been coming and going as she pleases. I should give her a name. She doesn’t sit on me but stays nearby, staring out.

  I jump at the sound of the doorknocker. Then I creep along the hallway, trying to make out who it is through the narrow mottled glass panel at the side of the front door. A floorboard creeks under my foot and I freeze. I can see a dark blue jacket sleeve. It could be that woman from earlier. Maybe it was her chair after all.

  I stay still, and breathe out as her footsteps travel back down the path.

  Dad’s kept up the five-o’clock alarms all week and I’m shattered. By last period, all I want to do is head home, crawl into bed and watch TV with Captain for twelve solid hours. I waste no time at the lockers and use a different exit to lay low. Friday on the high street takes a kind of energy that I’m missing today. Plus it’s tryouts tomorrow. I can do six laps with Dad holding my ankles now. Dad still swears he’s doing twenty laps before I even make it down the stairs in the morning, but I know he’s lying. He doesn’t have to lie to me.

  ‘Back to yours, Brearley?’ Two firm hands come down on my shoulders. Nate Cartright, my mate since Prep. This school’s the size of a suburb, but there’s no hiding in it.

  ‘That’s what’s happening, is it?’ I keep my voice light with my back teeth clenched. The idea of escaping company gets a brutal shove into the future. Nate’s father happens to be Tom Cartright, manager of the water polo team. Dad would call this networking. It’s not, but there’s always the risk that it’d hurt my chances if I let Nate think I’m a pussy.

  On the way to the tram stop, we pick up five more who are keen for a swim, and I get a second wind. The tram is ninety per cent us Hall boys, some girls from St Francis and a few randoms from Fairfield; the usual freaks. They always look depressed and have the worst haircuts.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Nate says under his breath.

  There’s a tall girl wearing the smallest school uniform I’ve ever seen, among the Fairfield lot. She looks more like she’s dressed up for a party – slutty schoolgirl – with her long legs and this kind of hot contempt in her eyes. Jesus, she’s amazing. I bet she’s French or something.

  ‘Never seen her before,’ I mumble.

  Nate’s already on to the next topic and turns around to talk to someone else. I try to get in on the banter too, but that girl is a magnet. She glances at me a few times and I try to hold her gaze, but it’s as if she can’t properly see me. Tease.

  ‘Oi, are you listening, Ben?’

  There’s a hard nudge in the small of my back. I turn to find a bunch of faces looking at me like I’m doing something stupid. ‘What?’

  ‘Will your parents be home or can we do a little …?’ Jake mimes having a toke of a joint.

  ‘Mum’ll be there, but she won’t mind.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Nate laughs. ‘Your mum lets you smoke?’

  I hesitate, trying to figure out if he’s impressed or judging me. ‘If I tell her to mind her own business, she will.’

  ‘Ha, Benny boy!’ he says, and punches my arm.

  A bunch of talk about my mum starts up, but it stays clean. If it didn’t, I’d smash in each and every one of their faces.

  I take the boys down the side gate. Captain’s in one of the trees, but I pretend not to see him. The seven of us – Nate, Jake, Marcus, Charlie, Lachie, Will and me – dump our bags and strip down by the pool. We had squad training at lunch, so we’ve got our togs handy. One by one we bomb into the pool, yelling as we leap. The pool feels a lot smaller with all of them in it.

  ‘Right, chicken fight,’ says Nate. He appoints himself referee and sits on the side of the pool while Jake climbs on my shoulders, Will gets on Marcus and Lachie’s on Charlie.

  And then it’s on. Shoving, slapping, heaps of fighting talk. It’s hard to figure out which way to turn with three teams, but I have the advantage that Jake is light with long legs, which he locks around my back so I can manoeuvre easily and have a free hand to do some damage to the two other lower decks. Having to keep Jake up there makes me even stronger than I would be without him. That weight, the pressure not to let him down.

  ‘What are the rules?’ Charlie splutters, as I push wave after wave of water into his face while he tries to keep Lachie on his shoulders.

  ‘There aren’t any rules, you pussies!’ yells Nate. ‘Fight, fight, fight!’

  We’re yelling, laughing, pulling, gripping.

  ‘Back, back, back, Benny!’ Jake yells, and I oblige with a roar and a surge away from them as Jake pulls Will down and Lachie goes under, killing two birds with one inspired move.

  While Jake and I are celebrating, I spot Mum walk out of the French windows and down the slope towards us with a tray. She’s in beige shorts and a loose white shirt and, in this light, I can see the outline of her bra. I spring out of the water and jog towards her, trying to put myself between her and the boys. Dad’s always saying that all his friends fancy Mum; I don’t want mine looking at her. Mum’s tanned and slim, and the sun is catching some strands of her blonde hair that won’t lie flat, like spider silk. She always has it done on a Friday.

  ‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll take it.’ I reach for the tray, breathless and my arms dripping wet, but she holds it to the side.

  ‘I’ve got it, Benny.’ Her face is grim. ‘Just quietly, darling, I’ve had a call from the principal.’

  ‘About what?’ My heart thuds, even though I’ve got no idea what it could be about.

  ‘A member of the public has complained about behaviour on the high street. She says it was a boy called Brearley.’

  ‘What the …? That’s a lie, Mum. I swear. I haven’t done anything.’

  Mum looks up at me intently. I’m still scanning my memory for what it could be about. ‘You promise?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Mum.’

  Her expression softens. I’m in the clear. She takes the tray to the table and the boys climb out of the pool. They dry off quickly and take a seat as Mum lays out watermelon and a jug of cloudy lemonade. She’s in shade now and her shirt is no longer see-through, so I relax again. I stand close and put my arm around her shoulder, and she laughs and squirms away because I’m still wet.

  ‘You’re the best, Mrs Brearley
,’ says Marcus, making sucking noises on a big slice of watermelon.

  The others back him up with various compliments to my mum, their grins filled with pink slush. She asks after each of them in turn, taking care to remember particular things about them. They’re right, she is the best.

  Mum leaves us to it. The sun’s lower now; there’s a late afternoon breeze and everyone’s got a covering of goosebumps. I wish I could tell them all to fuck off.

  ‘Check this out,’ says Nate. He’s got his phone out and shows Marcus and Jake first.

  ‘Who are they?’ asks Jake. ‘That one’s fit. I wouldn’t mind her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t go near you,’ says Nate. ‘She’s a mate of my cousin’s and only dates Year Twelves, minimum.’ Nate holds the phone up to me, Lachie and Will. He scrolls for us. It’s all these short videos of girls.

  ‘Who are they?’ I say, leaning in.

  ‘Mainly Melbourne sluts, a few country bumpkins.’

  ‘It’s not Instagram, though. What is it?’

  ‘New app called Flare. You can make short looping videos on it, add effects, all that. My Instagram account is just to keep my mum happy – this is where I have fun.’

  ‘So this is your account?’ asks Will.

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘Which means it is,’ I say, smiling at the others. Nate takes the phone and carries on looking himself. ‘So give us the account name and we’ll all follow it.’

  ‘Nup, it’s private – for now. You can request to follow my account, but I’ll only accept once you’ve got a little video to add to the collection. Make it a good one.’

  ‘Of ourselves?’ says Jake.

  ‘No, you plank. Of a girl – any girl, as long as she’s fit. I don’t want any dogs.’

  ‘Who’d agree to that?’ asks Charlie.

  ‘Half of these girls don’t even know they’re on here, idiot. Catching them’s half the fun. Look at this one.’ Nate holds up his phone again. It’s a five-second clip of a girl pulling up her undies – the phone must have been snuck under a toilet cubicle. You can’t see much, just a bit of thigh.