by Leanne Hall
‘Go back further.’
I strain to hear Claire. Milla’s finger swipes at the screen and my ears rotate like satellite dishes.
‘I’m sure I saw it around here,’ Claire says.
‘That’s when they went away at Easter…Oh! Is that it?’
Claire grabs the iPad right out of Milla’s hands and reads from the screen.
‘If you could see me now you would know I’m not your little girl no more.’
‘What does it mean?’
My mind surges. The words sound familiar but I can’t place them. I can see why Claire and Milla are caught on this one thing, because it’s not the way Yin speaks at all.
‘The day before she’s complaining about her Geography assignment.’ Milla again. ‘Later that day, that’s in rehearsal, see? You can see the back of Petra’s head, and that’s Sunita.’
I’m still friends with Yin, but I hide her updates. I don’t think they’d show anyway, we never interact anymore and we’re probably completely algorithmed out of each other’s lives.
‘What were we doing in April?’
Claire forgets to keep her voice down. Mrs Lithgow’s head swivels in our direction. And then I get it.
‘It’s a song lyric,’ I say.
Claire and Milla realise—finally—that I’m in the pit with them.
‘If you could see me you would know, I’m not, not, not your little girl no more—it’s a song by Lana Dreams.’
They look more confused than ever, as if I’m taking the piss out of them, as if I’m trying to cause trouble rather than solve the biggest problem they have right now.
‘Look it up if you don’t believe me.’
Claire taps doubtfully and then turns to Milla.
‘Does Yin even like Lana Dreams?’ I hear her whisper. ‘It still doesn’t explain why she would write that.’
I forget for a moment that I’m dealing with orchestra nerds. ‘That song was everywhere over summer. Didn’t you hear it?’
Everything I say seems to beat Claire down further into her seat.
‘I guess so, yeah, of course.’ Milla sounds anything but certain. She seems on the verge of saying more, but then the curtains go down, the impenetrable wall goes up, and both girls curl back in on themselves, shutting me out.
‘Have either of you heard anything?’ The words pop out of my mouth and keep tumbling, tumbling, boinging about the cushion pit, sounding desperate. ‘From the police or the Mitchells? Did the police come to your house again?’
‘No.’ Milla’s response is mumbled and Claire looks away like she’s trying to pretend I’m not there.
They must hate me.
Yin must have talked about me, complained. They probably heard all the worst stories about me.
And who has been crying the most these past five weeks, who wrote tributes and poems and laid flowers, who missed out on days of school they were so upset, who kept looking at their phones like a miracle could happen, who had gaping space left in their weekends—well, not me.
I get up and leave the pit.
It’s pouring with rain by lunch so everyone crams into any space they can find on level three, but not our spot, obviously. I sit on the floor and watch the babydoll Sevens in the quad below, squealing their way through puddles of water.
I play a game where every time I blink, one of the girls vanishes. Even I’m spooked when a fork of lightning cracks the sky above the quad. Claire and Milla think I’m a witch, and maybe I am, or maybe some of my lost Wingdonian powers are slowly returning.
Sarah and Ally buzz in the background, talking along to a Learn Italian app, trying to nail the filthiest phrases before the art and design tour to Tuscany and obsessing over how many pairs of shoes they can fit in their suitcases.
Normally I’d roll my eyes at Marley and she’d do it too and that would make their intensity bearable, but Marley’s not here today even though she’s sitting right next to me. She doodles in her diary, sucks on the ends of her hair and looks as miserable as the weather. Around us the rest of the year level festers, eating lunch, watching videos, catching up on assignments. The windows fog up on the inside and there’s no escape from the smell of wet jumpers and perfume and old sneakers.
My phone chirps. Since our phone call on Friday I have been bombarding Chloe with visual inspiration. This time I sent her a photo of the movie version of Miranda from Picnic at Hanging Rock, one where she’s wearing her long white dress and looking out from between two rocks.
Almost, but too pretty, I read.
When I look down the corridor I can see Chloe’s broad back at her locker. As always, she has her hair in that tragic ponytail, and she’s stuck talking to Petra now, which is her bad luck.
We could have said hi to each other, of course, at any point during the day, but we haven’t yet. It’s not a secret telepathic language, but it’s good enough. I’ve kept my foul mood held close to my chest all day, through English, French and a double period of Art where I worked on my brilliant concept of scratching out the eyes and mouths of women on vintage knitting patterns. I’m alone in my head, cut off from everyone. I used to enjoy the aloneness of my head, but today it’s not so good.
‘Who you writing to?’ asks Sarah. Ally hangs off the couch, her hair cascading.
‘Marcel,’ I lie, locking my phone. ‘He won’t leave me alone, it’s starting to get embarrassing.’
‘While you’re on your phone, can you please like the pic I posted this morning?’ Sarah holds up her phone to show me which one she means. ‘I’m sick of your lack of support.’
‘Make Marley do it,’ I say, but when I look across at Marley again she’s silent-crying and there’s an expression of such pure despair on her face that my heart falls out of my chest and bleeds all over the floor.
‘What’s going on, Marls?’ I scoot closer.
‘Don’t,’ she mouths, but it’s too late because we have extra-sensory tear perception and gather in a knot around her.
‘The police came to my house yesterday.’
We have to lean in to hear her. Pleasure and horror mixes on Sarah’s face. ‘Why didn’t you message us?’ she says.
This is the moment I could tell everyone about my dad, but my skin is tight, a membrane hardens around me, a cocoon to keep everything contained.
‘They asked both my parents questions, but they asked my dad the most. And they searched the house and even the rehearsal studios.’
‘What questions?’
‘They wanted to know what sort of pyjamas I wear. They wanted to see my dad’s pyjamas too.’ Marley’s eyes slide about. ‘They asked what size my dad’s feet were, and what kind of slippers he wore. Why would they ask about that?’
I’m silent. My parents didn’t mention pyjamas or slippers. I consider sharing Mum’s list of serial-killer pet names with them, but I quickly shelve the idea. There would be no quicker way to spread the information like wildfire and maybe that’s not what the police intended. I wish someone could be witness to exactly how much I understand the consequences of my actions right now.
Sarah’s brow is furrowed. ‘Think carefully now, Marley. Like, really carefully. Try to forget that it’s even your dad, and ask yourself: is there any chance he could be Doctor Calm?’
It’s all I can do not to slap her. ‘Sarah—seriously? Of course he’s not!’
‘Oh yeah, well, do you know that he videos his victims?’ Sarah stares at me defiantly. ‘Dad’s position means he gets told this stuff.’
Sarah has to turn everything into an I’m Special moment, but I bet most of the parents know about it and not only Gary-Head-of-the-School-Board.
Marley looks up at the ceiling as the tears flow, like a penitent in one of the religious paintings hanging in the Great Hall. I put my arm around her and whisper in her ear, furious and sure.
‘Listen to me, Marls. Your dad is not Doctor Calm. The police are desperate, and they’re probably interviewing anyone they can think of. In fact, I ov
erheard one of the Year Eights earlier saying their dad was interviewed as well.’
‘Really?’ Marley is instantly hopeful and my skin starts to breathe again. I squash the thought that it would be better if it was Marley’s dad, because that means it isn’t mine and he won’t be going to jail for life and we won’t have to sell the family house and be completely ostracised from society.
‘It’s nothing, I’m sure of it. It’s less than nothing. Your dad is your dad. Everything’s fine.’ I’m out of breath. I might have been stabbing the ground with my finger. Sarah and Ally are looking at me strangely. ‘Don’t let anyone see you lose control,’ I say, to Marley, to the others, to myself. ‘I have to pee now.’
But I don’t. I walk around the corner and then I quickly double back, hiding myself behind a group of younger girls trying to sell chocolate bars to the Year Tens because of our reputation for emotional eating.
The corridors are an unpleasant, desperate end-of-lunch-hour whirl, a dizzying blend of colours and voices, a frozen yoghurt gone way too far with flavours and popping candy and too much syrup.
Chloe and Petra are both still near their lockers, even though they aren’t talking anymore.
‘Miss Cardell.’ I give Chloe a formal nod and she raises her eyebrows. ‘Have you found a place yet for this weekend?’
She frowns. ‘Not quite.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then,’ I say and I’m a girl made of concrete, a veritable feelings bunker, so I cut my losses and turn away.
DAY 39
Liv’s hair sticks up in points, her eyes are pillow-puffy. I swing my school bag and gym bag onto the bench and sit down.
‘You just woke up.’
Liv massages the hollows of her cheeks, as if that can revive her. ‘Nah babe, I’ve been awake for hours.’
‘Liar.’
Liv is almost entirely nocturnal, possibly even a vampire.
I take off my school jumper, remove my tie, muss up my hair. As if I want to be in a hipster cafe in my dirty old man’s dream of a school uniform. Liv almost always makes me come to her. I wouldn’t take that from a friend, but she’s been lording it over me since I was a baby, so what hope do I have?
‘What’s in the bag?’
She’s better than a beagle at sniffing things out.
‘PE stuff.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
‘Alright, Sherlock. Stuff for an art project, then.’ Both of these answers could be true, but neither are.
Liv orders coffees for us and smiles too long at the waitress. When our coffees come, she smiles again, in case the waitress missed it the first time. The waitress is petite and olive-skinned and has a Spanish accent, so exactly Liv’s type.
‘Wow.’ I stir two heaped sugars into my coffee, destroying the heart poured into the foam. ‘Did you notice how big that waitress’s nostrils are? I couldn’t stop looking at them. You could fit this whole biscotti up there.’
I can see doubt on Liv’s face as she regards the foxy little waitress, which means my work here is done. Even with the sugar this coffee tastes gross.
‘So, what’s the drama, Tal?’
I pull an innocent face.
‘You only message me when you’re upset.’
‘I don’t,’ I say, but I do and I have.
Even though the cafe is overheated and too noisy, even though the guy next to us deserves a punch in his face for his hipster glasses and porn moustache, it’s nice to see my sister across the table. To call her and know she will come running. Or allow me to go running to her.
She stares me out. We have the same eyes but her gaze lasts longer and I yield.
‘The police came to our house and interviewed Dad. At the house. Which they also searched.’
‘When?’ Liv is surprised enough to grab my arm. Venue stamps line the inside of her wrist.
‘Sunday.’ I pull free.
‘What did they want to know?’
‘Where he was on certain dates and certain times. They asked about his habits, I don’t know what else. Bear in mind that he wouldn’t tell me this himself, I had to pester Mum to tell me.’
I leave out Marley’s stuff about pyjamas and slippers, and all the other rumours that have been floating around school this week.
‘They asked Mum if he has any catchphrases and sayings, or funny nicknames for us. And then they asked her to run a list of creepy words by me.’
‘That’s disturbing.’ Liv’s fingers rip a napkin to shreds. ‘What were they?’
‘Like, I don’t know, honey-bunnies and slumber parties.’
‘Yuck.’ Liv pulls a face. ‘That is warped. I’m so sorry.’
I picture a sister-wall forming around us, keeping all the unwanted armies out. I already feel better.
‘Other people’s dads have been questioned as well. You know Marley?’
‘Marley with the muso parents? That doesn’t surprise me. Well, that makes me feel a bit better, then, that they’re doing other parents as well.’ Liv stops worrying away at her napkin. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with Dad’s indecent exposure thing.’
I spray biscotti crumbs for kilometres. ‘What?’
Porn moustache glances sharply at us. I lower my voice but not before greasing him off. Go sit in the library if you want quiet, loser.
‘They never told you? It was at some interstate conference Dad went to, with the whole firm. Everyone got trashed, and Dad agreed to do this ridiculous dare. You know how competitive he gets. He had to streak naked up and down the street, and then dance in the hotel fountain. Police came by, Dad got mouthy, refused to cover up or get out of the fountain, and he was arrested. Our father is, officially speaking, a pervert.’
‘Eww.’ I try to banish the mental image of Dad frolicking naked in a public water feature. It’s bad enough when he wears his cycling lycra. And it’s so typical that Mum would tell Liv and not me. ‘Was this part of his breakdown?’
‘I don’t remember, Tal, I don’t think so. He only got a warning but I bet it’s on his record. That would be enough to make the police visit. I wouldn’t worry, it sounds like they’re just ticking the boxes.’
‘Yeah, I know, you’re right,’ I say, but my coffee’s lukewarm and I feel sick. The last thing I need is to start worrying about Dad, but he’s been working long hours and drinking a lot and I don’t want him to go off the rails. He had a rough patch when I was around ten, but I was too young to understand it. I don’t even know what really happened, and no one in our family ever mentions it. Is it only my family that never talks about anything important or real?
‘I saw in the paper,’ Liv says. ‘The reward.’
The tabloids keep running Chunjuan’s statement, laying it out like a sappy handwritten letter, decorated with cheesy love hearts. Anyone who knows her knows she’s not the love-heart type.
‘Have you seen them since it happened?’ asks Liv.
‘No,’ I admit, avoiding her eyes.
‘I don’t think the Mitchells have a hundred grand,’ Liv says.
We’re both quiet for a few moments, listening to the hiss of the milk steamer, the clank of saucers.
‘You know, I used to be jealous of you and Yin, the friendship you had.’ Liv swishes the coffee around in her cup.
‘You’ve always had heaps of friends.’
‘Yeah, I’ve always had a group to hang with, but I never had a best friend. One person you always go to, the person who knows everything about you. You two were really lucky to have that.’
‘Well, I really screwed that one up, didn’t I?’ I try not to sound too cut up. I look at the gig posters on the wall and I can still hear the scorn in Claire and Milla’s voices.
‘I don’t think so. People change and grow apart.’ Liv is sincere, for once. ‘It doesn’t take away what you had for so many years. That still counts, that was real.’
I can’t reply, but I give Liv a little smile to let her know I appreciate what she’s said, even though it�
��s not true. She doesn’t know how hard I pushed Yin away.
‘What do you have planned for the holidays?’ asks Liv, after a quiet moment.
‘I don’t know. Sarah and Ally are going on this school trip to Italy, Marley’s going to Thailand. Mum said something about the beach house.’
‘Do you want to come and stay with me for a few days? You should try and stay busy.’
‘I am going to be busy!’ I reply far too quickly. ‘I’m helping a friend with an art project. Like a feminist statement thing.’
‘That sounds cool.’
Liv shifts in her seat and I wonder if she’s already getting impatient about the next thing in her day even while she’s pretending she has all the time in the world for me. It’s impossible to pin her down for too long. I can’t stay with her, she’s only got a studio apartment and we’ll get on each other’s nerves.
‘Why did you move out of home so young, Liv?’
She baulks. ‘What made you think about that?’
‘I don’t know. It always seemed like a big secret.’
‘There’s no secret. And I was with Aunt Helen, not on my own.’
‘Was it Dad? Was that why you couldn’t live at home?’
‘No! God, Tal. Do not let this police stuff get in your head.’ Liv rakes her choppy hair. ‘I was unhappy. Suffocated. I had to leave so I could grow up properly.’
That makes me snort.
‘You still haven’t grown up properly,’ I say.
When I arrive home the only person around is Faith. Mum thinks I haven’t noticed that she’s asked Faith to come late and leave late when she and Dad work overtime.
I grab a packet of biscuits and some juice, and shut my bedroom door so the noise of the vacuum is a distant hum.
My PE bag fits behind my shoes at the bottom of my wardrobe. No one saw me empty Yin’s locker because it was a charmed action. The reason I know is that almost as soon as I’d shut the locker and zipped my bag, who walked around the corner but Petra, voted by me the most likely person in the entire year level to dob? Instead of busting me, she merely walked on by, and the whole thing was ordained by the universe. Even Liv couldn’t crack me.
The coat hangers are spaced evenly along the rail. My ugg boots, my spare school shoes, my wedges, white trainers are lined up neatly, as neatly as if someone had used a ruler. It’s the first time I’ve looked in my wardrobe properly since the police visited, and things are not the way I left them.