Her eyes shimmer with tears, and Samara leaves whatever she is cooking and says, ‘Mum, it’s okay, remember? We’re all right.’
Nikki smiles up at Samara and says, ‘My beautiful daughter. What would I do without you?’
‘Your omelette is ready,’ Samara says. ‘I’ll bring it to you now. Want some sauce with it?’
‘No, it’ll be perfect just the way it is, I’m sure,’ Nikki says.
‘Well, you start, Mum, the rest won’t take a minute.’
While Nikki starts forking tiny bites, Samara turns out omelette after omelette in the kitchen, and I carry them to the table.
‘Where’s mine?’ Tom calls from in front of the game he is playing.
‘Getting cold,’ Samara teases.
Tom presses pause and races to the table.
‘I like peanut butter, but this is the best!’ he says.
Nikki places her hand briefly on his injured cheek: Tom wriggles, but he looks pleased as he shovels the omelette into his mouth. Then she leans over and kisses Dayna, sitting close to her on the other side. Dayna smiles properly for the first time in weeks.
‘Thank you, my daughter,’ she says, as Samara takes her place at the table. ‘And thank you, dear Madeleine.’
I feel flushed with happiness. We sit there, the five of us, eating the food Samara has cooked. Food we have all helped to get, one way or another.
‘I told you everything would be all right, didn’t I, Mum?’ Samara says.
‘You did, Sammi,’ Nikki says. She gives a weak smile, and I notice she hasn’t eaten much of her omelette. But Samara doesn’t pay any attention to her mother’s half eaten food. She just gets up and starts clearing the other plates.
‘You take your time, Mum,’ Samara says.
‘I think I’ll just go and lie down a bit,’ Nikki says. ‘That was delicious.’
‘I’ll finish it!’ Tom yells.
‘No you won’t,’ Samara says. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge for later.’
Samara snatches the plate from Tom’s hovering fork, and takes it into the kitchen. As she runs water in the sink, she starts to sing a song the junior choir had sung at assembly at the end of last term. The song is sweet and Samara’s voice is absolutely clear. Listening to her makes my skin prickle with pleasure.
‘I wish I could sing like you,’ I say, drying the dishes as fast as Samara washes them.
‘Everything is working out,’ Samara says.
Samara begins another song that the junior choir had been singing, about rainbows and dreamers. This time, I join in with her.
I hope that now they have paid the electricity bill, and Samara’s mum is out of bed, we will be able to stop stealing. It seems as if we have done something heroic, and we have achieved something. Now, it is time to go back to normal life.
But when I call around to Samara’s a couple of days later, on the last Friday of the holidays, I open the fridge to get some water and see Nikki’s omelette there, still covered in plastic wrap, the inside wet with condensation, unfinished. And even though I’ve been there for a while, waiting for Samara to get ready, I haven’t seen any sign of her mum.
‘Is your mum teaching?’ I ask Tom, who has slumped back in front of his game after letting me in.
‘I want to go back to school,’ Tom says. ‘Holidays are so boring.’
Dayna is at the table, reading a book. She doesn’t look up until I say, ‘Hey Dayna.’
Dayna’s eyes flick up briefly, and then return to her book. ‘Hi.’
When Samara comes out, I see that she is dressed in her shoplifting clothes.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Do we have to?’
Samara’s eyes are flat and serious.
‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘we do.’
After we’ve been caught, the security guard takes Samara into the manager’s office first. I watch as the guard searches her, the manager standing by, frowning, crossing her arms over her chest. Samara’s pockets and sleeves are empty; there is nothing in her bag.
‘You can go,’ the guard says. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done with it, but this time, you’ve got away with it. Next time, it’ll be a different story.’
Samara looks at me, her eyes wide. I nod, and Samara mouths, ‘Thank you.’
When the guard takes me into the office, I hand over the chocolates and the caramel-cream toffees from my sleeves and pockets.
‘Gourmet tastes, huh?’ the guard sneers, coming close to my face.
‘I’m calling the police,’ the manager says. ‘There’s more than fifty dollars’ worth of items here.’
‘Please don’t,’ I beg. ‘I’ll pay for it.’
The manager tilts her head, and says, ‘So, are you saying you’ve never done this before?’
‘Um,’ I say.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m asking,’ she says. ‘This is a chain of supermarkets, as I’m sure you know. And guess what that means?’
I shake my head.
‘That means we’ve got CCTV footage from every store in the metropolitan area,’ she says. ‘And we have facial recognition, so if I put your picture into the software, do you think we’re going to come up with you doing exactly the same thing in other places?’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘And what about if we contacted other chains, and gave them your picture?’ she goes on. ‘Do you think you’ll show up there, too?’
‘Can you do that?’ I don’t remember Samara saying anything about CCTV being kept. Being scanned for evidence of my stealing.
‘We can do a lot of things,’ the manager says. ‘So, I’m asking you again. Is this your first offence?’
‘No,’ I whisper.
‘What was that?’ the manager says.
‘No,’ I say, louder. ‘I’ve done it before.’
‘How many times?’ the manager says. ‘Twice? Five times? More than ten?’ When I don’t answer straightaway, she says, ‘So, I’ll have to do a CCTV search, will I? Well, you won’t mind waiting here while I do it, will you?’
‘More than ten,’ I say. ‘Probably. I’m sorry.’
‘You will be,’ the manager says, picking up the phone and stabbing it with her fingers. ‘Hello? It’s Mrs Ferguson here. We’ve got another one, a multiple offender.’
She spells out my name, and then says, ‘No, I’ll leave that pleasure for you.’
The manager puts the phone down and looks at me, unsmiling.
‘The police are on their way,’ she says. ‘And they need a contact number for a parent or guardian.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘No! Please! Don’t call my dad. I don’t want him here.’
The manager delivers a cold smile. ‘Well, you should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you? Now write down his number, then get out of my office.’
I am directed to sit on a hard plastic chair outside the manager’s office. The security guard sits next to me, chewing gum, staring straight ahead. Staff walk past us, and deliver me sneering looks. It is almost a relief when the police arrive.
There are two police officers, a man and a woman. They dismiss the guard, and take me into the manager’s office.
‘What is your name and date of birth?’ the policeman asks.
I tell them.
‘You have the right to legal representation, and I’ve informed your father of the same. He is on his way,’ the policeman says.
‘Oh no,’ I say.
‘The manager of the store alleges you stole –’ he reads out the list of things I’ve stolen.
‘I did,’ I say, my eyes starting to burn.
‘You do not have to say anything,’ the policewoman begins to explain, but I say, ‘It’s true, I stole them, it’s all my fault, I’ll get the money to you, but I don’t want my dad to come! Please tell him not to.’
‘Maddie,’ the policewoman says. ‘The store is requesting that you be charged. But because you are twelve years old I don’t want to charge you until your father is present.’
; ‘This is terrible,’ I say.
‘This isn’t terrible, this is a consequence,’ the policeman says. ‘Every time you steal something, you make things cost more for everybody else, did you know that?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Well that is a fact,’ the policeman says. ‘Stores like this lose almost five per cent of their income every year because of people like you.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I say faintly.
‘You do now,’ says the policeman.
I want to protest. I want to say that I am not a bad person, not the way the manager and the police think I am. I want to explain that I am helping a friend, helping a family who might be separated. But even if it is an excuse, it doesn’t change the fact that I stole. Me. Madeleine Lee.
The one thing that stops me from utter despair is the knowledge that no matter what, I was a friend. A friend who was prepared to sacrifice everything.
And who is still prepared. No matter what.
I hear the school motto in my mind: Do Your Best, Help the Rest, Put Your Spirit to the Test!
At the beginning of the year, the motto had made me want to make myself better. I couldn’t have imagined that I would be sitting at the back of a store ten weeks later, surrounded by police, waiting. Waiting for the thing I dread most.
My father to arrive.
I hear Dad before I see him. He is saying, ‘No, no, there has to be some mistake. My daughter would never do such a thing.’
I shrink on the chair. I tuck my feet underneath it, hang my head until my chin leans on my chest. I hear low voices, saying things to him.
And then the door opens, and I know he is standing there. I can see his work shoes, dusty and scuffed, the crisscross of the laces disappearing under the cuff of his work pants. I stare at them, not wanting to raise my head.
‘Maddie!’ he says.
I feel his hands on my shoulders. He is squatting in front of me; I roll my head to the side.
‘Maddie,’ he whispers. ‘It is true? Maddie, look at me.’
I breathe out unsteadily. Slowly, I drag my gaze up to meet his. I have never seen him look so worried.
‘Oh Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
Dad flinches. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Do you mean – it’s true?’
I can’t say anything else. I only nod, and return my gaze to the floor. Two tears streak down my cheeks. The hot tears are still cooler than my burning face.
Dad straightens up.
‘Well then,’ he says to the police in a strained, formal voice. ‘I suppose you must do what you need to.’
I hear the words spoken to me – I am informing you that you have been charged with fraudulently taking something that is capable of being stolen – and then a white buzzing starts in my ears. I hear something about appearing in a court, about a date and a time, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.
‘Come on,’ Dad says.
He walks out the door, and I have to quickly gather my things to catch up. Dad doesn’t slow down, or pause, between the supermarket and the car park. I’m not sure if he knows that I am right behind him.
When I’d thought about it before today, which I’d tried not to, I’d thought that if I got caught, Dad would be angry. I expected him to be angry, and knew it would be bad.
But far, far worse than his anger is his disappointment.
And behind his disappointment, his sadness is the most terrible thing in the world.
At home, after a long silent drive, Dad sits me down at the kitchen table.
‘There’s no mistake,’ he says. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say. ‘I did it.’
‘They told me there was another girl with you. It wasn’t Katy, was it?’ He seems almost afraid to ask the question.
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘It was another girl from school.’
‘And this other girl,’ Dad says. ‘Did she put you up to this?’
I desperately, desperately want to tell him the truth. If I explain, surely he will understand? But I have to protect Samara. There would be no point in taking the blame in front of the manager, to the police, only to give in now. I have to continue to have him and everyone else think that Samara had nothing to do with it. I try to choose my words so it won’t be a direct lie: I hope that will make it feel less awful to say.
‘It was my decision,’ I say. ‘I stole those things.’
‘But why, Maddie?’ Dad looks into my face. I want to shrink away, but I try to return his gaze.
I shrug.
‘I would have given you money to buy them,’ he says. ‘I know I’m strict about junk food, but you’ve never asked for anything like that.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘Then – why?’
‘Because,’ I say slowly, ‘I just needed them.’
It is the truth, sort of.
‘And they said you’ve done it before?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have.’
Dad stares at me. I keep my eyes steady for as long as I can before dropping my gaze to the tablecloth.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Bring me your phone and your tablet, then I want you to go to your room.
‘But –’ I need to message Samara, explain that I’ve done what I’d promised. I don’t want Samara going home and worrying about what I might do. I want Samara to know that I stood strong and true.
I also want to ask why Samara didn’t have anything on her. Did she notice we were being watched, but not warn me?
‘This is not the time to argue, Madeleine.’ Dad never calls me by my full name. He must be even more upset than he seems. ‘I will bring you dinner later, and you can come and clean your teeth. Other than that, you will stay in there for the rest of the day, and all weekend.’
‘Okay, Dad,’ I say. I won’t be able to talk to Samara until school on Monday when we go back to school. It seems such a long time to wait.
‘Then I will have to tell your principal,’ Dad says.
‘No!’ I say.
‘What you’ve done is serious,’ Dad says. ‘If I don’t let the school know, the police will.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I might have imagined getting caught, but I hadn’t realised all of the other things that would come with it. Then I say, with a feeling as if I’d swallowed a cold stone, ‘Will Katy find out?’
‘I don’t know, Maddie, she might.’
‘But – I don’t want her to,’ I raise my voice.
‘And I didn’t want to be called out of work by the police today, but I was!’ Dad is almost shouting. Dad has never shouted at me before. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
I think of Dad, getting the call. Hearing what I had done. How he must have felt.
No wonder he thinks I am the worst daughter in the world. Maybe I am.
‘Please go now,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t want to talk to you any more right now. I have to call your mother.’
‘No, Dad!’ I says.
‘You think I’m going to enjoy that conversation?’ Dad snaps. ‘Just go!’
I walk slowly to my room. Wolfie is waiting, asleep at the foot of my bed. I close the door and sit next to him. I scratch behind his ears gently and he opens his eyes, as if to check that it is me, before starting up with his rusty purr. Wolfie seems to be the only thing in the world that doesn’t care that this morning, I was myself, Maddie, friend of Samara, former member of the Rule of Two, clarinet player … Now, everybody who matters to me knows, or will soon know, that I am a thief. They don’t know why I am a thief, and maybe to them it wouldn’t matter anyway. A thief is a thief.
‘What am I going to do?’ I whisper.
But Wolfie has no answers.
I’ve never dreaded going to school before. Even my desire to speak to Samara is overshadowed by the shame I feel, and I wish more than anything that I didn’t have to go. But Dad is starting work late so he can take me to the princi
pal’s office before assembly, and there is nothing I can do about it.
There are a lot of things I can’t do anything about, now.
When we walk up to Marlene, the woman who works at the front desk, she smiles warmly and says, ‘Why hello Maddie, what can I help you with today?’
I try to answer, but Dad says in a solemn voice, ‘We need a few minutes to speak to the principal before class. On a confidential matter.’
Marlene’s face drops. ‘Okay, then. He’s very busy, but I’m sure he can see you in about ten minutes, if you don’t mind the wait?’
‘That’s fine,’ Dad says.
We sit and sit. Everyone coming by is cheerful and has a purpose. Someone forgot their sport shirt, someone else is paying for the year four excursion, someone else needs a note because they have a sports carnival the same day as a test. They all seem so carefree, compared to me.
I keep my head down. I watch people’s shoes: kids’ runners, neat black court shoes, the workboots of the gardener who comes in to get extra sunscreen.
Then I hear the voice of the person I want to see least.
‘Maddie!’
Slowly I look up into Katy’s eyes. I want to say something, a greeting, but my mouth is too dry and my throat too tight to speak.
‘What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’ Katy asks, then adds, ‘Hi, Mr Lee.’
‘It’s good to see you, Katy,’ Dad says. ‘How have you been?’
‘Great,’ Katy says, but she is looking at me. ‘Just getting ready for assembly.’
Assembly. At least we aren’t playing today.
‘Well, you get on and do that then,’ he says.
‘O-kay,’ Katy says. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says to me.
I make some movement with my head that might be interpreted as a nod.
Katy isn’t stupid. She will know that I am not sitting outside the principal’s office with my dad for any good reason. But nothing will shock Katy more than when she finds out exactly why I am here. And now I know for sure she will. Katy is discreet, and when you tell her a secret she will never repeat it to anyone. Still, even Katy will want to know why her former best friend is waiting outside the principal’s office, and she will find out. Surely.
Maddie in the Middle Page 9