Driving home, Cath wondered again why Lenny and Suzanne never mentioned Warren as a potential boyfriend for her. Did they not realize how good-looking he was? Did they not see that he was sexy?
Or were they, like her, simply waiting? Perhaps they sensed that this would be romance of a different kind—romance so fine it was as fragile as crystal; romance unfurling delicately, like a silken bud, or a cygnet hatching. It had to be watched through binoculars with the steadiest hands.
Cath changed gears, and her hand seemed to tremble on the gearshift. Perhaps, when she was not looking, Lenny and Suzanne glanced at one another, and held the glance a moment, silent and steady, glad for their young friend Cath.
At home that night, Cath phoned her mother across the country, and her mother said, “Darling!” and wept a little. It was a recent habit, this weeping, and must have been hormonal. After all, it was not her but her parents who had moved across the continent, leaving Cath with no home, no Mum, no Dad, no my-room-become-a-sewing-room, no Sunday baked dinner, no cappuccino-Sunday-afternoons.
After her mother had wept, she called: “Dad! It’s Cath! Pick up!”
Cath’s parents were named Mum and Dad, even when she was not around. She had paint-stripped their names, and now they existed only so long as she herself existed. Too much power for one girl to have, she sometimes decided grimly.
“I was just reading that the child you love best is the one who is far away,” said Mum. “And aren’t you far away, Cath, darling?”
“Yes,” agreed Cath. “So you love me best.”
Cath was the only one. There were no siblings. But anyway.
“Cath, you all right, love? How goes the new school year? Any little monsters in your class?”
That was Dad on the extension, his voice a layer closer than Mum’s.
“Yes,” said Mum. “Yes, I also read that the child you love best is the one who is ill.”
“What’s that?” said Dad.
“Well, I’m perfectly healthy, so where does that leave us?”
“Breaking any hearts over there?” said Dad.
“Any young men on the horizon?” agreed Mum, changing abruptly to a businesslike voice.
“Breaking any hearts” was funny. Cath’s own heart was broken so often it was just about a write-off. But she always considered the horizon, obediently, for her parents.
And there he was on the edge of a sunset sky: Warren Wishful Woodford, a little self-conscious, damp with drops of ocean mist.
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
She shook the horizon gently, tipping him off the edge. Let him climb back up in his own time.
“Hey, Cath,” whispered Warren, sneaking into the Assembly Hall and sitting down beside her, late on Monday morning. Mr. Billson was giving a lecture on punctuality, so a lot of kids pointed at Warren and said, “WAH-HAH.”
“Hi,” she murmured. “How was your weekend?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Kind of a strain, you know? Eh, cut it out,” sternly, to some kids who would not stop pointing and trying to get the principal’s attention.
“Kind of a strain?”
He nodded, distracted, and she raised her eyebrows, watching him. His shirt was already patched with sweat; he must have run from his car to the Assembly Hall. He must be in some kind of trouble—kind of a strain—and mentioning it like that, he must want to talk. She would find a gentle way to ask him later.
For now, she looked down at the folder of papers on her lap; at Monday Assemblies, she always pretended to be making notes of what Billson was saying, but in fact she was catching up on class records. She was ticking through last week’s lesson plan when she came across this word: Environment. She put a check mark beside it.
Then she thought, Hmm, and changed it to a half check, before writing “Careers” at the end of the list with another half check.
“Did you know,” she whispered to Warren softly, “that Cassie Zing’s mother writes wilderness romances?”
“As you do,” agreed Warren, nodding.
“And Marcus Ellison’s dad is an astronaut.”
Now his nod became a slow, impressed tilt. “An astronaut?” He looked at Cath admiringly, as if she were the astronaut.
She returned to her class plan and flipped the page, but Warren was leaning into her shoulder and taking the pen from her hand. He turned a page in her notebook and wrote:
This Friday, the Carotid Sticks will be playing at the Borrowed Cat.
(1) Does Cath like the Carotid Sticks:
(a) Yes
(b) No
(c) Does not know them
(2) Will Cath come along with Warren to see the Carotid Sticks:
(a) Yes
(b) No
(c) Does not know him
She leaned forward and circled “Yes” and “Yes.” Warren studied her answers, and then he put a check alongside each “Yes.” Underneath, he wrote the word: Excellent.
The next day, Tuesday, wandering her classroom aisles like a queen, Cath remembered that she didn’t actually know the Carotid Sticks. She had them mixed up with the Clotted Creams.
She felt strangely embarrassed, yet also excited, to realize this, as if she had cheated in an exam. Also, she had a heart-pumping moment of terror, remembering how close she had come to getting caught—she had almost mentioned to Warren how much she liked the goldfish in a small glass bowl that the drummer brought along to his shows. (She had seen the Clotted Creams a couple of years back.) She had almost drawn a sketch of the goldfish on her notes, and shown this to Warren! Showing off her knowledge. Imagine if she had! Warren would have frowned in confusion, and she would have tried to explain, and realized her mistake as she did so, and then she would have tried to cover up, and got flustered.
She must look up the Carotid Sticks at an HMV and listen to a CD, so she could prepare for the Date. Not a Date. You don’t know it’s a Date. Who said it was a Date?
“Yeast infection, yeast infection, yeast infection.”
“Cassie?”
Cassie Zing colored by numbers and murmured, “Yeast infection.”
“Cassie? You want to keep quiet for us? Or see if you can find some new words?”
Cassie looked up and blinked once. She leaned onto her elbow and spoke into her fist.
I really should mention this habit to her parents. It’s been going on for weeks now. And her mother sends so many notes! Really, an amazing number of notes from that Mrs. Zing. I wouldn’t even notice that Cassie was late if she didn’t bring notes from her mother. Maybe I shouldn’t have written back? Now she thinks we’re pen pals, and she’ll never stop. She may be a loony. Of course, the compliments are nice.
I hope I’m not late on Friday. I’ll have to go straight from my law class to the Borrowed Cat. I’ll wait until Friday night to ask him what he meant by that comment about his weekend being “kind of a strain.” He will open up to me then, after we’ve had a few drinks, and I will listen sympathetically, and try to make him laugh. Perhaps he’ll even cry on my shoulder!
Okay, but it’s not a Date.
What color should I wear? What color is the Borrowed Cat? I should try not to clash with the walls.
It was a strange week for Cath, waiting for Friday and the Clotted Creams. Then remembering that it was not the Clotted Creams but the Carotid Sticks. (She found them at HMV and they were kind of bluesy. She didn’t like blues, but whatever.) She walked around under a spotlight, but a secret, private spotlight, because she didn’t mention the invitation to anybody.
Not even Lenny and Suzanne, even when Suzanne suggested the two of them see a movie on Friday night. “I’m busy Friday,” is all she said. “How about Saturday?” Because here it was: the invitation. The first fragile step in the unfurling. She would not even whisper his name.
But you ARE allowed! He asked you out! He asked you to see a band! And you don’t do that to just anyone, and who knows what will happen AFTER—
On Wednesday afternoon, Cath
and Warren were working on a class plan.
“I am,” said Warren, “extremely hungry,” and he looked around the room.
Cath opened the fridge and found her cheese-and-pickles sandwich. She hadn’t eaten it at lunch, on account of buying a cheeseburger instead. “You can have it,” she offered generously.
Warren was pleased with her, opening up the sandwich from its greaseproof paper, as if it were a birthday present. But then he paused and said, “Imagine if this were toasted.” He held out the sandwich toward her.
“Are you saying you want me to toast it for you?” demanded Cath. “Because I won’t.”
“It’s ten to five!” Warren slid back his chair and leapt to his feet. “We will buy a sandwich maker. Quick! Let’s go!”
They ran across Castle Hill Road together, among the lanes of traffic; skidded to the department store; scanned the directory for kitchen appliances; ran down the up escalators accidentally; and got there just in time.
They went halves on a DeLonghi Sandwich Maker, and carried it back in its box. They were sweaty from the heat and the excitement, and the fading sun blinked in their eyes.
“We keep it here,” said Warren, showing Cath the second shelf of the corner cupboard. “And it’s for us, and us alone. We alone get toasted sandwiches for lunch. Is it a fact? Is it a pact? Is it a tac-tic?”
On Thursday night, she felt jittery, and had to go to the corner store. The corner-store girl had such long plaits they drew attention to her hips. “Hello there, you!” she always said to Cath, who felt she could never live up to this greeting.
“You know what I dreamed last night?” declared the corner-store girl as she reached for Cath’s 60-watt lightbulb. “I dreamed I was in a bathtub, right? With a zebra! What did you dream?”
“Hmm,” said Cath. “Can’t remember.”
“Come on! You always have the best dreams! And it’s been so hot lately! Doesn’t that make you dream? It makes me dream. Look at the time! It’s so late, and it must be what? Any nightmares?”
“Well, okay, I had this great dream where Dr. Carter from ER wanted to cure me of this disease that made me pale and beautiful, and I was hoping I’d get to stay pale and beautiful even when I was cured. Also, I’ve been dreaming a lot about extra rooms for my apartment. In the dreams, I keep finding doors in my hallway that open out into things like sewing rooms or saunas. I’m so happy when that happens. Maybe I think my apartment’s too small? So. Those aren’t nightmares, I guess.”
“How is your health anyway, Cath? I notice you’ve picked up some lozenges there. Sore throat?”
“Just hay fever,” explained Cath. “It makes my throat itchy. How about you?”
Sometimes the corner-store girl liked to chat, but often she became vague and glassy-eyed when asked about herself.
When she got home, Cath was still jittery, so she got out the bucket, the Windex, and a roll of paper towels, and washed all the windows in the apartment.
On Friday afternoon, she was supervising children in detention, whose punishment was to hunt down apple cores, orange peels, paper bags, and Popsicle wrappers after school. She would let them stop soon, because she wanted to get home, shower, change into a summer dress, get to law class, and then to the Borrowed Cat to meet Warren.
Warren, striding past, his arms and legs moving like the spokes of a wheel, slowed to a helicopter hover.
“Still on for tonight?” His eyes went straight into Cath’s.
There was a whisk of excitement in her stomach. “You bet,” she said.
“Breanna might be a little late,” explained Warren.
Cassie Zing, walking past at that moment, swinging her schoolbag in circles, said, “Ms. Murphy?”
“Yes, Cassie?” said Cath. Also, to Warren: “Breanna?”
“I wanted to tell you something important,” said Cassie.
“Breanna,” said Warren. “My wife?”
“Did you, Cassie?” Cath turned smoothly. “What did you want to tell me?”
“That it’s my birthday tomorrow,” whispered Cassie.
“If she misses her train from the coast,” Warren explained, “and she says that she might.”
Cath had bent forward so she could hear Cassie Zing. She kept her eyes on Cassie’s face and said, “Your birthday tomorrow! What are you going to do? Will you have a party? Happy birthday! That’s so exciting.”
Cassie nodded. “I know. And I’m having a party at my auntie’s place tomorrow.”
“Wonderful!” said Cath, still leaning forward. “We’ll have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ on Monday, but you know, we could have sung it today. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Then there was a honk, and Cassie cried, “My mum!” and skidded away.
Cath straightened up and looked at Warren. “Your wife?” she said, with a friendly smile.
“She lives up the coast during the week,” he said, “so we only get the weekends? Which is a strain. Which is a drain. Which is a brain drain.”
Cath considered him.
“You didn’t like that one?” he said. “Fair enough. But anyway, I hope you’re not planning to be late?”
“No, Warren, that’s not what I was planning.”
“Great!” he said. “See you there!
Two
In the afternoon light of a summer day, Fancy, a teenager then, sat on her beach towel and watched Radcliffe’s toe. The toe sprouted from his foot like a plump little table-tennis paddle. It also sprouted hairs, like an unkempt hedge. The toe was writing in the sand:
Radcliffe Mereweather
LOVES
Fancy Zing
The toe took a long time to write this.
Next, Fancy was distracted by Radcliffe’s hands. The hands were thin and knobbly, and were clutching at her sunburnt shoulders. I should put some sunblock on those shoulders, Fancy thought. But now was not the time.
Radcliffe’s hands clutched tightly. He had a tear on the edge of each eye. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he was saying. “I never meant to hurt you.” She stared at him. He was hurting her shoulders, but apart from that, it didn’t really hurt.
“I appreciate your telling me,” she said, pleased by her own maturity.
Radcliffe had kissed another girl. He had gone to the surf club party the night before, leaving Fancy at home with an asthma attack.
“Did you meet a girl?” she teased him the next day, sitting side by side in the sun.
“Well, kind of,” he replied, alarmed.
“Did you kiss her?” She did not think for one moment that he had.
“Well…” and then he was silent, and the odd feeling started, her face stretched out, and she thought: Perhaps he did!
And he had.
Radcliffe! Her First True Love! Her long-lashed boy with the sneakers and guitar! Radcliffe, who bought her marzipan and chocolate, had kissed another girl! They had only been together for a month.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, fervently, and his toe had just proved it by etching in the sand: Radcliffe Mereweather LOVES Fancy Zing.
They sat solemnly, looking at the words, their legs stretched out in the sun. A man shouted, “Turkey! Win a turkey in the raffle!” Nearby, Marbie shook her towel, and Daddy growled, “Marbie! The sand!” Mummy called, “Look, everyone! There’s a skywriter!” and an announcement warned about the dangers of the riptide.
“If you will only forgive me”—Radcliffe was anxious—“I will love you forever and ever. Even, say you get old and wrinkled? I will love you. Even, say you get as fat as your mother?”
At that, Fancy pounced. “Don’t call my mother fat!”
“Sorry.”
“I mean it. That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know,” he explained. “I didn’t know you were sensitive about your mother’s weight.”
“That’s not the point! You don’t know a thing about my mother.”
“What do you mean? What’s to know?”
> Strange. How she told the whole story, in a flood, right then. Radcliffe stared, the sun burned freckles onto Fancy’s shoulders, and the Zing Family Secret ran straight into the letters of Radcliffe Mereweather LOVES Fancy Zing.
The first few weeks of the school year were hot, and as usual when the sun burned white, Fancy remembered the day at the seaside when Radcliffe revealed he had kissed another girl. Fancy had trumped him with the Zing Family Secret.
Also, during the first few weeks of the school year, Fancy wrote seventeen notes to her daughter’s Grade Two teacher. She was just finishing the third of these notes—
Dear Ms. Murphy,
Thank you so much for teaching Cassie (and the rest of your class, I suppose) that lovely song about the sparrow and the ironbark tree, etc., etc. She has been entertaining her father and me with the song (on and off) all week, and it is such an unusual tune!
Just thought I should let you know.
Best regards,
Fancy Zing
—when her husband, Radcliffe, arrived home from work.
“FANCY THAT! MY FANCY IS AT HOME!”
Fancy sat up straight and waited patiently for the sound of his key in the front door, the scraping of his feet on the welcome mat, and the “Huh!” of pleasure as he put his umbrella in the stand. He had given Fancy the stand for a birthday, and he used it assiduously, taking his umbrella back and forth to work each day, even during heat waves.
The footsteps approached. Fancy scraped a wisp of hair out of her bun.
“Mwah!” said Radcliffe, at the study door.
“Hello,” she replied. “How was your day?”
Radcliffe leaned into the room and smiled around at the bookshelf, the scanner, and the corkboard. He looked at the printer next and chuckled. “What have you done with Cassie?” he said, wandering away down the hall.
“I haven’t done anything with Cassie,” murmured Fancy. She opened her desk drawer and took out her Irritating Things notebook.
They had frozen quiche for dinner, and watched Hot Auctions!, and the next day, the moment she woke up, Fancy remembered this: It is possible to change a person.
The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor Page 5