I Am Out With Lanterns

by Emily Gale

  ‘Can you cook?’ says Elise.

  I hesitate. ‘I can make anything that goes on toast.’

  She smiles. ‘Let’s have a trial run.’

  Piper gasps, and then my new biggest fan squeezes me so hard around the middle that I nearly fall over.

  I leave their doorstep feeling happy, but there’s a tiny pip of doubt as if I’ve forgotten something. When I go back inside our house, Dad’s standing halfway down the hall.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he says.

  ‘Just next door. I’ve got a job.’

  ‘What are they like?’ He sounds suspicious.

  ‘Nice. I dunno. Normal.’

  He walks away but stops suddenly and turns back. ‘Has anyone been here?’

  ‘Like who?’

  He pauses. ‘I don’t want you going out so much.’

  Full stop; he continues to the kitchen. I think he’s paranoid about the people he’s borrowed money from, after they split his head last week. Being shortlisted has to be the turnaround he’s always wanted.

  I wake on Sunday morning to a gentle tapping against my window. When I pull up the blinds, Wren’s there. She looks different. Her hair is down, wet from the shower and she’s wearing a long strappy, black dress and no make-up, like she stepped off the cover of one of her gothic novels.

  I pull up the window. ‘It’s Sunday – what are you doing vertical?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep; went for a walk. Anyway, what I came over to tell you is that you’re invited to dinner tonight. As in your whole family. Mum’s idea. She’s sold another painting and you know what she’s like when that happens. She’s cooking up a storm. Fancy it?’

  ‘Def-definitely,’ I say, keeping it almost close to cool.

  I could kiss Wren’s mum right now. Although, not really, because kissing Cece would be very weird. The one I really want to kiss is Wren. Still, always Wren.

  M: SOS. The tips aren’t working.

  D: But she’s asked you to dinner.

  M: Her mother asked my entire family to dinner. It’s not a date.

  D: Which of the tips have you been focusing on?

  M: Walking slower and talking louder.

  D: And?

  M: In response, I’ve observed Wren walking faster and talking less. What does that mean? Has this happened to you?

  D: I’m a homeschooled recluse.

  M: True. Does the article say anything about how the woman usually responds?

  D: Hang on … Nope, literally nothing. But don’t give up. I just think we need to try something other than a men’s magazine.

  M: Maybe a women’s magazine.

  D: You could be on to something. I don’t want to worry you, but any chance she’s into another dude?

  M: Or girl. But no, she’d have told me. We talk about everything.

  D: Or girl??

  M: Yeah, Wren’s bi.

  D: Lingual?

  M: Bisexual, you idiot.

  D: Wow. That’s hot.

  M: Dan! Don’t make me wish I hadn’t told you. Why is bisexual hot?

  D: Because girls are hot. Whether they like me or not. Which none of them do.

  M: It’s not about girls. Men can be bisexual. And it doesn’t mean more sexual. It’s not a question of being hot. Also, stop, I can’t use the word ‘hot’. All I get from that is actual heat.

  D: In your pants?

  M: You need medication.

  D: Already on it. Anyway, the bisexual thing. Does that mean it’s more likely, or less likely, that Wren is going to be into you?

  M: Neither more nor less likely. Sometimes you are very painful.

  D: But if Wren is choosing from a larger pool of people in the first place, surely that affects the probability that you’ll get lucky? What about if you live on an island with a population of 100, and you find 10 of those people attractive. But then you move to another island with a population of 1000 and you’re like, whoa, now you’re talking.

  M: Nope. If someone’s got more people to choose from, it still doesn’t increase the probability of them being attracted to one particular person. Attraction isn’t about quantity. What if you’re bisexual and mainly like people with green eyes? Or you only want a partner who’s the same religion? Or who likes video games as much as you do?

  D: You make some good points, Skywalker.

  At five to six, I notice the quiet. Mum would normally be dashing around the house telling us to hurry, which Dad always makes fun of because the Jackmans live fourteen seconds from our front door.

  I glimpse Sophie’s bare feet dangling off the end of her bed. I think she’s on my phone – I’m legally obliged to lend it to her between 4 pm and 5 pm as per an earlier contract. Dad’s cradling the iPad on the sofa. Two green beer bottles are lined up on the coffee table. Mum’s usual preparations are nowhere to be seen and nor is she.

  When I wander out into the garden, I can smell the Jackmans’ barbecue. I can’t hear any voices, just some jazz playing. The sky is mauve and everything seems peaceful. Bee appears, sniffing along the side fence. She often visits, but Mum’ll go spare if she sees her. She hates dogs – or, more specifically, she hates dog shit in her garden. When I get close, Bee sniffs my hand and I scratch her under her chin.

  ‘Go on, Bee. Home,’ I say, pointing back down the side.

  Bee gives me a sorrowful look and dips her head as she leaves. Naturally, my heart melts, which is exactly her plan. I walk after her, intending to give one more pat, but something catches my eye. The bathroom window is open to my left. Mum is standing in front of the mirror, naked.

  Crap.

  I turn so quickly the ball of my foot burns in my shoe. The image is branded on my retinas along with the extra detail that Mum was holding a phone, taking a photograph of herself in the mirror. I hurry back inside. Why did I have to see that?

  Dad’s engrossed in whatever’s on his iPad. He sips from his bottle. I don’t know what to do with what I’ve just witnessed. I consider returning to my bedroom to wrap myself in a doona-cocoon, but I’d have to go past the bathroom and Mum might walk out and I’ve already decided that I can never look at her human form again. For want of a better plan, I go to the kitchen and fill a glass with cool water from the fridge. I gulp it back like it’s a forgetting potion.

  It’s completely useless.

  Mum walks into the kitchen, fully clothed. I look everywhere but at her. My eyes find the fruit bowl: apples, oranges, a cantaloupe. Oh my God, everything looks like breasts.

  ‘I suppose we should head next door at some point,’ says Mum.

  Dad chucks the iPad on the sofa and stretches as he gets up. ‘Right, what are we taking? I’ve only got two hands, remember.’

  ‘Not sure,’ she says vaguely. ‘What do we have?’

  Dad looks confused, which is fair enough because this has never happened in the whole history of us going to people’s houses for dinner. Mum always brings more food than the host has cooked.

  He sticks his head in the fridge. ‘Er, love, have you been shopping this week? Looks a bit dire in here.’ He turns, holding up half a block of cheddar in a zip-lock bag. ‘What about cheese?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go,’ says Mum.

  Dad shrugs and we follow Mum down the hall.

  ‘We’re leaving, Soph,’ she calls out.

  Sophie slopes out of her room.

  ‘Isn’t that my sweatshirt?’ I say.

  ‘It doesn’t even fit you!’ she yells, then opens the front door with force and storms ahead. That’s the third thing she’s taken this week. My clothes are huge on her and she always called them ‘tragic’ before.

  I wonder if Dad feels like I do – that the two women in the house are not themselves. As we walk up the garden path, I try out a sentence in my head: Dad, Mum took a nude selfie and Sophie’s wearing my clothes.

  Not happening.

  ‘Now, I want this to be a family meal,’ says Cece, ‘so no escaping upstairs, Wren and Milo, and
no sudden need to dash off to Becky’s house, Summer. And you too, Sophie – no jailbreaks. And no having boring conversations about the housing market in a corner, Mike and Doug.’ She smiles at my mum. ‘And no leaving all the work to me and Julie.’

  ‘So many rules,’ says Wren. ‘How very relaxing and natural.’

  There’s a charred slab of lamb on the table, three kinds of weird salad and two thick straps of Turkish bread. So that’ll be bread and meat for me. I like my food simple. In general,

  I prefer crunch to squish. I get to sit next to Wren, luckily, with Sophie on my other side and Summer opposite; the adults are at the other end of the table. They’re drinking something called Pimms, which is alcohol with salad in it. When everyone’s chatting, loud enough not to notice a secret underground conversation, Wren leans closer and says, ‘What’s up with your mum?’

  She can tell? Wren is amazing. But what can she tell?

  ‘How do you mean?’ I whisper.

  ‘I don’t know. She seems different. She smiled at me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Plus, she’s really quiet. I’ve never known her to be quiet.’

  I chew my food and, without looking at Mum, listen out for her voice to check Wren’s theory. She’s right; it’s only Dad and Doug and Cece I can hear.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I dare to look at Mum. I can’t say there’s much to notice. She sips her drink. Scoops up some salad from her plate. Chews. Appears to be listening to what Doug is saying. But now I can’t help connecting what Wren has said about her seeming different to what I saw earlier. I need to tell Wren about it, but how?

  I was dreading company, but it’s turning out to be a good distraction from moping in my room over Adie. I’m halfway through chewing a cold piece of zucchini when I get a text message from Milo: I saw my mum naked. Need to talk about it.

  ‘Wren, no phones at dinner,’ says Mum.

  I reply, one-handed, under the table. This is a risky business because the table is slotted, but we’re pros and Mum’s looking the other way with her nose in her toxic pond cocktail.

  It’s very hard not to stare at Julie now and think up new theories. She’s attractive, if you like that sort of thing, though she looks tired tonight. What I didn’t mention to Milo is my other suspicion – the photo was for someone else. Another man. I’m basing this on projection – if I was married to Mike, I’d definitely have an affair. Right after I buried his body in the back garden. I guess, technically, that wouldn’t count as an affair because I’d be a widow.

  I’m distracted by Mum cheerfully trying to bridge the gap between the kids’ end of the table and the adults’.

  ‘So, Sophie, tell us how Year Six is going. Can you believe you’re off to high school soon?’

  ‘It’s not soon, it’s eleven months,’ Sophie replies, with a certain scowl.

  ‘Poppet, lighten up,’ says Mike.

  ‘Shut up, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t start,’ says Mike, as if this new dark Sophie has been hanging around lately and Mike’s at the end of his tether.

  I can tell that my family want to giggle like I do.

  ‘Sorry, Soph,’ says Mum. ‘Blame me. I was being nosy.’

  Sophie slips further down in her chair.

  ‘Don’t apologise to her, Cece,’ says Mike. ‘She’s being a little madam at the moment. You know what a lovely girl she can be.’ He raises one eyebrow at Sophie and then carries on talking about her ‘dreadful behaviour’. A few anecdotes in, I scoff and pretend to be choking on a piece of bread, after which everyone goes back to listening to Mike.

  Not that I’m Sophie’s biggest fan, but I can’t stand the way Mike is talking about her. ‘Little madam’ – so patronising. And all that stuff about how she used to be so lovely? Parents are the most confused people – they urge us forwards into every next stage, but then hold us back if the transition becomes inconvenient. Grow up! Don’t grow up so fast! What’s the right speed? What’s the right way? They don’t know, that’s the problem. And that is one of the many reasons why I’m having cats instead of children.

  Sophie’s changing from a girl who believes in unicorns to a young woman who is constantly told that the world thinks she’s a pain in the arse. I try to remember how I felt in Year Six, but it’s hazy. I only know the facts – that’s when I started to dress differently. I was the sharp-tongued middle child. I tortured my innocent sister, and I was the only one who could make my brother lose his shit.

  For the first time since I met her, I think I’m on Sophie’s side. She looks close to tears.

  Julie quietly munches on a piece of alcoholic cucumber from the jug of Pimms while Mike does all the talking. He starts another anecdote about Sophie, and my parents look uncomfortable. I can tell they both want to tell him to shut up.

  ‘She got into trouble at school. That’s never happened!’

  ‘Well, that’s not so bad, is it?’ says my dad. ‘Doesn’t she get a few passes, Mike?’

  ‘Not when it’s for cheating.’ Mike rises in his chair, like he has to make himself physically bigger while he’s humiliating his kid.

  I hear Milo say, ‘That was my fault’ but Sophie shouts over his words: ‘I told you not to tell anyone, Dad!’ She stands up and her chair topples back. Summer catches it and tries to touch Sophie’s arm, but Sophie yanks it away. ‘I hate you, Dad!’

  As she storms off, my parents try to hide their smiles. I know what they’re thinking. ‘She’s got nothing on me, has she, Mum?’ I wink at them.

  Mum and Dad let go of their laughter.

  ‘Not really, Wren, no,’ says Mum. ‘Oh, honestly, Mike, it’s normal. Wren was vile.’ She turns to me. ‘You know I mean that with love,’ she says, and turns back. ‘We despaired. But she’s a wonderful soul. Truly. She’s my rock.’

  I wasn’t expecting that. I’m Mum’s rock? Shit, I might cry. I have to stab my thumb with the prongs of my fork. Damn her.

  Milo goes inside to check on Sophie, and Dad follows to fetch a store-bought pavlova, because you can’t pav on a barbecue and we still have no electricity.

  When the adults are drunk enough, we leave them outside, drawing the glass doors closed so we can put on music without hearing the constant refrain of ‘Can’t you play something decent? From the eighties?’ I actually like a lot of eighties music – the darker side of it, anyway – but the way my parents always lay claim to it, as if they wrote the damn songs, kind of ruins it.

  Sophie has squeezed herself into the corner of the sofa, her legs tucked inside a dark green sweatshirt.

  I crouch next to her. ‘You okay, Soph?’

  Her nod is barely perceptible. ‘You know what got me through? Angry music. Putting my headphones on and just blocking out the world for an hour or two.’

  Another fraction of a nod.

  ‘If you want, you can go up to my room and use my phone. Here. Headphones are on my bed, and if you open up Wren’s Playlist, you will find sixty minutes of the best therapy.’

  Her legs come out from under the sweatshirt and she gets up slowly, walks around the back of the sofa and heads up the stairs.

  ‘You’re letting her into your private sanctum?’ says Summer. ‘You never let me near your stuff when I was her age.’ She turns to Milo. ‘If I even breathed on the divide in our bedroom, she’d bite.’

  ‘I toughened you up.’

  ‘Thanks so much for that.’ But it’s okay, she’s smiling. Milo fires up our old Nintendo – it was Floyd’s – and sets us up in a game of Mario Kart.

  It’s gone midnight when the adults slide open the doors and come inside. They’ve obviously drained the toxic pond.

  ‘It’s been a blast, Cece,’ says Mike. As he lurches to hug my mum, he reminds me of an inflatable air dancer outside a dodgy car dealership.

  ‘Yes, thank you. That was lovely,’ says Julie.

  Something’s definitely up with her. Either she’s completely trashed or Mike is tired of her nagging him to prune t
he roses and he’s taken to drugging her.

  I say goodbye to Milo and tell them I’ll run up to let Sophie know it’s time to go.

  Sophie is fast asleep in the dark with my headphones on, breathing slowly and deeply, curled on my duvet like a shell half-buried in sand. Summer creeps in behind me and puts her chin on my shoulder.

  ‘I don’t want to wake her,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah. She might bite you.’

  ‘Can I sleep in your room? I’ll write her a note so she’s not scared when she wakes up.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go down to tell the others.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m going to jump in the shower before bed.’

  Hey Soph. You fell asleep in my room. All good. Wren. I hold the note in place with a small mood lamp that Floyd bought me for my thirteenth birthday, and switch it to green (for strength, according to the tiny instruction booklet it came with, and who doesn’t have faith in tiny instruction booklets?). Battery-operated, luckily. It’s not very bright, but it’s better than Sophie waking in the dark.

  I take a shower and wash off my make-up. And then, towel around me, I stand in front of the mirror and brush my teeth. I drop the towel and carry on.

  I’m built like Mum. Strong in the shoulders, hips and legs. I have a rounded tummy and breasts and an innie. I wouldn’t wax my pubic hair for anyone. I like the dips either side of my waist. I like the freckles on my chest. I like the end of the night when I wash everything away and look at myself in the mirror and think, Oh, hello, it’s you. That thrill when you remember that you’re profoundly alone inside yourself.

  With my towel back on, I look over the banister to see that all the lights are off downstairs. I creep back into my room to get a t-shirt to sleep in and fresh undies. It’s not till I’ve opened and closed the top drawer that I realise Sophie and my note have both gone. I hold up the green light over the bed to make sure and find only the creases of her body there.

  So I creep back to the gap in Summer’s door and poke my head in. ‘Soph’s gone home. Sleeping in my own bed.’

  ‘K. Night, Wren.’ She switches off her camping torch as I go back to my room.