I Am Out With Lanterns

by Emily Gale

  We’ve spent hundreds of hours alone together, but this is different.

  ‘Pizza!’ Dad says, holding up his phone, as if he’s finally struck the answer to this awkwardness. While he’s calling, I get a text message from Mum.

  Did you see Milo Witkin on the way home from school today? Had a disturbing phone call from Julie. Call me, please. Mum x

  I switch off the phone.

  Five beers in, the pizza arrives. Dad tears strips off the delivery guy at the front door for being late, but when he returns to the kitchen he’s smiling broadly. It’s actually all right now – we’re just Ben and Dad, chilling together, catching up on footy news. This is temporary, this shit with Mum. Like a holiday.

  ‘See all that stuff in the news about the painting and the fire?’ I ask him.

  ‘That was an ugly house. Give them a chance to build a better-looking one.’

  ‘I know the girl who’s in the portrait – did I tell you that?’

  ‘She one of your conquests, is she? Stunning.’

  I make a maybe-maybe-not face, and Dad chinks his bottle against mine. I might get her one day and then it won’t be a lie. This gives me even more reason.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I reckon they whipped it off the wall as soon as they smelt smoke because they hadn’t had a chance to get it insured yet.’

  ‘That makes more sense.’

  ‘Another beer, mate? This pizza’s pretty salty.’

  ‘Dad, it’s called the Salty Pig.’ I take the cold bottle and twist the cap.

  We’ve moved into Dad’s study and on to whisky. I take one of the armchairs that face the fireplace and he hands me a crystal tumbler that weighs like a brick. The whisky burns a path down my throat and starts a fire in my gut. But I sip it again and again; I feel so much better than I did when I first got home. Even though Dad still won’t let me choose the music and we’re now listening to Guns N’ Roses, we’re having a laugh. He’s telling me old stories from his Hall days, and I fling in a few of my own. Then somehow we get on to the topic of Pops. Dad gets serious again. He stares into his glass.

  ‘The thing with my dad is …’ He stops, his face crumples and he puts his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. Oh God. He’s pissed. I can tell he’s crying by the shape of his mouth and the jerking of his head. What the hell am I supposed to do? The ‘Paradise City’ song comes on and it’s jarring as hell, but I’m too far gone to get up and switch it off. Dad needs to cry and I need to sit here and pretend he isn’t.

  The next time I look, he’s asleep. I’m not so dizzy now. The booze is deeply embedded in my system instead of sloshing around my head and guts. The doorbell rings. Who calls over at this time? It rings again. What if it’s Mum? I don’t know why she wouldn’t use her key, but I can’t ignore it now.

  ‘Ben, I’m sorry it’s late.’ It’s Mike Witkin. Shit. ‘Wouldn’t mind a word with you. And your dad.’ Is it my imagination or does Mike look nervous?

  ‘Dad’s asleep.’

  ‘Right, is he? I was hoping to talk to you together.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mike.’

  A laugh escapes and I put my fist to my mouth to disguise it as a cough. Mike stiffens and his expression hardens.

  ‘Did you have a run-in with Milo?’

  I laugh again. ‘Why would I?’ I roll my eyes. ‘Mike, me and Milo have been mates since birth, haven’t we? Look, I’ll wake my dad if you really want –’

  ‘Don’t. This can wait.’

  I shrug and look him full in the face.

  ‘It’s not true, Mike,’ I call out, when he’s halfway down the street.

  Once I’m back in Dad’s office, with music blaring and the stench of alcohol, it feels like that thing with Mike never happened. I walk past Dad to put the tumbler on his desk. He’d kill me if I broke one. When I put it down, I knock the mouse and his computer lights up. I have to put some better music on. I try to coordinate moving the cursor towards the stop button, which is surprisingly difficult. I squint at the screen, trying to focus on the tiny black arrow.

  Click.

  The music’s still going, but a new window pops up. A thousand girls are looking at me. Hello, ladies!

  All their eyes are on me. Me. Ben.

  Then I stop. Mum’s walked out and Dad’s looking at porn. This is sad.

  I turn Dad’s computer off at the hard drive. He’s snoring loud and steady, a deep, sweet slumber that he doesn’t deserve while I’m so wired.

  In bed, I scroll through Instagram, get bored and change to Flare. Nate’s made the whole thing public now for extra fun. All these girls. Where do they come from? There must be scores of boys giving videos to Nate by now. Girl after girl after girl after …

  Wait.

  I didn’t expect to see her on here.

  Just after eight, I walk up the Witkins’ path, cross the porch and tap lightly on Milo’s window. The blinds are down, as always. Nothing stirs. I try the front door. Julie opens it and she looks different. No make-up, no gym clothes.

  ‘Morning, Wren.’ Her voice is flatter.

  ‘Hi. Is Milo coming to school?’

  ‘Not today. He needs a bit of a break. I’ll let him know you called over.’ She doesn’t seem snippy. She looks down as she closes the door on me.

  I walk to school by myself, feeling gloomy. It’s already hot and the air doesn’t move.

  Through the corridors at school, I catch snippets of gossip about portrait Adie, but real Adie is nowhere to be found. I can’t blame her for skipping. At recess, I head to the library for refuge and slink past people playing video games and chess, fingers crossed that the little nook I’m heading for is deserted.

  It isn’t. But it’s a relief to find Hari in the chair I had my sights set on, until it hits me that she might not want to be disturbed. This is hardly where you go if you’re hoping to run into someone.

  ‘Are you hiding too?’ I ask.

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘I can go.’

  ‘No, stay. I’m not hiding from you.’

  I dump my bag and sit on the floor with my back resting against the armchair, next to her legs.

  ‘Who are you trying to escape from?’ she asks.

  ‘Everyone. I’m so over this place.’ I tilt my head against Hari’s leg, and shiver lightly when she uses her fingernails to gather a section of my hair. I can feel the gentle pull as she starts to braid. My scalp tingles. I close my eyes.

  ‘Have you seen Adie around?’ she says.

  ‘I reckon she’s skipped again. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably.’

  I’m about to say more about Adie, realising I can feed the constant hunger to talk about her since Hari’s the one who brought her up, but I’m caught in this physical moment. It feels like ages since I was this close to someone. I didn’t even know I’d missed it. Hari uses just the right pressure as she teases out new strands of hair and weaves them together. I can smell her buttery skin and the fresh herbal scent of a newly washed school dress. Pleasure floods my veins. And after this sweet feeling, a sadness creeps in. A door opens in my mind and Floyd’s there. I still think about him all the time, but it’s different, less intense, without drawing him every day. I feel so guilty. Like I’ve left him behind. A single, hot, stupid tear rolls down my face.

  Bloody hell, all this from a Dutch braid? But I keep still and let the sadness do its work. I let it go where it wants to, while my head tingles as Hari braids. The surprising thing is that, in a few breaths, the hard emotions have receded. The single, hot, stupid tear has dried up. I know Floyd wouldn’t blame me. Though he might ask me why I haven’t done much drawing of anyone lately.

  Hari finishes the braid and hangs it over my shoulder; I run it through my hands.

  ‘Thanks. So how come you’re hiding? Is it because of you and Luca?’

  ‘In a way, yes. In a way, no.’ She stops, as if she’s not sure whether to say the next bit. I look up at her. ‘Did you know we we
ren’t real?’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘We were always a pretend couple. Since Year Six, in fact. Pretty good going.’

  I twist around, leaning against her with my arms over her legs. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’ I remember seeing Hari outside that church, looking different from usual. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but … are you secretly religious?’

  She laughs. ‘I’m secretly queer. Did you really not know that?’

  ‘I feel stupid now, but, no, I really didn’t. I just thought you and Luca were an unlikely couple.’

  ‘Very. Luca’s gay. Guess we did our job well then.’ But she looks sad. ‘That day you saw me at church –’

  ‘You saw me? I thought you did, but I wasn’t sure. You don’t seem very … churchy.’

  ‘I’m not. Well, I believe in God, but for me it’s personal. I’m not religious, exactly, but I’m spiritual.’

  ‘But your family is …?’

  ‘My mum became Seventh-day Adventist about ten years ago, after a lifetime of being Presbyterian. It was all a bit dramatic, like she’d fallen madly in love. She was all in straight away. It’s a pretty strict church. No meat. No alcohol. I’m not allowed to do much from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday because that’s the Sabbath. And, of course, I’m also not allowed to be queer.’

  This feels wild. There is so much more to Hari, and I want to know it all. ‘So your parents have no idea. How can you stand it?’

  ‘I can’t a lot of the time. But then I imagine what it will be like to break my mum’s heart. I can picture her face. I’ve already imagined how I’ll feel when her love for me … shrinks. Her faith comes above everything. And, I’m sorry if it sounds weak, but I can’t have her not love me. Not yet. So. This is how it is. My faith is a secret at school and my sexuality is a secret at home.’

  I don’t know what to say, which is terrible timing. I always thought of Hari as being free and confident and completely herself. I’ll keep her talking. ‘Luca was your cover.’

  ‘Yes. Mum loves him. She’s pretty sure we broke up because I’m difficult.’ With a half-smile, she raises an eyebrow. ‘Truth is, Luca decided to come out to his parents.’

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Better than he thought it would.’

  ‘And your parents don’t talk to Luca’s parents?’

  ‘Never – different circles. You’ve seen Luca’s house. We’re not rich. Anyway, it’s okay. I’m happy for him.’

  I gently stroke the skin just above Hari’s knee, along a small scar. ‘But what about you?’ She looks at me and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen pain in her eyes, but perhaps it’s always been there. ‘I guess you know I’m queer too.’ I decide to use the same word as Hari, but then I want to say it my own way. ‘I’m bi.’

  She leans forward; I’m nervous suddenly. ‘I know. I think you like Adie. Am I right?’

  I could tell her everything now. But then pretty much the last voice I’d want to hear shatters the moment between us.

  ‘You two!’ Carole’s in the nook, hands on her hips, acrylic fingernails splayed out. ‘Violation, violation, violation,’ she says, pointing at different parts of Hari. ‘Violation,’ she says to me, and makes a huge sweeping movement to indicate my entire self.

  Carole writes us a couple of detention slips like she’s signing autographs and hands them over.

  My full confession will have to wait.

  The usual suspects are in detention, with the addition of some shell-shocked Year Sevens. I give them one of my less evil looks because it’s impressive to get detention in your first few weeks of high school, even if they look like the sorts of detentionaires who were just late for class a few times.

  Mr Nguyen’s in charge today. He’s the youngest teacher in the school and spends most breaks playing basketball with students, so this will be a relaxed session. Mr Nguyen nods hello to us, gets out his laptop and plugs in his headphones.

  I’m settling down to start a new sketch when a surprise visitor walks in.

  My sister.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I pull out a chair next to mine. ‘Hari, I don’t think you’ve met my sister. Summer has never been in trouble in her entire life.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ she says, but her smile tells me she’s not going to argue too vigorously against the charge. She takes a seat. ‘I got caught sending a text in class.’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘You’re right, Wren. I wish I could get done for interesting things like wearing too much eyeliner.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. So tell us the gossip in Year Nine. Who hates who, et cetera?’

  ‘Literally the only thing anyone’s talking about is that girl in your year – the painting girl.’

  I look at Hari and she rolls her eyes.

  ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she says. ‘Update me on my return.’

  ‘Don’t you people have lives?’ I say to my sister.

  ‘Not really. Year Nine’s a dark wasteland. Anyway, all the gossip about Adie Ryan is trickling down from your year.’

  ‘Are you talking about the girl who can make bad stuff happen with her mind?’ says a wide-eyed Year Seven with two short plaits like antennae.

  ‘Mind your own business!’ I give her my finest sneer, but it’s no good – the fuse is lit and soon the entire room is expressing a half-baked opinion about Adie and the paintings.

  Summer leans in and whispers to me, ‘Isn’t she the girl in your drawing?’

  ‘Have you been in my room?’

  ‘Only to borrow something! I saw the portrait on your wall about a week ago, but last time I looked it wasn’t up there any more. Is it her?’

  ‘No! Ugh, can’t I even have detention in peace these days?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, though? So many weird things have been happening at home lately. The electrics. Dad’s accidents. The leaking roof. That snake.’

  It has crossed my mind hundreds of times.

  ‘You sound ridiculous, Summer. Listen to yourself. A painting caused a snake to crawl into our house. Yeah.’

  ‘Why did you draw that girl? Do you like her?’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Fine, but we don’t know everything about the universe. It’s arrogant to say it’s impossible. Anything’s possible.’

  ‘Anything’s possible? You sound like a fridge magnet. Some things are definitely not possible, such as this.’

  She pauses for a moment. ‘So the picture is definitely her, then.’

  This story isn’t going away.

  Later on, Summer, Hari and I stop at 7-Eleven for slurpies and walk to the parkland.

  From a distance, the play area looks like it’s filled with giant children. Closer, I realise it’s a crowd of Fairfield Year Tens. They’re on the flying fox and spider web, laughing and shrieking. There’s a cubbyhouse and we head for that. Hari plugs a speaker into her phone. Adults herding little kids away give us dirty looks and leave.

  Sorry, we’ll just go to the teenagers’ playground, shall we?

  Once the others hear the music, they stop mucking around and join us, standing in the doorway or near the window. I hear a couple of them climb onto the roof.

  ‘There’s that freak,’ says Poppy.

  Across the other side of the park, I catch the last glimpse of Adie as she walks past one of the entrances. I glance sideways at Hari and find that she’s already looking back at me.

  ‘She’s not even that pretty,’ says Scarlet. ‘And she kind of smells.’

  ‘Did we wake up in Year Three?’ Hari asks me.

  ‘I googled her, did I tell you?’ Poppy carries on. ‘There’s nothing. Zero trace. She didn’t even exist until this story.’

  ‘Right, cos people don’t exist unless you can google them,’ I say drily.

  ‘We need Juliet,’ says Christian. He pulls his shirt out of the back of his trousers, yanks it over his head like a hood and mimes a crystal ball in
front of him. ‘I can see the past!’

  Hard laughter fills the cubbyhouse.

  ‘It’s all crap, though,’ says Hari. ‘I can’t believe you lot are so sucked in.’

  ‘They’ve got about thirty examples now,’ says Matt. ‘Come on, Hari. I’m not saying she’s cursed, but it can’t be nothing.’

  ‘Adie’s a witch,’ says Poppy. ‘Some kind of living voodoo doll.’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t like it,’ says Scarlet. ‘Things like this seriously give me nightmares. If she even looks at me, I’m gonna slap her freaky face.’

  I’m going to lose it. ‘You sound like five-year-olds.’

  Christian smirks. ‘One witch sticking up for another.’

  ‘Wren, they’re talking about having a mass pulping of the paintings,’ says Matt. ‘Why would they do that if there wasn’t something in it?’

  ‘So they’re going to pulp it all, and then what – it becomes landfill?’ I say sarcastically. ‘Then the curse will be in the ground. In our water system. You’ll drink the curse. It’ll live in all of you.’

  Poppy and Scarlet clutch each other. The rest are quiet, considering.

  ‘Objects can be haunted, though,’ says Summer.

  ‘Oh, can they, Summer? I’m so sorry. I was basing my opinion on fact instead of total bollocks. Paintings don’t make things happen. Pulping a bunch of them and burying it in the ground is a joke.’

  ‘Then why are all those people going along with it?’ says Christian.

  ‘How should I know? The history of human beings is full of people going along with stupid schemes.’

  ‘But how do you explain the fire in Kew?’ says Poppy.

  ‘Life! Shit happens! Fires get started all the time. I saw a painting of Adie at an op shop a few weeks ago and nothing’s happened there. There are probably loads of paintings of her around the world, hung up on the walls of people who’ve never heard this stupid rumour.’

  Hari looks uncomfortable. ‘You mean the big op shop by the river?’