I Am Out With Lanterns

by Emily Gale

  While she’s gone, I talk to Adie, hoping she can’t see how nervous I am this morning.

  ‘You should come over to my place for breakfast.’

  She beams at me. ‘Are you sure?’

  I don’t know what to think. Is this the right thing to do?

  When we reach the school gates, Hari points her thumb over her shoulder. ‘I’m in this direction. See you girls on Monday.’ And she starts to run, with the portrait by Wren rolled up and tucked into her jacket.

  We walk as fast as we can, slipping out of our thongs, holding the canvas between us. Cars slosh along the high street. Everything’s closed and we’re the only ones walking. It’s too hard to talk properly. We get to the bus shelter that’s right outside my building.

  ‘Sit here for a minute.’

  We catch our breath, wringing out our hair.

  ‘There’s something up with you this morning. What’s wrong?’ Adie says.

  I’m beyond tired, my mind is spinning.

  I’d never been more happy to see a person or more angry as the day Adie walked into that English class. And now to think that we might share a mum, I feel the same – happy, angry, mostly scared. And what if this is all a trick of the light?

  My mind hitches on to a scene outside Luca’s party, like it’s been doing all night long.

  I’m standing behind a tree with my mums. Nervous … Determined … I smell cut grass and can almost feel the pulse of the music. Adie appears from another direction.

  Jean says, ‘Is that her?’ She squints; her glasses are on top of her head like always.

  Tracey says, ‘Yes, it’s her.’

  They look at each other.

  Tracey knew Adie without missing a beat even though she didn’t walk into our lives until I was eight, long after Adie had gone. How could I know everything and not know this?

  ‘Adie, you had a theory about your dad – well, now I’ve got one, but this is about your mum.’

  ‘Okay. Hope it’s not as bad as mine. Or at least not as criminal.’ She nudges me and smiles, but I can’t.

  ‘Up there is where I live. Second floor, behind the fig tree. Inside are my mums. Jean, who you might remember. We used to jump on her bed when you stayed over. We’d creep in and those long green curtains she had in her bedroom would be drawn across, and the room would be soupy and dim and Jean would be snoring, which always made us laugh. Then we’d climb on her, begging for pancakes, and she’d roar like a bear.’

  ‘Yes! I can see that: a mountain of doona shifting from under me, budging me off. Jean! Oh wow, Juliet! But what’s the theory? Hey, you look like you’re crying. You’re scaring me.’ Adie gets up and stands between me and my house.

  ‘My other mum. She’s called Tracey.’

  Adie’s cheeks go pink and she gives a short, hard laugh and shrugs. ‘So?’

  ‘Everything fits. She didn’t become my mum until a long time after you were gone. The bike, the ring, all those books. She doesn’t drink, but I know she used to. She has regrets. She gets sad and tries to hide it. I never knew why, but now I think it’s because –’

  ‘Stop.’ Adie looks into the distance, frowning.

  ‘I might be wrong. Come inside and we can –’

  ‘What? Ask them?’ She’s crying now. ‘God, Juliet.’

  Behind her, I see our cat, Freddy, who has suddenly appeared on the dividing wall, tail hung like a hook. He jumps down and walks between us, rubbing Adie’s legs. She bends down to trail her hand along his back. ‘Malachite,’ she says, as if that’s his name.

  ‘That’s Freddy. He’s ours. We’ve had him since forever.’

  Adie pulls her hand away and straightens up. She looks muddled and angry, grabs the canvas roughly and walks away, breaking into a run.

  ‘Adie! It’s okay …’ My voice sounds thin and uncertain, coming from the part of me that wanted her to go.

  D: So you’re going to school today?

  M: Yep. I’ve rebooted. Plus I worked out a route that Ben definitely won’t know.

  D: You can’t carry on like this. Tell Big Mike how bad the bullying’s been.

  M: You know that’s not possible. What’s my other option – stay home for the rest of my life?

  D: Works for me.

  M: Well, sure, you’re homeschooled, but you still go out.

  D: Do I?

  M: What, you never go out?

  D: What for?

  M: See people, do things, explore the world.

  D: Pointless.

  M: So there’s nothing that could make you leave your house? D: Nope.

  …

  D: Hellooooo?

  M: Yep, still here.

  D: So let’s get back to talking about you and Wren and that whole hot love mess.

  M: I don’t want to.

  D: Eh?

  M: No, thanks.

  D: Dude, what?

  M: We always talk about me and my mess. You just sit there and give out advice that never works. In fact, everything’s worse this year.

  D: That’s not my fault.

  M: I’m going.

  D: You can’t go! We’re having a conversation!

  I set off early so I can avoid Wren. But Doug’s in the front garden, lugging a huge branch from the tree.

  ‘Hey, how you doing, mate? We’ve all been worried about you.’

  ‘Good. Okay. Fine. How are you, Doug?’

  ‘Oh, me? I’m good, thanks – you know, same old. Huge branch came down yesterday, nearly hit Summer.’

  ‘What? Is she okay?’

  ‘Right as rain.’

  Right as rain. Weird saying.

  ‘Wren’s not coming today, mate,’ he says. ‘Those bastards have taken the wind out of her sails.’

  ‘Ah.’ I have no idea what he’s on about, but I don’t want to embarrass myself, and I probably shouldn’t tell him that I’m avoiding her. But which bastards have taken her … Wind?

  ‘Better get a saw. Good to see you, Milo,’ Doug says, as he heads for the door. ‘I’ll let Wren know you were here.’

  I’m in my own front yard, but never mind. That was all too confusing.

  Headphones on, I choose a techno track called ‘Trigonometry’, and picture my new route to school. I open Instagram as I set off. Dan’s put up a photo of our two Minecraft characters. It’s a peace-offering. I wish I hadn’t argued with him. If he wants to stay home, that’s none of my business. I got angry because he’s always helping me out and he never needs me.

  Juliet’s feed never changes – all swirly writing, words by Emily Dickinson. They’re offbeat and direct and sometimes strange. They make sense to me, which is different from saying I always understand them. She posted one five minutes ago.

  Forever – is composed of Nows.

  I like it. I hope I remember to tell her that I really get this one.

  I do a search for Wren’s account to see if she’s posted anything new. That’s weird. Her account doesn’t exist any more.

  I stop walking and take off my headphones, looking back and thinking about what Doug had said. But there’s some shouting and I can tell it’s coming from my house: Mum, Dad and Sophie. They’ve argued a lot lately, but this sounds bad. I can’t ignore it. I jog back and jump the steps onto the porch and let myself back in.

  ‘Who made you do this?’ Mum.

  ‘Stop! Please! I don’t want to talk about it!’ Sophie.

  ‘Tell us!’ Dad.

  They’re standing like the points of an isosceles triangle; my parents are the base, Sophie’s the apex. Mum and Dad are holding their phones. Sophie’s sobbing.

  ‘I’ll kill them!’ shouts Mum. Sophie shakes her head slowly and the sadness on her face cracks my heart.

  ‘Tell us!’ Dad roars.

  ‘Don’t shout at her, Mike!’

  ‘You’re bloody shouting at her, Julie!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I go to put my hand on Sophie’s shoulder, but she moves away. ‘Mum?’

  ‘You
r sister’s got herself on a disgusting web page of girls,’ says Dad.

  ‘Stop saying it like that!’ shouts Mum.

  ‘Well, it’s the truth! Don’t you understand? This video is going to haunt her!’

  ‘What do you mean? What video?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t listen to your father,’ says Mum. ‘She’s in a singlet and shorts. It’s just that her expression and her pose is quite –’

  ‘Sluttish!’ Dad interjects, and Sophie cries harder.

  ‘Mum, let me see.’ Mum holds it out to me. It’s a clip of Sophie blowing a kiss that plays on a loop. Underneath the clip are reams of comments: what boys Sophie likes and what she’ll do, vile things about sex. She’s in primary school! ‘How did they get this? Soph?’

  ‘She sent it to them,’ says Mum.

  ‘I didn’t think it was for this, Milo,’ Sophie cries. ‘Someone asked me and I thought it was private.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ yells Dad, and Sophie flinches, partially covering her face with her hands.

  I’ve never seen Dad like this. I click on the account. There are over four hundred videos.

  Mum takes the phone out of my hands. ‘You don’t need to see any more. Everyone has to calm down. We’ve got to think about Sophie. What she’s feeling.’

  I feel disoriented. I feel sick. ‘Was it Ben?’

  ‘Ben Brearley?’ says Dad. ‘Surely you can’t think …?’ He looks from me to Sophie.

  Sophie shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t Ben.’

  All the blood has rushed to Dad’s face. ‘Sophie, how could you be so stupid?’

  ‘She’s not stupid, Dad,’ I shout.

  ‘Boys will be boys, Milo! It’s up to Sophie to be more careful.’

  But I’m a boy. And I’d never do this. Doesn’t he think I count?

  ‘Look at them all,’ Dad says, scrolling fast on his phone. ‘How many girls have let themselves be this vulnerable?’

  There’s a crash. Shards of a broken cup are scattered around Mum’s feet.

  ‘Sorry, kids. I didn’t mean to do that.’ She bends to pick up the pieces.

  We watch her; I don’t know why we all don’t help, but I’m trying to get my words in the right order.

  ‘There are four hundred videos on that account, Dad. It’s not really about how many girls are on it. It’s about how many boys thought they had a right to put them on there.’

  My blood’s pumping too fast. I go to the kitchen and rest my forehead against the cool chrome of the fridge door, gripping the handle as they continue to shout over each other. Dad can’t hear any of us. Why can’t he? He’s a good guy. He loves Sophie and Mum.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ says Sophie. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ Mum slides into a seat at the dining table. ‘We’ll inform the police, I suppose.’

  This isn’t like her. Something’s happened. She’s not being the Mum I know.

  Someone has to help my sister.

  Mum says she wants me to go to school, so I do, to keep the peace. It doesn’t really matter where I am as long as I have my laptop and wi-fi so I can do some digging.

  As soon as I reach the gates, school feels different. As if what I’m like inside today – this frenzy of feelings – isn’t only in me but in everyone. People are gathered in larger groups than usual. The volume is up. There’s a hyper-charge around the place. I spy Hari by herself and she seems like the safest person to talk to.

  ‘Is this still about Adie and the portraits?’ I ask.

  ‘Everyone’s talking about that app, Flare. Have you spoken to Wren? She won’t answer any of my messages.’

  ‘My sister’s on the app.’

  ‘Whoa, I thought your sister was like eleven or something.’

  ‘Nearly twelve.’

  ‘Oh God, Milo, I’m sorry. They’re scumbags.’

  ‘Wait, why isn’t Wren answering your messages? What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s on it, Milo. A video of her. She found out on Saturday night. Look, I’ve got to get to class – see you later, okay? … Milo, you good?’

  I just stare back at Hari until she gives up and leaves. This can’t be happening. Sophie and Wren. I can’t feel anything – I have to act.

  I walk towards the library, and when the librarian greets me by my name I keep going until I get to the most hidden chair, which is a place Wren showed me once. I try to keep my thinking in a narrow tunnel, focused, clean, nothing getting in from the outside. Like the time I shut out the noise when the snake was at Wren’s house. And the time I got Juliet away from Ben. Neither of those times made me feel like a hero, but both of those times it was my brain that came up with something good. That’s what I have to remember.

  I put on my headphones to make everything else go away, open my laptop and start to dig.

  Mum bursts through my door with such force that she whips up a small wind that sends the papers on my desk flying.

  ‘Come on, get up,’ she says.

  I turn onto my other side and pull the blanket higher over my shoulder.

  ‘I mean it, Wren. That’s enough.’

  ‘Enough what?’

  ‘Hiding. You’ve been in here for two days.’ She starts picking up clothes from the floor. ‘You haven’t eaten a proper meal, though I see your sister has been sneaking in a few snacks.’ I hear the rustle of the empty packet of Maltesers.

  ‘I don’t care. Go away.’

  Mum plonks herself down and drapes herself over me. The sudden closeness of her does something to me. My inner storm recedes and what’s left is too raw.

  ‘Wren, don’t let them do this to you.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘I know. But I also know that my daughter has dealt with far worse. And she’s strong – God, stronger than I realised until a few years ago, when it really mattered.’

  ‘I assume you mean your daughter Summer.’

  ‘I mean you, Wren. And stop fighting me – I’m on your side. And so’s Dad and Summer. And so would your brother be, if he were here.’

  ‘Don’t use Floyd to make me get out of bed. That’s a low move.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. We promised ourselves we’d live full, interesting lives after he’d gone. He’d have argued you out of this room yesterday and you know it.’

  At that I start to sob, loud and ugly, because she’s only gone and bloody entered my heart cavity and all I wanted was to shut everything out and live in my dark bedroom and be left alone. Mum holds me tight. Tears and snot make a horrible mess between my face and the pillow, but I keep going. And when I finally stop to breathe, and push myself up, Mum has a tissue waiting.

  ‘Gross, darling,’ she says, and we laugh a little – me with small, sore eyes, wiping the glob of mucus from my top lip.

  ‘I feel like –’ my breath shudders as I try to take a full one ‘– they got me. Not just those boys, but … something bigger than them. Like it’s a battle I always knew I was in, and they bloody got me, Mum. I thought I was smart.’

  ‘It’s not about that. You didn’t make a mistake. The power is only theirs if you give it to them. Take it back, Wren.’

  ‘Those are just words. I don’t know how to take it back.’ Mum uses another tissue to dab underneath my eyes. ‘Come with me.’

  Dad and Summer are on the sofa with their feet up and the dog sprawled underneath their legs. The TV is on low. They turn around and give me these awkward beginner smiles, like the ones little kids do for the camera.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ I ask my sister.

  ‘Mental health day.’

  ‘And why aren’t you at work, Dad?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Right. Whose mental health, exactly?’

  ‘Cup of tea, love?’ Dad says, getting up.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind.’ I shrug. I’m not smiling back. They both look absurd.

  ‘We’re going into my studio for a while,’ Mum says, guiding me by the shoulde
rs. ‘Are you ready for something a bit different?’ she whispers in my ear.

  ‘Always.’

  She pushes the door wide. There’s an enormous canvas at one end, covered in a dust sheet. I get a chill, thinking about Adie and her dad and the studio at the back of their house. I’ve hardly thought of her since Saturday. Where’s all that feeling gone?

  ‘Mum, please tell me that’s not a giant picture of me, because I really don’t think I could take it if it is.’

  ‘It isn’t you. Just wait. You’re the first person I’m showing.’ She goes over and lifts the sheet off one top corner and then the other.

  Holy crap. It’s my naked mother naked with no clothes, nude, undressed with nothing on, body parts everywhere.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s … big.’

  ‘Uh-huh, I guess. It’s not my usual style. But what do you think? I used those pens that your boss gave you. It’s taken so much longer than one of my paintings, but I love the detail.’ Mum walks up to the canvas and peers at her own naked self. I can hear in her voice that she’s excited about it. It’s bloody enormous! In the image, she’s kneeling, with her hands tightly gripping the tops of her thighs, her head bent and her thick hair hanging over her face, stopping short of her breasts. Breasts! I go nearer and see that it’s all drawn with the most intricate lines. The hands and hair are the most striking – strong fingers (I’d love to be able to draw hands like that) and hair like a waterfall.

  ‘I thought I’d enter it in the art show,’ she says. ‘You could enter your portrait.’

  I look at her in alarm. ‘My portrait of the girl?’

  ‘I know she’s the one in the papers. Poor thing.’

  ‘Adie.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Adie. Getting caught up in that. Put your portrait of her in the show and make them see they’re barking.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s true at all, then? Sometimes I can’t help wondering about the things that have gone wrong in this house since I did that drawing.’

  ‘No more than usual. Your dad’s always injuring himself. And this house is falling apart.’

  I feel reassured by that, at least. ‘Anyway, I left the portrait at school. Someone’s probably torn it down and stomped on it.’