by Tiffiny Hall
‘He’s okay now, right?’ I whisper.
Jackson butters a bread roll with careful strokes. He takes a long sip of water and swallows whatever feelings had come up. Then he smiles his dazzling smile. ‘He’s grand. Now. The bone marrow transplant really helped. But it’s been five years.’
I shift in my seat. The backs of my legs sweat into my jeans. ‘What’s a bone marrow transplant? Sorry, Jacko,’ I apologise, feeling stupid. ‘I’ve never met someone with cancer before.’
‘Bone marrow is the soft tissue inside your bones. The doctors took out my bone marrow and put it in my brother, replacing his damaged tissue.’
‘Did it hurt?’ I gulp.
‘It was noth’n. Couldn’t hurt as much as if I’d lost Morgan.’ Jackson’s eyes are still. The word ‘lost’ burns inside my chest. Jackson is the ultimate protector, my knight in shining armour, but I never realised what made him so protective. He knows loss. He knows deep in his bones that lost love is the worst pain in the world. All the fighting and battling we do in Lanternwood can’t compare to the real fight that those cancer kids put up. I touch the pendant around my neck and feel the tiny grooves of the tiger’s eyes. Sensing me drift away, Jackson reaches for my hand. ‘We’ll find Cinnamon,’ he says.
Jackson tucks into a slice of pizza and when he looks up, it’s my turn. My eyes are slick and the sharp pea of dread that was lodged in my throat now chokes me. I can’t pack my fear under the table. I promised I would never cry in front of anyone, especially not a boy, but the tears balance on my lids like expert divers and when he squeezes my shoulder, I blink and they somersault down my cheeks. I think about unleashing my powers in Lecky’s room, Cinnamon missing, school closing, the weirdness at night and Mum’s reticence about my father and my nightmare. The same sun, as long as a sword, burns into my dreams every night. Then Morgan, he fought a real battle surrounded by people who loved him. Am I fighting for nothing, trying to find a father who doesn’t want to find me?
Jackson stands up and swings his chair next to mine so he can hold me. I sob into his shoulder.
‘I have this nightmare. Every night. I don’t know what it means, but I’m afraid to go to sleep. Something really strange is happening, and I don’t know how to help.’ My tears dry up as suddenly as they spurted. I sniff, wipe my cheeks with my palms and clear my throat as the waiter swans over and offers us the dessert menu, a clash of syllables I don’t even hear. It must be the lack of sleep. Tiredness and wrestling with my dream all day is making me emotional. It’s like a mosquito in my ear, relentless.
‘What’s in the dream?’ Jackson asks.
‘There’re blue stars, and a gold log that’s on fire, like a sun —’
‘Two banana splits, don’t hold back on the icecream,’ Jackson says as the waiter returns. ‘And …’ he prompts me.
‘Flapping like a bird. A big bird, maybe an eagle or something. Something so big it feels like the sky tears apart every time it moves.’
Jackson doesn’t say much about my unravelling, but I catch him studying my birthday pendant. ‘We’ll find Cinnamon, don’t worry. The Emishi ninja clan is on board. You’ll sleep better tonight with some dessert in you,’ he says, smiling as it arrives.
I clink spoons with him in a ‘cheers’ salute. I try to eat the ice-cream, but I struggle. My dread still chokes me.
My first thought is, maybe my sudden flush of emotion at Cinnamon’s disappearance has something to do with my dream.
My next thought is, I don’t think I’m dreaming.
ELEVEN
Fairy lights sparkle in the distance, there’s a red sea beneath and my fingers cramp around a weight on my hand. Another explosion above and a pink sheet sails past me. I look across at my feet curled around a bar, ankles crossed, toes clawed. A voice smacks me: ‘Roxy, let me go!’
Monday morning. I wake hyperventilating, the dream still reverberating through me, a gong, or more like a seizure. I try to have a normal morning, but the voice calls out to me every moment, in every thought: ‘Roxy, let me go!’
I’m happy to find Elecktra leaning towards the bathroom mirror to apply her make-up after lunch. She’s creating a smoky eye with no hands. The tiny brushes set to work overtime while her hands file her nails. She smiles at me. Finally it’s the school dance tonight. Classes return to normal next week, but Lecky persuaded Mr Cheatley to still have our dance as planned. I can’t believe she is already getting ready at 1pm.
‘I was going to go with a Eurovision party theme tonight,’ Elecktra says into the mirror, ‘and give each guest a different country. They could bring a plate of food and a decoration from their nation. There would be a singing competition, you know.’
I don’t like that idea. I’ve only seen a bit of Eurovision; it looked like a pout-off in tight pants.
‘Sergeant Major wasn’t keen and he’s on the party-planning committee,’ she continues. ‘Quite an eye for decoration, actually. He did most of the colour coordinating.’
I can’t imagine Sergeant Major majoring in anything apart from camouflage and black. ‘Have you seen Sergeant Major recently?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, we were setting up yesterday. Why?’
I must have been dreaming that he was there that night at school when Mum was trying to make the bonfire. But the etched horror in his face is so vivid. I can still see his writhing muscles exploding as he ran for his life. I shrug away the image and ask Lecky what other themes she had in mind, to distract myself.
‘Amazement,’ she says, tightening her chin so the lip-gloss wand can stroke gloss on her taut lips, again without the assistance of her hands. ‘I was going to build a maze out of boxes and have everyone try to find their way to the dance floor.’
‘Not very social,’ I say.
‘I know. Then I was thinking “Just been shipwrecked” and everyone comes looking like they were just shipwrecked in rags and tatters. We could drink from coconuts,’ she suggests.
‘The venue isn’t exactly an island paradise,’ I say.
‘I know, so in the end, Sergeant Major and I went with a classy vibe. School colours silver and blue, fairy lights and lanterns. Sidekicks, the best band in Lanternwood, will be rocking it and parents are pitching in with nibbles. It will be a classic daggy dance we’ll never forget. No gimmicks.’
I can’t wait to go to the dance. I see my cheek against Jackson’s lapel as we gently slow dance on the dance floor. It will be my first social with Jackson and the thought of dancing with him makes me rocket with happiness. I instantly feel guilty. I shouldn’t be so excited about anything while Cinnamon is missing. A lump the size of a mango seed lodges in my throat. As if hearing me choke, Lecky asks, ‘Have you heard from Cinnamon?’
My chest clamps. She has been missing for two days now. She’s been added to the long list of Lanternwoodians who have disappeared and the police are flat out. Jackson and I have searched everywhere, but other than the lock of her hair, we have found no trace of her. This dance is the first time I’ll be doing anything at school without Cim. It breaks my heart she’ll miss out and won’t be able to wear that beautiful new dress.
‘I heard they’re talking about some kinda curfew,’ Elecktra says.
There’s a knock at the door and Art pops his head into the room. ‘Ready?’ he asks.
Elecktra and I wave him in. Lecky takes a seat on the edge of the bath, drapes a towel over her lap and spreads her fingers. Art sets down a lavender make-up case next to the basin, unzips the top flap and opens it up. He only brings out Mum’s case of polishes for very special occasions. Inside is a forest of colours, nail-polish bottles lined up in rows from pastels through to neons. Art considers himself a bit of a nail artist as well. He loves that Lecky is into it. He’ll add jewels and flowers and paint butterflies in the corners. It sure takes a long time, but as Lecky always says, ‘It is easy to be beautiful, but difficult to appear so.’ I can’t help but think how useless the most beautiful things are in the world, like peacocks, ro
ses and rainbows.
‘Red, hey?’ Art asks Lecky. She sparkles her fingers excitedly. ‘How about …’ He holds the bottles up to the light as he sifts through the colours. ‘How about we go with Happy Snap, Slick Brick, Jam ’n’ Roses and …’ He carefully considers two bottles side by side. ‘What do you think, Recessionista or Long Stemmed Roses?’ His favourite thing to do is to paint each nail a different shade of the same colour.
‘They all look red to me,’ I say. They both roll their eyes at me.
Elecktra studies the bottles as if they contain a cure for cancer. ‘Long Stemmed Roses,’ she says, nodding emphatically.
One hour later, I look down at my gold nails. I went with Have You Seen My Chauffeur? over a nude colour called Creamillionaire and a dark blue called Beach Bum. Art has painted tiny red hearts in the corners.
He leaves us to finish primping with a kiss on the cheek each. ‘LOL,’ he says as he passes through the door.
‘LOL does not mean Lots Of Love,’ I call.
‘LOL I’ll drive you there at six,’ he calls back. ‘I have a little something to take care of downstairs first.’
‘Thanks a billion, Arty.’ Elecktra waves her red nails after him, then blows on them to make sure they are dry. She continues her conversation with herself without taking a breath. ‘I mean, he texts and Facebooks. I said, “Communicate properly! At least have the decency to ask me out face to face on Skype.”’
I still have never met anyone like Elecktra who talks with such intensity that her face is physically transformed as if she were performing a pantomime.
Her one-sided conversation seems to have stopped, as she studies me like a map, then narrows her eyes. ‘Your turn,’ she says.
I roll my eyes at her seriousness. There’s nothing Elecktra likes more than a makeover.
‘No pirate chic this time,’ I say. ‘Promise!’
She sits me down on the edge of the bath and tells me to close my eyes. I do so slowly, then feel tiny tickles all over my face.
‘Relax your face or the make-up won’t smooth on properly,’ she says. I smile.
While the make-up brushes apply the make-up, Lecky steps into the bath to do my hair. I feel her hands massage into my scalp, then my hair tightens and pulls my eyebrows back as she turbans it up into a top knot. I feel a stab as two chopsticks slide through the bun to secure my long hair.
‘We’ll both go a bit oriental,’ she says. ‘Mum will like that.’
I stare at myself in Lecky’s tall bedroom mirror. She bought me a black silk kimono dress with a red sash. The dress sits above my knee and I love the way it hangs on my body, making me look like I have some curves. The dress is lined with gold and where the material gathers, you see glints of sparkle. I feel beautiful and grown-up. Lecky slides onto my feet a pair of kitten-heel sandals.
‘I’ve never worn my hair up like this. And the make-up!’ I say, leaning in to my reflection.
Elecktra is in a kimono, but her dress is a full-length gown. It wraps around her body in a fitted cream corset with a blood-red sash, and the skirt part falls in voluptuous folds of chilli-red and vanilla material down to the floor. Across the sash and flying through the skirt folds of silk are tiny emerald dragons. Her hair is seamlessly spun up into a loose bun and she has the same smoky eyes as me with a fiery lip.
‘Do I look coolies?’ she asks, turning for me. The green dragons shimmer. My dream rolls in like the cloud we’re learning about in geography, a cumulonimbus, eclipsing all my other blinking thoughts. I feel the hair move across my face and recall the strange sun, pointing at me like a finger. The voice calls to me: ‘Roxy, let me go!’
‘Like my dragons?’ Lecky prompts.
I nod, still transported in my dream.
‘You can’t let some evil historical dragons ruin it for the rest of them. These are friendly,’ she says. That’s what I love about my sister; she’s eternally optimistic. So popular, she is even friends with dragons.
‘You did good, sis,’ I say, raising a shoulder and pulling a model pose.
‘I think Jackson will love it,’ Lecky says. ‘You look like a Japanese princess.’
‘Well, I like it, and that’s all that counts.’ But the truth is I can’t wait to see Jackson and to show him how grown-up I look. ‘Getting ready is the fun part.’
‘I know! It takes me just as long to choose my Getting Ready Outfit as it does to get dressed for the event. Then you have to select the right Getting Ready Music and Getting Ready Scent,’ she says.
Didn’t know it was that complex, but I’m stoked to be part of the whole Getting Ready experience for once. This is the first dress I’ve ever worn and it feels magnificent.
It’s pitch black as Mum walks us downstairs to say goodbye. All the lights have been turned off and there are blank paint canvases on the windowsills to cover the windows. As the rain falls behind them, chains of shadow drip down their surfaces. Candles light a walkway from the stairs to the green swampy rug in the living room. Mum looks down at me, confused. I shrug. Elecktra smiles her secretive smile and pulls my arm back so Mum can walk ahead.
Mum creeps down the candlelit path on her tiptoes to the living-room rug. In the centre of the rug is a painting on an easel. Elecktra and I shuffle down the walkway to stand just behind Mum so we can take a closer look. The painting is beautiful. A woman in a pair of black satin pyjamas has her arms above her head, her blonde hair frozen in sticks pointing to the ceiling, her feet tucked under her in a celebratory leap. A man kneels in front of her on one knee, holding a ruby leather box between his fingers. Something flickers on the canvas in the candlelight. Mum bends down to study the painting more closely in her black satin pyjamas. I squint. Something sparkles, threaded into the canvas, sitting on the painted cushion inside the box. Elecktra pinches me.
Mum reaches out and unhooks the sparkle from the painting and brings it down between us to inspect. I gasp. A diamond ring. Our smiles light the room as my nervousness about the dance evaporates. The diamond is in the shape of a tear drop. Mum holds the ring towards the light and it throws glitter onto the walls. Art steps out from behind the easel and bends down on one knee. Mum’s breath hitches. She is frozen holding the ring in the air, a star at her fingertips.
Art takes Mum’s hand. ‘Akita, I love our family. You and the girls are my whole life.’ I can feel his voice strangle with nerves, but he does a great job of disguising it. ‘I’ll never stop asking. It’s been a while because I was too scared that if this wasn’t perfect, you would kick my butt.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off her.
Mum’s laugh tinkles. Elecktra looks at me and crosses her fingers. I cross my fingers behind my back too. This isn’t the first time we’ve been through this.
‘Akita,’ Art says. ‘Will you marry me?’
Mum looks down at him and brushes a hand through his hair lovingly. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve told you. I’m not the marrying kind.’
I swallow my lips, blood creeps into my cheeks. I glance away from Art, feeling the heat steam up his neck and into his face. He looks really devastated.
Mum hands him back the diamond ring. Art slips it into his pocket and leaves us to stare at the canvas of the woman celebrating. That woman will never be my mother.
Elecktra sighs. ‘I really thought it would work this time,’ she whispers.
TWELVE
I hide beside the shed, peering into the dance through a tiny hole in the wall. With the school entrance still being fixed, the dance had to be moved from the auditorium on campus to the large shed at the horse stables where Cinnamon keeps Elf. To Elecktra’s credit, she’s really pulled it off. The shed looks spectacular. She had it painted electric blue and decorated with fairy lights by her minions in Year Eight. A building so bright it screams into the darkness, a bit like Lecky. The dance has a rustic feel to it, and the fairy lights combined with wooden benches and bowls of pine cones make it feel like a cabin in the woods, not a shed in a paddock. There is a big TV screen over
the stage with fake flames burning blue. The navy and silver balloons spin like mirror balls in the flashing fairy lights. The dance floor is already full of girls teetering on skyscraper heels and boys looking awkwardly overdressed.
Sergeant Major fiddles with a bouquet of silver baubles that he is fastening to blue satin ribbons by the stage. He looks fine, but it’s really strange to see him in a suit — less SAS and more CIA. I must have imagined the worst the other night because there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with him now. Except it looks like his hair has grown, spikey all over, and he moves different, softer, less stompy. He walks over to the food table and rearranges something under a plate. ‘This doily is not cooperating,’ he says in his gruff voice. I giggle hearing him speak the word ‘doily’.
The band Sidekicks begins its first song, lots of guitar and keyboard. Chester Ng is the lead singer. Hero always teased Chester, before he became cool. Hero said ‘Chester’ was a guinea pig’s name, not a boy’s, but I like it and I like Chester. He’s Gate Two, but since he’s been rocking out with Sidekicks he’s been allowed to eat lunch on Gate One turf. For a kid who used to play the triangle, he’s really moving up in the world. He invented this game called Mystery Lunchbox Karaoke, where you sing a song while you put your hand in a mystery lunchbox full of gross stuff. Gate Ones thought it was sooo cool. Chester’s dad works at the fish markets, so Chantell had to sing her favourite song, ‘Barbie Girl’, with her hand in a lunchbox filled with fish heads while blindfolded. She sang the whole song. There’s no way I could have stomached that.
My heart aches into its roots as I watch boys asking girls to dance and groups of kids laughing and eating Mum’s pita pizzas and ninja meringues. ‘You’re outside, where you belong,’ Old Roxy snipes. Good try, I think. She can still get the better of me occasionally, but at least now I’ve learned a move or two in confidence and I can silence her evil voice. Eventually.