‘No,’ says Idgie, picking up a fairy book from her bedside table.
‘Sure you do, Dad used to act it out. He made your My Little Pony toy zoom around the room.’
Idgie shrugs.
‘How can you not remember?’
‘Because I don’t,’ says Idgie, thrusting the fairy book at me. ‘Read this one.’
‘But Idge –’
‘Pleeeeease, Seb. I want fairies!’
I know when I’m beaten. I slip the encyclopedia back on the shelf, put on a high-pitched voice and begin the tale of Petal the fairy.
After Idgie’s asleep and Mum’s gone to bed, I lie under the covers, trying to remember when Dad last called. Was it six months ago? Seven? What about his last actual visit? I think it was at the start of the cricket season – not last year but the year before that … That’s over eighteen months ago – a long time for a six-year-old girl. Even so, I wish her memory was better. Now it’s down to me to remember him for both of us.
All of a sudden, I have an urgent need to hold Dad’s book. I get up extra quietly so I don’t wake anyone and sneak into Idgie’s room. Even though it’s dark, I can see her blonde hair spread out on the pillow, surrounding her head like the halo of an angel. But from her comes the loudest snore you can imagine: half fog horn, half freight train. I’m amazed she doesn’t wake herself up, but that’s Idgie – she’ll sleep through anything. Her doona’s slipped off so I cover her up and get Dad’s book.
As I’m heading back to my room, I notice a crack of light under Mum’s door. What’s she doing up? I nudge open her door and I almost drop Dad’s book. Standing in front of the wardrobe is Mum wearing Nan’s wedding dress. For a split second I think she and Dad are getting married at last. But when she catches sight of me in the mirror, the silly grin she’s wearing slides off her face and I realise my mistake. She’s not marrying Dad. She’s marrying Marshall!
It’s as if I’m in a lift that’s gone into freefall. Before Mum can say anything, I back away and run to my room. I slam the door and lean against it, completely winded. I don’t know how long I stand there clutching the book, but after a while, I become aware of chatter in my head like a hundred radio stations playing at once, and then the thoughts get louder, one thought grinding against the next. A surge of rage rises up within me and I want to smash everything in the room – anything to drown them out.
I fling Dad’s book on the ground and kick my bedside table. As it rocks back and forth, I kick it again, then chuck my sneakers against the wardrobe. Next, I grab the pillow and doona off my bed, hurl them on the floor then punch my mattress over and over till my fist goes numb. When I eventually run out of steam, I collapse on the bed, but wave after wave of anger continues to surge through me.
There’s a light tapping at my door.
‘Go away!’
Mum opens it anyway. She’s changed out of the wedding dress and into her PJs. ‘Seb, we need to talk.’
‘No.’
‘Seb.’
‘I said no!’
She comes in and glances around my trashed room. ‘I gather you’ve guessed Marshall and I are getting married.’
I turn my head away so she can’t see my face. There’s something wet on my cheeks but I am not crying. Sometimes, my body builds up excess moisture when I’m angry and it has to get out somehow. I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
‘I’m so sorry you found out this way,’ says Mum. ‘I was waiting for the right time to tell you.’
I sit up and glare at her. ‘What about Dad?’
She sighs deeply and sits on the end of my bed. ‘Your dad and I have been separated for two years, love. He’s not coming back.’ She reaches out to touch my arm but I pull away.
‘He is! And I can prove it.’ I get off my bed and rummage through my top dresser drawer. ‘Here!’ I thrust a postcard into her hands. ‘He sent it a few months ago.’
Mum takes the card and reads it.
Hey there, Sebbo,
Just wanted to say happy birthday, mate! Sorry I didn’t make it back. Got a job at the mine here in Roxby. A bloke can make a packet if he puts in the hard yards. We’ll be rich in no time! When I come home, the four of us can go on the mother of all spending sprees. How’s that sound?
Anyway, gotta run. Copper doesn’t mine itself. Look after yourself and take good care of your mum and little Idgie for me.
See you soon.
Love Dad
‘See?’ I say.
Mum wipes her eyes and passes the postcard back to me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look sadder. ‘Your dad makes a lot of promises, love. Unfortunately, he’s not so good at keeping them. I’m not saying he doesn’t love us. He does – very much. But sticking around’s not in him and, painful as that is, we have to accept it.’
‘No!’ I say, holding up the postcard. ‘You’re wrong!’
‘Sweetheart –’
‘Anyway, even if Dad wasn’t coming back – which he is – why would you want to marry a loser like Marshall?’
‘Seb!’
‘He is a loser! And he’s ancient!’
‘Forty-six is not that old.’
‘Well, he’s boring. All he does is rave on about the Korean War.’
‘He’s a military historian – what do you expect him to talk about? Anyway, he takes an interest in your things, too. He offered to take you to Armageddon, didn’t he?’
I roll my eyes in disgust. As if I’d be seen dead at a comics convention with Marshall.
‘He’s a good man, Seb. He’s kind to me and to you kids, even if you can’t see it. I love him and we’re getting married and the four of us are going to live together.’
‘You can live with him. I’m not. I refuse to be anywhere near him.’
‘You may not have a choice, love,’ says Mum gently. ‘Jackson’s mum texted a couple of hours ago. His sister’s sick so I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay with him while I’m away.’
‘So? I’ll stay with someone else – Oliver, or EJ, or next door at the Lams’ with Idgie.’
‘Actually,’ says Mum slowly, ‘I’ve asked Marshall to take you with him to Canberra tomorrow. I thought a few days together would give you two a chance to get to know each other. Start to bond a bit …’
I stare at her as her words eat into my skin like acid. Marshall and me. Together. In Canberra. Bonding.
FRIDAY MORNING, 15 APRIL
I wake up the next day barely able to move. It’s as if someone stuck a tube in my side in the middle of the night and siphoned off all my energy. And then I remember – Mum’s getting married. To Marshall, the man I’m supposed to ‘bond’ with for the next ten days. It’s just wrong.
I drag on my clothes – camo pants and a black hoodie – and hunt around for my sneakers. They’re on the floor next to Dad’s encyclopedia of myths. I pick it up and flip through it. Those gods and goddesses sure did take revenge on each other. Hera, Zeus’ wife, gets so annoyed with this guy that she makes him muck out a giant horse stable. I wouldn’t mind making Mum and Marshall muck out a stable. See how they like being told what to do. This fantasy cheers me up a little. Maybe I’ll take the book with me to Canberra. It’ll give me something to read so I won’t have to talk to Old Beardy Face.
As I head out of my room and down the corridor, I catch a glimpse of Mum’s camphor wood chest at the end of her bed. That’s where she keeps Nan’s wedding dress. A man’s voice filters up the stairs, followed by Mum’s laugh. So Marshall’s here already. Great. While they’re occupied in the kitchen, I slip inside and open the chest.
The wedding dress is in a white garment bag. When I unzip it, the petticoat makes a shushing sound. The gown is covered in lace and it’s got a veil as well. Mum would’ve looked beautiful in it. Next to Dad, that is.
Completely against my will, a bunch of pictures come into my mind: Mum walking down the aisle towards Marshall, Mum saying her vows to Marshall, Mum exchanging rings with Marshall. The images are li
ke bombs exploding in my head, blast after blast after blast. I squeeze my eyes shut but it makes no difference. Marshall’s pushed his way into my head and into our family, and Mum’s let him! I don’t understand how she could do this to us. As I hold the dress in my hands, the static in my head clears and I have a moment of perfect clarity.
Something has to be done. Something will be done. By me – before I think about it too much and lose my nerve. Which means it has to happen … Now.
FRIDAY EVENING, 15 APRIL
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: PS
Hi Dad,
Me again. I’m in Canberra now. Still really need to talk to you. It’s massively urgent. Mum’s getting married to Marshall and I don’t know what to do. Remember that extreme thing I told you about a few hours ago? Kind of wishing I hadn’t done it now. Promise you won’t get mad when I tell you what it was?
Okay. Here goes … I sort of kind of might have put Nan’s wedding dress in the wheelie bin. You’re not mad, are you? Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone. You and me are the only two who know.
Can I tell you something else? I felt good when I did it – hyped-up and powerful and stuff. But now I can’t stop thinking about how it’s a family heirloom and Mum loves it more than anything in the whole world (apart from Idgie, me and you, of course). If I wasn’t stuck here in Canberra, I’d go and rescue it out of the bin. Only I’m not, so I can’t. Lucky the normal bin was full so I put it in the recycling bin. That only gets collected once a fortnight so we should be back before the garbo comes. I’m pretty sure we will be. So that means everything will be okay, right?
Dad, why’s this happening? I don’t get it. I think Mum’s lost her mind. I mean, come on! Marshall drives a Volvo, Dad! A VOLVO! She’s obviously not in control of her faculties. The whole thing is Marshall’s fault. I hate him! I can’t spend another second with him.
Can you call me when you get this? I’ll leave my phone on all night. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow morning, I’ll assume I have to sort things out on my own.
Talk soon.
Love Seb
‘No revenge is more honourable
than the one not taken.’
– Spanish proverb
In a night of Bad Ideas, crossing the road to see who’s prowling around in the Paxtons’ place comes close to being my worst. But I’m here now, crouched behind their front fence, so I might as well see what there is to see, in case I need to provide a description to the police. I bob up to get a better look. Unfortunately, I do so at the exact same moment the intruder pulls back the curtain and peers out into the darkness. Our eyes lock. He has a beard and he’s wearing glasses and a brown cardigan. His hair is the same colour as his cardigan. Coincidence? Could his cardigan be made out of his own hair? Is he a burglar, or worse, a mass murderer? He doesn’t look like a mass murderer, but then what kind of person wears a cardigan made out of their own hair?
Even more bizarre is that the whole time we’ve been staring at each other, he hasn’t blinked once. There are two possible reasons for this:
he’s blinking at the exact same time as I’m blinking so I’m missing his blink, or
he has some kind of medical condition that prevents him from closing his eyes.
Either way, there’s something dodgy about him. The taste of cough syrup fills my mouth, which, for some bizarre reason, only ever happens when I sense danger (or when I drink cough syrup).
And then the unthinkable happens. Except that it’s not unthinkable – it’s entirely thinkable because I’m thinking it. He’s left the window. He’s opening the front door. He’s stepping onto the porch.
Move, legs, move! But it’s like they’ve been snap-frozen. As the intruder walks down the path, I finally defrost myself sufficiently to make a run for home. Stupid decision, of course. It’s only when I grab the handle of our front door that I remember it’s locked. I turn around to check where the man is. He’s crossing the road. He’s coming towards me! It’s too late! I’m cornered!
‘Help!’ I gasp, crouching against the door. Unfortunately, my throat is so tight that all that comes out is a hoarse rasping sound as if my mouth is full of dry Weetbix.
He’s halfway up the drive. He’s a few steps away. He’s reaching out. There’s something in his hand … It’s a gun!
It’s not a gun – it’s a mobile phone. I’m strangely disappointed. Turns out the man isn’t a mass murderer, either. He’s an old friend of Mum’s who’s house-sitting the Paxtons’ place for a few days. ‘Your mum’s out looking for you,’ he says. ‘She asked me to keep an eye out in case you turned up.’
‘Looking for me?’
‘Cass said she got a call saying you’d taken off from a party.’
‘Taken off!’ I stamp my feet to try and bring them back to life. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I did leave a note. Well, not an actual note … more of a mental note.’
Marshall holds out his mobile. ‘Better put her mind at ease, hey?’
My call to Mum is short, but only because she’s clearly saving her lecture for later. She tells me to stay with Marshall until she gets back so we head over to number six.
‘By the way,’ he says, searching in his pocket for his key. ‘There’s someone here with me. He’s about your age, I’d say. You’re what? Thirteen?’
I nod.
‘I’m going to be very busy conducting interviews for my research this week,’ he continues, ‘and since Sebastian hasn’t really got anyone to talk to, I was wondering – you can say no, of course – but I was wondering if you and Sebastian could spend some time together. It’d give him something else to do other than read that book of his twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Sure, why not?’ I reply. I know all about being new in town and not knowing a soul. ‘Is he your son?’
‘Stepson. At least, he will be when his mother and I get married. Ah, here it is!’ He inserts the key into the lock and we go inside.
I know the layout of this place even though I’ve only been here a couple of times. All the houses in our street are the same 1960s red brick design, built by the government for public servants. We walk into a corridor identical to ours except for the decorations. The Paxtons are more of an outdoorsy family, so their place has lots of pictures of mountains and rivers on the walls. We’re more ‘eclectic’, as Mum would say, what with all the exotic objects Mum bought when we lived overseas, Dad’s military paraphernalia and multiple examples of my ‘art’ (stuff I did when I was a little kid) that Mum insists on displaying in the lounge.
‘Seb,’ Marshall calls out, ‘we’ve got company.’
I’ve barely turned the corner of the living room when a dark-haired boy with a laptop under his arm dashes past us and up the stairs.
‘Don’t you want to meet Romola?’ asks Marshall.
All we get for a reply is the whump of a door slamming shut. Then, before I can say ‘What-why-when-how-who?’, Sebastian runs back down the stairs, grabs a book off the coffee table and runs back up again. It must be the book Marshall mentioned earlier. I manage to catch a glimpse of the cover as the boy dashes past. It looks an awful lot like the postcard I have stuck up on my bedroom wall. Coincidence? There’s no such thing as far as I’m concerned.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, whump! He’s back in his room.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ says Marshall, rubbing his beard. ‘He’s a good kid but he’s trouble. He’s going through a hard time at the moment – trying to figure out his place in the family now there’s another male around. I guess he’s wondering how he fits in.’
‘Bit of a misfit, eh? You’ve come to the right person. You’re talking to Miss Square Peg of the City of Round Hole. Say no more.’
Marshall smiles. ‘Thanks, Romola. Now, can I get you a hot chocolate?’
‘Yes, please.’
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to ponder his words. Did he say Seba
stian was ‘trouble’ or ‘troubled’? Because when you think about it, that little ‘d’ makes all the difference.
‘Well?’ says Mum, giving me her best secret-service stare. We’re back at our place, sitting opposite each other in the kitchen – Mum’s favourite location for information extraction. She might bake cupcakes for a living but Mum’s married to a member of the Australian Defence Force. She knows how to interrogate someone. ‘Why did you leave the party without telling anyone?’
I clear my throat and answer her as casually as I can. ‘I felt sick, that’s all.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t look sick.’
‘I’m better now – must’ve eaten too much cake.’
Mum holds her stare for a bit longer. The trick is not to break eye contact – a sure sign of deception.
‘You fitting in okay with the girls?’
‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’
She leans forward. ‘So no one’s being mean to you?’
‘No, Mum, you’re being paranoid. They’re coming to see me read the poem on ANZAC Day. Would they do that if they didn’t like me?’
I fail to mention that (a) Riley will not be coming, and (b) the only reason the others are attending is because our history teacher is making the whole class go. I push these thoughts away. All Mum needs to know is that I have friends, which I do. At least, I will – just as soon as I can talk to Riley and smooth things over.
‘If you really were sick,’ says Mum, narrowing her eyes, ‘why didn’t you tell Mrs Lewis? I would’ve picked you up.’
‘Didn’t want to cause a fuss.’
Mum lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘But you did cause a fuss, Romola.’
I feel bad for worrying her. I do. But if I tell her the truth, she’ll call Louise, my Defence Transition Mentor. Louise is employed by the government to help Defence kids like me settle in each time we begin a new school. If she’s called in, the school counsellor will be next and before you know it, they’ll set up a group mediation with my friends. If they weren’t going to kick me out of the group before, that would clinch it.
The Beginner's Guide to Revenge Page 2