Anonymity Jones

by James Roy

  But she wasn’t ready to understand just yet, and that simple knowledge was like an ache. Knowing what was coming, and that there was nothing at all she could do about it.

  And the string around the centre of the ball was beginning to come properly loose, revealing a glimpse of the ugly cork core.

  And still the changes kept coming, like a tide, and Anonymity was tied to a post in the mudflats. She longed to be more like a dinghy, lying on the mud, right way up, waiting for the tide to lift her up and float her free. She’d even have settled for being tethered by a long rope to a stilt-legged pier, so long as she could feel herself being buoyed clear of the crab-scratched, bubbling mud. But instead the tide was rising, and she was tied there, watching the water’s edge creeping closer and the mudflats shrinking.

  The Four Musketeers had really become two – Tina and Anonymity. Viera and Andi were drifting away. Love had found them, and they’d begun to spend afternoons and evenings and weekends at the houses of, in the cars of and around the friends of the boys who were now inseparable from them. Anonymity wanted to be happy for them. She tried. She really tried.

  Part of her problem was that, with the exception of one person, nobody at Anonymity’s school attracted her in the slightest. And that person wasn’t available.

  His name was Chris, and the problems he presented were threefold.

  First, he was quite a bit older than her.

  Second, he probably had a girlfriend already.

  And third, he was her art teacher.

  Chris Moffat could speak of surrealism, cubism, impressionism, dadaism, artists of passion and weakness and imagination and great torment, and every word was a dream. Even the great torment sounded less troubling when he spoke of it. He had a habit of popping the cap off a whiteboard marker as he spoke, and then he would click it back on with a press of his thumb, and the muscles and tendons in his square, artist’s hand would show themselves briefly, like a fleeting glimpse of a school of fish as it stirs the water.

  Anonymity wasn’t a gawper. She never sat in the front row with her chin in her hands. She sat in a regular kind of place, somewhere near the middle of the classroom, sometimes by a window. She never made Mr Moffat uncomfortable by asking him questions that were loaded with innuendo. For she preferred to tell no one of these feelings. No one but Sam, who would join her on the back step where she often sat, sitting beside her, and she would rub him at the top of his thick neck, and he’d lean against her, then lay his head in her lap, and she would speak of the art teacher, and his hands, and his voice that could speak of anything and make it sound wonderful.

  But apart from Sam, she said nothing of these feelings, not even to Tina, who took chemistry while she did art.

  But Tina knew, after she saw Anonymity’s face redden following a brief conversation with Chris Moffat in the corridor near the art room. He’d spotted the two of them passing the door and had called out. She’d stopped, turned, hesitated, and doubled back, and Tina had rolled her eyes and turned back as well.

  ‘Yes, Mr Moffat?’ Anonymity said.

  ‘Just give me a second,’ he replied, before scribbling something onto a piece of A4, which he folded twice and handed to Anonymity. ‘Could you give this to your sister?’ he said. ‘It’s an exhibition I think she’d like.’

  ‘She’s going to Europe soon.’

  ‘She is? Lucky thing. Tell her to give me a call – I’ll give her the names of a few galleries in London and Paris that she’d really enjoy. But make sure you give her that,’ he said, pointing at the page. ‘Tell her she should go see it before she heads off to the other side of the world.’

  ‘Sure.’ Anonymity folded the paper once more, and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt, before zipping the pocket shut. ‘Safe as can be.’

  ‘Safe as houses?’

  ‘As safe as that.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re the best.’

  She smiled and stammered something in reply before turning to leave. To do so, she had to push past Tina, who was standing motionless in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, by the way, have you given any thought to your major work?’ Mr Moffat asked.

  Anonymity stopped. ‘Oh. Not really. Not yet.’

  ‘Well, when you’re ready, or if you need any help or advice, make sure you come and see me.’

  ‘I will. Thanks,’ she said, ducking by Tina.

  ‘Bye, Mr Moffat,’ Tina replied, before following. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I definitely should have done art.’

  ‘Why? You’re crap at art.’

  ‘Why? I would have thought it was ... Oh, it is obvious! Look at your face!’

  ‘Technically impossible without a mirror. Anyway, what about it?’ Anonymity asked, even though she knew. She could already feel the heat rising past her jaw and cheeks and into her temples and forehead.

  Tina stopped, took Anonymity’s chin in her hand and looked her squarely in the face. ‘You know, what you have, my girl, is a crush.’

  Anonymity twisted free. ‘Incorrect.’

  ‘No, not incorrect. Correct. Totally and utterly correct!’

  There seemed little point in denying it, so she started walking once more. ‘I’ve got to get going – I’m late for English, and you’ve got...’

  ‘English. With you.’

  She was babysitting for the McGeorges that evening, and they were already waiting inside the front door when Raven dropped her off.

  ‘You’re here,’ Mrs McGeorge said, making something of a production out of glancing at her watch as she picked up her clutch purse.

  ‘You look nice,’ Anonymity said. ‘So, what’s happening tonight?’

  ‘Carl’s sister’s birthday,’ she replied. ‘And we’re going to be late if we don’t leave right now.’

  Her husband gave Anonymity a tight-lipped, apologetic smile. ‘It’s a bit of a drive. But we shouldn’t be home too late. It’s a school night for you, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s fine,’ Anonymity answered, patting her laptop bag. ‘I’ve got work I can be doing, so don’t hurry back.’

  ‘The twins are in the family room watching a DVD,’ Mrs McGeorge said. ‘They’ve had dinner, and I’ve told them they can watch two episodes, then they have to go to bed.’

  Anonymity nodded. ‘No worries. Have a good night.’

  The twins seemed convinced that their mother had told them they could watch rather more than two episodes. Jamie claimed the figure was eight, and Hughie said no, the actual figure was five hundred and twenty seventeen, which was heaps more than eight. Jamie, thinking fast, agreed that yes, he remembered now – it was, in fact, five hundred and twenty seventeen.

  Anonymity held firm. ‘Two,’ she said, holding up two fingers. ‘That many. Then it’s bedtime. And I want you to have a glass of water before you go to bed.’

  ‘Jamie will wet his bed if he has a drink,’ Hughie said.

  ‘Yes, and if I don’t let you have one, you’ll both be in and out of your bedroom telling me that you’re thirsty.’

  Hughie pouted, but Jamie just came over all thoughtful, with his finger on his chin. ‘Um ... how about if–’

  ‘Two episodes, a glass of water and bed,’ Anonymity said.

  Later, after the boys had finally settled down, Anonymity made herself a hot chocolate and called Tina, just to chat. The conversation soon turned to Chris Moffat. It was Tina who brought it up.

  ‘Listen to you! Anyone would think you were the one with the crush,’ Anonymity said.

  ‘No, girl, that’s all you,’ Tina replied. ‘God, you should have seen your face! And heard yourself! You could barely speak.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. I don’t have a crush. And even if I did, so what? You’ve never had a thing for a teacher?’

  ‘Not since Mr Huntley, and that was in Year Three. Which is different, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Oh, please! For a start, you don’t stuff your bra with tissu
es anymore.’

  ‘That was one time!’ Anonymity protested, and Tina laughed.

  ‘Look, my “thing” for Mr Huntley was pre-boobs. Pre-puberty, if you will–’

  ‘Pre-booberty!’ Anonymity interrupted, proud of her joke.

  ‘Nice. Yes, before the surge in the hormone oestradiol – an oestrogen – which occurs on average at around the age of twelve and a half.’

  ‘Biology?’

  ‘Yup. Got a test tomorrow. But it’s timely, don’t you think? Me studying puberty, and meanwhile you’re having a–’

  ‘Tell me, will your biology test cover delusion? In particular, the delusion that a friend might be getting a serious case of the hots for a teacher? Who is, I’d like to remind you, kind of old.’

  Tina chuckled. ‘First, if that’s true, that makes your crush on him even creepier. And second, since he’s not actually very old at all – which I think you know – that’s creepy because it makes some sense.’

  ‘You’re talking bullshit anyway,’ Anonymity said. ‘How could I have a crush on a teacher?’

  ‘Even one who looks like Chris Moffat?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Anonymity said. It was a fair point.

  ***

  Dr McGeorge drove her home, apologising that it was so late.

  Anonymity glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just after midnight. ‘It’s not that late,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a school night, though, so I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know, but ... Anyway, did you have a good night?’

  ‘We did,’ he replied, smiling. ‘My baby sister turned thirty today.’

  ‘Thirty. Wow.’

  ‘Yeah. Old, huh?’

  ‘I guess. Well, maybe not. No, not really. I don’t know,’ she admitted at last.

  ‘It’s really not that old,’ he said. ‘Age is relative.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘What you want to do, and how motivated you are to do it.’ He pulled up at the front of her house. ‘There we go, safe and sound,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did Sophia pay you already?’

  Anonymity shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry about that.’ He reached up and turned on the cabin light. Then, leaning forward, he took his wallet from the glovebox and removed a couple of notes. ‘Because it was so late,’ he said, holding them out.

  ‘Are you sure? That’s quite a bit more than–’

  ‘Of course. You do a good job, and the boys rave about you.’ Jokingly, he withdrew the money. ‘Wait – that’s not because you let them eat ice-cream in bed, is it?’

  ‘Oh yes, Dr McGeorge. Chocolate is their favourite, with artificially coloured topping. And sprinkles.’

  ‘All right then.’ He handed her the cash. ‘So long as we’re clear. How close are you to owning that flash new camera you’re saving for, anyway?’

  ‘Close. Quite a bit closer now.’ She held up the money. ‘So, no chance you’ve got any other sisters turning thirty soon?’

  Raven’s plans for desertion were now fully hatched, and Anonymity began to accept the inevitability of her sister’s leaving. She considered sabotage and other dramatic measures. But in the end she chose to say nothing and to live with the heaviness that wrapped itself round her shoulders whenever she passed Raven’s room and saw the new backpack leaning against the wardrobe door and the small piles of essentials on the carpet, the still-packaged toothbrush and toothpaste, the guidebooks and the new camera – a simple point-and-shoot affair – sitting in the top of its open box. She said nothing because she wanted Raven to do what she needed to do, and what kind of sister begs? Sisters support. It’s what they do. And she would support.

  Her resolve bent once or twice but finally fractured and cracked when she and her sister arrived home one afternoon a week before Raven was due to fly out. Raven had picked her up from school and they’d stopped for coffee on the way home. They’d sat in the small café, near the door, and chuckled at the man who misjudged the front step on account of reading his newspaper while he walked. They empathised with the woman behind the counter who took issue with a rude customer. They made small talk, and Anonymity flicked the little paper tube of sugar between the fingers of her left hand until Raven reached out and took it from her, slipping it back into the glass with all the others. Then she widened her eyes, as if to ask what was wrong.

  Anonymity sighed. ‘How long are you going for?’

  Raven smiled. ‘We’ve been over this. I don’t know. I might not know for months. I’m just taking it as it comes.’

  ‘Will you call me?’

  ‘Of course! And I’ll have email, Netbook, all that stuff.’

  ‘It’s going to be lonely.’

  ‘You’ll have Mum. And Sam.’

  Anonymity rolled her eyes. ‘Mum’s got John.’

  ‘John.’ It was a statement, almost like a curse. ‘I give it another month with that spiv.’

  ‘Fantastic. So then I’ll have to deal with a miserable mother all over again. But you won’t.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Raven said. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  But for now, Anonymity had her doubts, and as they turned the corner into their street and saw John’s American monstrosity nosed all the way into the double garage beside their mother’s car, she began to develop a suspicious understanding of what spiv might actually mean.

  John was moving in. It was clear. Anonymity could tell without having to see his clothes in the laundry basket. She didn’t need to see his muddy shoes at the back door or his toenail clippers on the coffee table or any of the other many signs she would begin to see over the coming weeks. She could tell because on this, his car’s first afternoon in the garage, he was comfortably busy in the kitchen, with a tray of marinating chicken and a plate of chopped vegetables laid out beside the wok, which smoked on the hob. Neil Diamond was on the stereo, singing about someone called Cherry, while John hummed along. He was such a cliché.

  John looked up as the girls came in. ‘I’m making dinner for everyone,’ he announced, rather proudly.

  ‘That’s fan- tas-tic,’ said Raven. ‘I’ll be in my room.’

  ‘Do you like Asian food?’ he asked Anonymity, tossing the meat into the wok and stirring it briskly.

  Anonymity slid onto the stool at the kitchen bench. ‘Well, I’m allergic to peanuts, so...’

  The stirring slowed. ‘You are? How allergic?’

  She gripped her throat with both hands and crossed her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and picking up the empty marinade bottle he read the label.

  ‘I’m pretty sure satay does have peanuts in it,’ Anonymity told him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it does.’ He turned off the flame, wiped his hands and picked up his keys. ‘Your mum’s bringing in the washing – tell her I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Later, when he’d returned with a single chicken breast which he cooked up separately for Anonymity, they all sat down to eat. John smiled around at them all and took Corinne’s hand. ‘Well, I hope it’s OK,’ he said. ‘I had to stop cooking the satay part-way through so I could go and buy some more chicken.’

  Corinne frowned at him.

  ‘Because of the allergy,’ he explained. Then he shook his head and gave her a wry smile, as if to ask, ‘How could you not know about your daughter’s life-threatening anaphylactic condition?’

  ‘My peanut allergy,’ Anonymity added helpfully.

  ‘Your peanut allergy?’

  ‘Her peanut allergy,’ said Raven, and she winked at Anonymity. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Yes, rather,’ Corinne said, and after squeezing John’s hand and smiling at him she cast Anonymity that dark, terrifying glare that only a deeply disappointed mother can summon.

  Yes, her mother was disappointed. Not only did she show it with her glare but she said it, clearly and directly, after dinner, while John was in the shower. ‘What you did to John was unforgivable. Making up a peanut allergy?’

 
; ‘I don’t even like peanuts.’

  ‘So what? Remind me, how old are you?’

  ‘I was just having a bit of fun.’ She chuckled, then straightened her face as she saw that her mother wasn’t finding it quite as funny. ‘But, of course, it wasn’t fun at all.’

  Corinne shook her head. ‘No, it went quite some way beyond fun. John made a special trip to get you a special meal, which you didn’t even need. Which was very good of him. He didn’t have to do that. He could have just opened a can of baked beans or fried you an egg. Or are you suddenly allergic to eggs as well?’

  Anonymity exhaled elaborately. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Like you mean it.’

  ‘Fine. I’m sorry, Mum. But seriously, I don’t like him. He tries too hard.’

  ‘Isn’t that better than not trying hard enough? Or at all?’

  ‘Do you love me, Mum?’

  ‘You know that I do. What a question!’

  ‘Then don’t do it.’

  ‘Don’t do what?’

  ‘What you’re thinking about doing.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  But they both knew precisely what Anonymity was talking about, because a week later, five days before Raven was due to board a flight to London via Bangkok, it happened. John’s shaver appeared in the bathroom cupboard, and his special shampoo found its way into the shower. And Raven’s car, which she’d hoped to sell before she left, was relegated to being parked on the front lawn, because John’s red Chevrolet Impala now had a permanent home in the garage.

  Three days later they held a pool party, where those of Raven’s friends who weren’t already overseas or interstate on their gap year came around. The music was so loud that one of the speakers developed a buzz that never went away. Sometime during the evening, Raven was thrown into the pool. A number of boys got too drunk and were asked by Corinne to leave before she called their parents. There were no gate-crashers, and they ran out of chips but had plenty of dip left, so Anonymity and the Musketeers did a chip run through the lamp-lit streets to the nearest servo, reunited for the moment as they ducked under the branches that hung low over the footpath, and squealed too loudly at the spider webs that occasionally engulfed their faces. It seemed to Anonymity to be a very good party. Not perfect, but good.