The Nest

by Paul Jennings

  ‘Well, I don’t speak to her either.’

  ‘Why not?’ she persists.

  ‘A misunderstanding. Forget it.’

  ‘Don’t you miss her?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘I’ll hang out with you if you like,’ she says.

  I’m surprised. It’s always been her and Ryan. But on the other hand, she has seemed to stare at me a lot lately. I search around for a reply but the coffees arrive and save me the trouble.

  ‘You can be my slave,’ she continues once we’re alone again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’ll be fun.’

  I just stare at her, trying not to look astonished.

  ‘You can sit with me on the bus after school and then carry my bag back here when we arrive and we’ll have coffee together.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I think she’s making fun of me.

  She laughs and stirs her latte. It’s almost a childish laugh, as if she’s been given a toy.

  ‘What about Ryan?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not talking to him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She throws my words back at me, mockingly. ‘Oh, it’s just one of those things. You know how it is.’

  ‘Right,’ I say and then add, ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I used to, but he’s started to annoy me. He’s getting on my nerves. He’s such a child. Gets upset about nothing.’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, but she just gives me a look that says ‘don’t go there’.

  She’s even weirder than I thought. Be her slave? I’m slave enough already, thanks very much. The old man – hey, stop thinking about him. Being a slave to a sexy girl might be something else altogether.

  Right at that moment I see Charlie glide down the slope outside. She has perfect balance on her skis. God, she’s lovely, but she doesn’t care about me – she just took the money and ran.

  ‘Well,’ says Verushka. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ I say, stalling for time. It’s a big step to hang out with Verushka.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she says getting up and leaving her mudcake untouched on the table.

  I watch her walk unhurriedly across the café and leave. She’s a strange girl all right.

  The woman who owns the Polar Bare nightclub is supposed to be Verushka’s guardian while her parents are overseas but as far as I can make out there’s not much guarding going on. Verushka has moved into the youth hostel and seems to do whatever she pleases. Behind those half-closed eyes there’s danger and adventure and who knows what?

  I make up my mind.

  I’ll do it.

  On Monday I wait for Verushka at the bus stop in the dark of the winter morning. Soon the bus will come to take us down the mountain with the scattering of other kids who live on the ski slope. Most of their parents work on the tows or in the cafés or the ski-hire shops or other businesses in the village.

  Verushka appears out of the mist and glides slowly towards me. I open my mouth to speak but she hands me her pack without a word and climbs into the bus. I pass Charlie as we make our way along the aisle but she doesn’t even look up.

  After school I wait by the bus for the return trip. Verushka makes for where I’m standing and hands over her backpack. She sleeps all the way home, and in the Candleglow confides that she hates it here in the mountains. Because I’m the one with the part-time job I pay for our coffees. She tells me that on Saturday nights she often goes to the Polar Bare. She’s a year older than me but she’s still not really old enough for nightclubs. She gets in because she mixes with the ski instructors and knows the guys on the door as well as the owner who obviously turns a blind eye.

  I’ve never known anyone like Verushka. People probably think she’s my girlfriend when they see us sitting together but she makes it clear I’m not.

  ‘It’s just platonic, Robin,’ she says.

  I wish it was more than platonic but it’s better than nothing. We say goodbye at the café and I don’t get to go to her place.

  This becomes our daily ritual. One day, after about a week, Verushka is especially animated as we board the morning bus. ‘This is the last time I make this lousy trip to school,’ she says gleefully.

  My heart sinks. ‘How come?’

  ‘Wait till we sit down.’

  We go to our usual spot and she gives me the news. ‘I’ve got a job at the Polar Bare. Behind the bar.’

  ‘You can’t have. It’s illegal. You’re not eighteen yet!’

  She gives me a wink and taps the side of her nose with one finger. ‘Don’t look so miserable, dummy,’ she says. ‘You can still meet me – after art class. I’ll be getting Wednesdays off so I’ll be going to town for shopping and then the class in the evening. You can meet me after school and then work in the library while I’m at class. We’ll catch the late bus back up the mountain.’

  ‘Doesn’t Ryan go to art classes?’

  ‘So?’ She gives me another one of those ‘don’t go there’ looks.

  For the next couple of weeks, on Wednesday nights, I meet Verushka before and after art class. The old man kicked up about me catching the late bus back but when I told him I was staying to work in the library he let it go. Verushka and I hang out together after school, then I catch up with homework while I wait to pick her up at eight o’clock. If Ryan sees me on his way out of class, he just scowls and looks the other way. On the bus home, Verushka and I talk about all sorts of things including her plans to own her own nightclub one day. She’s also interested in my stories and has read a couple. She says I’ve got talent and this makes me blush.

  One Wednesday after school I can see she has something to tell me. She often gets a cheeky expression when something quite trivial has taken her interest. It’s sort of cute – I think. I wonder what it is this time.

  ‘For you,’ she says. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a beautifully wrapped present. It has blue ribbon neatly tied around red wrapping paper, finishing in a stylish bow.

  I’m taken aback. Perhaps our relationship is moving up to a new level.

  ‘It’s not new,’ she says. ‘But I want you to have it.’

  I pull off the ribbon and open the package. It’s a paperback book called How to be Cool.

  I flip through the pages. The book is all about what’s hot – what sort of haircut is in, what the best styles are and stuff like that. I feel a bit insulted and don’t know what to say except ‘thanks’.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she replies. ‘You need a new image. You’re good looking but your clothes let you down. And your hair.’

  I’d really never thought much about these things before. I guess she’s right. I need to keep up with the guys in the Polar Bare if I want to continue seeing Verushka.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’m taking you shopping. We’ll start with those old boots. The guys in the Polar Bare are into pointy shoes. They look fabulous.’

  Verushka leads me to an expensive designer shop where she helps me pick out a new pair. They’re Italian. Black. Very soft leather. As I hand over the money to the guy in the store I make a mental note that I had to work three weekends in the workshop with the old man to get it.

  ‘Worth every cent,’ says Verushka admiringly.

  I keep the new shoes on and head back to wait in the library feeling sort of pleased but also worried. I always seem to end up doing what Verushka wants. I hardly know anything about her. Still, she must care about me to take all this interest so I decide to chance it and push things a bit. I arrive at the old hall which is now an art studio and hang about by the front door, with only the moon for company. The first one out is Ryan. His step falters as he sees me but he recovers, sneers and disappears into the night. Finally, everyone in the class except Verushka has packed up and left. The last person out has to lock up and tonight it’s her.

  ‘I want to see one of your paintings,’ I tell her just as she’s about to put the key in the door. ‘It’s only fair. You’ve
read some of my stories. I want to see what you do.’

  At first she gives me one of her warning looks, but then she nods and without a word opens the door and beckons me in. It’s still warm inside and there’s a strong smell of turps. There are empty easels and trays of paint and one long, splattered wooden table. Lockers stand against the walls and half-finished paintings lean wonkily in their racks. A Chinese silk dressing-gown is draped over a chair in the middle of the room.

  Verushka points to the canvases. ‘Pick one out then,’ she says. ‘Any one.’

  ‘I want to see yours,’ I say.

  She doesn’t reply but glares at me. This means ‘don’t argue’.

  I do as she says and we both look at the painting I’ve chosen. It’s of a young woman sitting on a dragon and has been done in a sort of modern airbrushed style that could have sprung from the cover of a science-fiction book. The colours are garish and shiny. The woman has a brilliant sari wrapped around her waist but wears nothing else. Her breasts are totally exposed. She has sleepy, knowing eyes.

  ‘It’s you,’ I yelp.

  Verushka lifts out another painting which is also of her. It’s cubist or whatever they call it and you can only tell it’s her by the eyes that are painted stacked on top of each other. She takes out another piece which only shows her from the waist up giving the impression that she’s totally naked. Her breasts seem huge and … incredible. I can hardly believe that I’m looking at them. The artist has painted a stylish watch on her arm and underneath has written: Good-Time Girl. Verushka takes out three more canvases in quick succession and drops them back against the wall after waving each one in my face. Her breasts are revealed in all of them.

  I’m astounded.

  She’s laughing now. ‘I can’t paint for nuts,’ she says. ‘I’m a model, you silly.’

  ‘How can you do it?’ I say in a shocked voice.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she says. ‘The place is heated. I don’t get cold.’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ I shout. ‘They all see you half naked. Why do you do it?’ I feel wave after wave of disappointment and anger sweep over me.

  ‘Money, of course. What do you think? It’s well paid. How else am I going to get off the mountain? Barmaids don’t get much. If it wasn’t for the tips I’d never save anything.’

  ‘Who did the one with the watch?’ I say, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Ryan did.’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ I yell.

  ‘Don’t be a baby,’ she says. ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘I don’t like him painting you like … like that.’

  Her face contorts with fury. ‘You are so childish,’ she screams. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  She fumbles at the zip of her parka and rips it down towards her navel. Before I can even register what she’s doing, the parka is on the floor and she’s peeling off her thick jumper and a thin top beneath it. She tears at her bra and I hear the rip of torn stitching. She tosses the dead garment into the air. ‘Here,’ she says scornfully. ‘This is what you want.’

  She’s right. It is what I want. She is beautiful. She is terrible. She is awesome. What the hell. What does it matter if she offers herself with a taunt? I feel myself take a step forward and as I do, I catch a glimpse of the silk dressing-gown, the one that only a short time ago she carelessly removed to reveal herself to other eyes. Hidden inside the black curse of jealousy is a tiny grain of self-respect which makes me hesitate.

  ‘Get someone else to be your slave,’ I yell as I burst out into the cold night.

  The bus trip back up the mountain seems to last for ever. Verushka sits in her usual seat and I stretch out at the back, pretending I’m asleep. I’m filled with lust and loathing.

  The bus is heated. But the atmosphere is cold. Freezing cold.

  Two days pass. I awake in my bedroom to find that the window is glazed with frost. Wonderful patterns are illuminated by the ski-slope lights which are always turned on before dawn to allow the snow to be groomed. In one corner of the window the cold breath of the night has painted a picture that looks like a woman’s face. I let my imagination roam. It’s my mother. I know it is. The misty woman can sense my sorrow. I trace her gently with my finger and she begins to melt into tears which run slowly down the glass.

  She’s gone.

  I take Mum’s hairbrush out of the hiding place under my bottom drawer and let its gentle aura wash over me. I gently touch the few long red hairs entwined in the bristles and imagine Mum using it. It’s time to get up but I drift off to sleep thinking of how much I’d love to know her. One day I’ll find her, I know I will.

  I’m suddenly awakened by a distant rasping voice. ‘Get a move on, Robin, or you’ll miss the bloody bus.’ The old man is yelling at me from somewhere down below. The sound sets my nerves on edge.

  I dress and rush off without stopping for breakfast or saying goodbye. Now I’m feeling really cranky. It’s not a good start to the last day of term and I have a premonition that it’s going to get worse.

  And I’m not wrong. Halfway through second period I’m summoned to the principal’s office. You have to sit outside his door where everyone who passes wonders why you’re there. That’s one thing I don’t need to wonder about. I’ve got a pretty good idea what he wants. I sit there acting like I’m unconcerned. After about fifteen minutes his secretary tells me I can go in.

  Mr Henderson is one of those people who doesn’t believe in talking to you from behind a desk. He stands up and points to two small lounge chairs which face each other over a coffee table. He’s not a bad guy but if you cross him he can give you a hard time. He throws a story I have written onto the table and gives me a reproachful look.

  ‘Frankly, it’s disgusting, Robin,’ he says indicating the pages of my manuscript.

  ‘What’s wrong with it, Mr Henderson?’ I say, trying to sound innocent.

  ‘You know very well what’s wrong with it. If something like this gets out to the local paper we’ll be in all sorts of strife. Mrs Zeigler asked your Creative Writing class to write a children’s story and you come up with this which is definitely not a children’s story.’

  ‘In one way it is,’ I say.

  ‘Come on, no parent would let their child read this. How does it fit the definition?’

  ‘It’s written by a child so it’s a child’s book.’

  ‘You’re drawing a long bow there, Robin. It’s meant to be for a child. Not by a child. And anyway, you’re sixteen. You’re not a child anymore.’

  ‘But I’m still treated like a child,’ I say, warming to my theme. ‘I can’t vote. I can’t drink and I can’t drive. I even have to put my hand up to get permission to go to the toilet. So this is a child’s story because it was written by a child. I’m a person who sees things from a different point of view.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Robin. Just because you know where to put a possessive apostrophe doesn’t mean that you can make a monkey out of one of my teachers. I don’t mind people seeing things from a different point of view but you’re stretching things too far.’ He waves a piece of paper at me. ‘Some principals would suspend you for this. Or contact your parents.’

  On the wall above his head is a photograph of the snow-covered ski village on the mountain. I can see my father’s workshop downhill from the chairlift. The doors are open and there’s a little smudge which just might be him. Inside my head a snake strikes. I can’t stay here.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say pushing the chair back to get up.

  ‘I’m not finished,’ he says.

  I stand. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I can’t stay.’ My voice is rising in panic.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until we’ve resolved this,’ he says.

  I take a few steps. He speaks to my back. ‘I’ll be in contact with your mo–’ He catches himself just in time.

  I turn and face him. ‘I haven’t got a mother.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Robin. I meant yo
ur father.’

  He feels bad and speaks less harshly. He picks up my manuscript and starts to flip over the pages. He’s skim-reading it. I don’t think he’s even read it properly. He just accepted what Mrs Zeigler said.

  ‘You were only a baby, Robin. It’s not your fault your mother left.’

  ‘Apparently it was,’ I say.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘It’s what my father says.’

  His voice is gentle now as he casts his eyes down the last page. He starts tapping the pages with his index finger. ‘Some things aren’t always black and white. There may be more to it than you think. Have you made enquiries as to where she might have gone?’

  ‘Dad won’t tell me anything.’

  ‘I mean through official channels.’

  ‘Dad would freak out,’ I say. Mr Henderson’s words, ‘not your fault’, are like the menace of a rattler’s warning.

  ‘Robin, you seem very upset, so I’d like you to make an appointment with Mr Rogers,’ he says. ‘Preferably this afternoon.’

  I don’t answer. Mr Rogers is the school counsellor and he’ll try to get inside my head. I can’t let anyone in. Ever.

  Aaagh. Another snake bites me. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Come back here, Robin.’

  I open the door. ‘I can’t stay,’ I say.

  ‘I will have to contact your father.’

  ‘He’ll make things worse,’ I shout as I run out of his office.

  The aftershock of the images lingers as I head back to class.

  The Tree

  Once upon a time, there was a bunch of weird trees living in a forest. They were snow gums and every winter the poor bloody things were covered in snow. In spring birds would nest in their hair.

  Grandmother Tree was crotchety because hairy caterpillars were crawling all over her and eating the leaves on her twigs again.

  Little Jack was cracking the sads because dogs were pissing on his trunk again.

  ‘It sucks being a tree,’ said Father Tree. ‘We just have to stand here and cop all this shit.’