by Kat Colmer
My attempt to snatch a few minutes alone to process everything is thwarted the moment we pull into the car park. Mouth on autopilot, Luke’s little sister unbuckles her seatbelt and attaches herself to my side before Luke has a chance to pull his keys out of the ignition. Aren’t people with Downs meant to be shy? If that’s the case, Rosie blows that myth out of the Down syndrome gene pool.
‘Five years? No ten. You’ve been playing for ten years!’
Where is this girl’s off button? At the rate she’s going she’ll know everything from my third cousin’s name to my bra size by the time we make it back to the car. I glance Luke’s way looking for help. The suffer-in-your-emergency-undies smile he’s wearing makes me think I’m not getting any.
‘Twelve,’ I tell her. ‘I started at five.’ And practised relentlessly twice a day, one hour before school and another after. Every single day. Except for that one week in Year 8. The week of the ice skating excursion Mum never wanted me to go on. When my wrist recovered, she doubled my piano time. I had a lot of missed practice to make up, she said. I haven’t skated since.
Inside the store, I head for the feminine hygiene section. My aim is to lose Luke, and by default Rosie, because I’m dying for some brain space here! I’m aware I’m not all that guy savvy, but here’s hoping the stereotype about male aversion to anything regarding that time of the month is true.
Sure enough, as soon as he realises what the shelves are stacked with, Luke grinds to a halt at the top of the aisle like tampons and pH neutral intimate wash are his personal kryptonite.
But Rosie has no such hang-ups, and any hope I had of her suffering separation anxiety from her brother evaporates into the cloud of bouquet fresh air hanging over the feminine hygiene section.
‘I only play the drums, but I love to sing. Do you like to sing?’
I grab what I need and turn to—Yikes! No separation anxiety, and no concept of personal space.
I take a quick step backwards, putting some much needed distance between myself and Rosie’s way too in-your-face presence. I can’t place how old she is. It’s hard to judge; the syndrome might be clouding my true perception of her age, but I’m thinking maybe fourteen? Fifteen?
Her hair is a shade or two darker than her brother’s dark blond, and she carries a stockier build, but her wide, expectant eyes boast of family resemblance. Like Luke’s, they’re striking—a look-twice parakeet green.
‘Um, no, I don’t sing.’ I follow the ding and bustle noises to the nearest checkout. Where the hell is Luke?
‘But you bowl? Luke said you’re coming with us tomorrow.’
Not if I can help it. Bowling, like skating, doesn’t advance academic standing, therefore it’s not something I’m familiar with. I’ll get Luke to drop me at the local library so I can work on my school work and assignment reading.
‘MJ can’t wait.’ Luke’s voice sneaks up from behind me. ‘And knowing her, she’ll be giving it a hundred per cent.’
Okay, maybe the guy didn’t take a dig at my need for spare underpants, but the glint in those green eyes when I turn to glare at him is now showing shades of mock. Selfless Samaritan or not, I’m not letting him get the better of me. I quash my fear of all things embarrassing and shove my sanitary pads and undies into Luke’s hands instead of on the conveyor belt. His face! Ha! Those look-twice eyes bulge so hard the parakeets lay eggs.
I rummage in my handbag to find my purse. ‘Bowling.’ I can’t bring myself to say the word without scrunching my nose. I mean, it’s bound to be noisy, possibly unhygienic with all those people touching the same balls, but how hard can it be? ‘Sure. I’ll go bowling.’
‘You’ll love it.’ Rosie again. ‘If you need, you can play bumpers. That okay, Luke?’
Luke dumps my stuff on the conveyor belt with a shrug. ‘If MJ needs bumpers …’
When I catch his gaze, there’s no more shade of mock; Luke’s face is one I’m-laughing-at-you prime colour.
I pay, grab my bag of emergency supplies and stomp out into the car park. You should be grateful. The sudden thought slows my stride. Grateful? I guess if a forced game of bowling is the extent of Luke’s retaliation for me thinking he’s no more than a wastrel muso, then okay, maybe I should be grateful. Because, as irritating as Luke’s silent ribbing is, I can’t deny it’s … justified.
‘Another poster? Which movie, Luke?’ Rosie’s kid-in-a-toy-store voice draws my gaze across the car park. ‘Point Break? I haven’t got Point Break. Or Dirty Dancing.’
‘You’ll have to wait ’til we get home.’ They’re a good fifteen metres away, but there’s no mistaking the genuine spark of affection for his sister in Luke’s eyes.
Okay, so the guy isn’t exactly who I thought he was. And thanks to my inability to read people, I’m stuck spending the weekend with him and his bubblier-than-a-shampoo-filled-spa-bath sister. A weekend I could be studying.
Spending all this time with Luke the deadbeat drummer would have been painful enough but spending it with this other person he’s turning out to be sets off my underutilised people radar in warning. Practising the Brubeck piece with Luke is the first time I’ve enjoyed playing the piano since … I can’t remember when. So a weekend with Luke the drum circle instructor and doting big brother might push me dangerously out of my safety zone.
***
It’s well after five, the sun hanging low, when we pull into the drive of a single-storey, weatherboard house. The yard is tidy, the lawn clipped short around an Ironbark gum; the statuesque tree the only eye-catching feature about the whole place. Despite the lack of bells and whistles, a warm burgundy trim against cream timber makes the place look inviting.
‘We’re home.’ Rosie tugs at Luke’s backpack the moment we’re out of the car. She’s been harping on about that stupid poster the entire trip back from the store. The upside of her incessant nagging—yes, hard to believe there’s an upside—less questions fired at me. The downside: some deranged part of me now also wants to know what the stupid poster is all about.
‘At least wait ’til we’re inside.’ Luke smiles patiently. Coupled with the way he’s holding his ground, you’d think he’s enjoying his sister’s badgering.
Weekend emergency supplies in hand, I hoist my messenger bag over my shoulder and follow the two of them to the front door. Inside, the hallway is narrow but bright. Through an open doorway to my left I glimpse a purple bedspread and a poster-covered wall. No prizes for guessing who sleeps there.
We pass a second door, this one closed. Possibly Luke’s room. Are his walls also covered in posters? If so, what idols does he worship? Only this morning I’d have said hard rockers and pop stars, but now I’m not so sure.
The scuffle of claws scratching the hallway floorboards distracts me from any further thought of Luke’s room. I press into the wall as a ball of scruff launches itself into Luke’s arms, pink tongue attacking his face like it’s covered in bacon grease.
‘Hey! Yeah, I missed you too.’
Luke lets the bitzer have at his face for a little longer before he puts him down with a stern ‘stay’ that the dog totally ignores.
‘This is Harvey,’ Rosie says, bending to pat the overexcited dog. ‘Mrs Radcliffe was going to take him to the pound. Luke saved him.’
Luke shrugs. ‘A stray border terrier had his way with her precious purebred Collie and she didn’t like the result. Wasn’t hard to find the pups new owners. They were cute as hell. And this mutt—’ he scratches the dog behind both ears, ‘—let’s just say he had me wrapped around his little tail the moment he peed on Mrs Radcliffe’s couch.’
Luke smiles up at me and a shiver races up my arms. Drum circle instructor, doting brother and now puppy rescuer. That egg mess on my face is going to take industrial strength bleach to get off.
The smell of something roasting down the hallway distracts me from further thoughts of h
ow badly I misjudged Luke. Chicken, lemon and herbs. My stomach clenches then expands in anticipation. Nothing beats Dad’s BBQ roast pork, but I won’t say no to roast chicken.
‘In the kitchen.’ A woman’s voice floats towards us on the herb and lemon scented air. We round the corner into an L-shaped kitchen lounge area, where a brunette in nurses’ scrubs is bent over a bench, chopping salad vegetables.
‘Dinner is in the oven, another half hour or so. I’ve got to run so you’ll need to finish—’ She stops when she sees me. ‘Oh, hello.’ There’s a question in her eyes when she turns them on Luke. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek before answering.
‘This is MJ, Mum.’ He dumps his backpack on a kitchen chair, washes his hands and takes the knife from her. ‘MJ is Theo’s sister. She’s helping me with my chemistry unit,’ he says, chopping carrot into bite-size pieces.
The smile on Mrs Bains’ face reaches all the way to the corners of her eyes. Brown eyes. The striking green must come from the other chromosome donor.
‘Lovely to meet you, MJ.’ She wipes her hands on a dishcloth and steps closer to shake my hand. ‘Luke’s friends are welcome anytime.’
‘She’s not his girlfriend.’
‘Rosie!’ Luke’s mother shakes her head at her daughter while my face explodes with heat. I can’t see Luke’s expression—suddenly the carrots have his undivided attention—so I can’t tell if he’s also suffering some embarrassment or if he’s silently laughing at mine.
Totally nonplussed by the awkward tension she’s caused, Rosie shrugs and flops into a chair at the kitchen table. ‘She’s not. I asked.’ She swipes a piece of carrot from the chopping board and chomps away, ignoring Harvey’s feed-me eyes.
Mrs Bains gives her daughter a warning look, then swings an apologetic smile my way. ‘There’s chocolate cheesecake in the fridge. Help yourself after dinner. If your appetite is half that of your brother’s, you’ll be needing it.’
Wait … Theo’s been here before? Eating Luke’s mother’s chocolate cheesecake? How do I not know this? Once I’ve processed the fact that there’s a whole side of Theo’s life I know nothing about, I remember my manners.
‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Bains. I’m sure whatever you’ve got in the oven will be plenty enough.’
Luke stops mid-chop and shakes his head. ‘You don’t want to turn down Mum’s chocolate cheesecake. Trust me on this. You should hear the sounds Theo makes when he eats the stuff.’
‘Luke, stop!’ Mrs Bains gives a head shake of her own, but a blush of pleasure colours her cheeks at his praise. ‘I’ve got to rush. I’ll be back around ten tomorrow morning.’ A squeeze of Luke’s shoulder, a kiss on Rosie’s cheek, and she’s out the door.
‘She works the graveyard shift in the ER.’ Luke scrapes the chopped carrot into a salad bowl and reaches for a capsicum. ‘The hours suck but the penalty rates mean she can be around for Rosie in the afternoons during the week. I look after Rosie Friday and Saturday nights.’ He looks up and finds my eyes with his, and that one look drives the final nail into the deadbeat drummer coffin. I shift from foot to foot and adjust the strap of my messenger bag where it’s starting to dig into my shoulder. There’s a beat of awkward silence until Rosie jolts into action, making a grab for Luke’s backpack.
‘Now I can have it?’ She doesn’t wait for Luke’s go ahead. She’s already opening the zip.
Luke stops chopping and leans his lanky frame against the sink. The pleasure tugging at the corners of his mouth is as transparent as cling wrap.
It takes Rosie all of five seconds to locate and unroll the poster, and I find myself angling closer so I can see what all the fuss is about. Vaguely, I recognise the white 1960s dress, and the girl—looking for the time of her life—wearing it.
‘Dirty Dancing!’ Rosie’s whole face smiles. She leaps out of her chair, hugs Luke, and disappears down the hallway.
‘We’re dealing with a serious Patrick Swayze obsession,’ Luke says, still grinning. ‘Mum’s to blame. She’s got every single one of the guy’s movies and when Rosie was finally allowed to watch them this year …’ He wipes the flat of his hand down his face, revealing a pained grimace when his palm drops away. ‘I’ve seen Dirty Dancing so many times I can recite the dialogue in my sleep.’
‘Luke! Come look!’
He puts the knife down and, with a soap opera sigh worthy of a Logie, wipes his hands on a dish cloth. ‘We better go have a look. Otherwise she’ll pester us all night.’
I follow him down the hallway, Harvey close behind.
Rosie pulls us into her bedroom the moment we’re close enough. ‘Look. Next to Ghost. Perfect fit.’
She’s hugging Luke again like he’s handed her the keys to Disneyland instead of an old movie poster. And by the look on his face, he’s loving every second of it.
‘Perfect fit,’ Luke says. ‘I’ll tell Theo you like it.’
Theo. Of course. I take in the other posters on the wall, wondering how many Theo’s cinema job has supplied … and how many other things I don’t know about my own brother. You only have yourself to blame.
‘Have you seen Dirty Dancing?’ Rosie sits on her purple bedspread, eyes wide and focused on me.
Behind her, Luke is frantically nodding his head, mouthing the words, Yes! Say yes.
‘Um, yes. I have.’ It’s not a lie. Like Rosie, I also watched the movie with my big brother. Theo bought tickets to the stage show for my sixteenth birthday and insisted I watch the original before we went. Not that we ended up going; the date of the show clashed with a study intensive Mum had booked me into. There was never a question as to which of the two I’d be missing.
Rosie spies movement behind her and flashes Luke a suspicious glance over her shoulder.
‘What about Ghost?’ Her gaze darts from Luke to me, then behind her again. She’s onto him, and I’m trying hard to keep a straight face, which takes a monumental effort because Luke’s eyes bulge with exaggerated dread.
Rosie pounces on my delay. ‘Have you seen it?’
Slowly, I shake my head because, let’s face it, I’m crap at lying, and this girl would be all over the fib in a second.
Rosie practically bounces on her bed. Behind her, Luke starts banging his head against the door jamb. Uh-oh. What have I done?
Now it’s Rosie’s turn to nod like a maniac. ‘You’ll love it!’ She’s bouncing again. ‘The pottery wheel is the best scene.’
I think I hear Luke groan, but I can’t be sure, because Rosie’s broken into song, something about hungering for someone’s touch.
Luke grabs me by the arm and tugs me out of the room. ‘For that, I should make you sleep on the couch. Ghost is twice as painful as Dirty Dancing.’ He gives me the eye bulge of dread again before he opens what looks like a hallway linen cupboard.
‘It can’t be that bad.’ I’d never admit it out loud, but Dirty Dancing was kind of okay. ‘And I’d prefer the guest room, thank you.’
‘Trust me, it is that bad, and we don’t have a guest room.’
No guest room? Which means I’ve put my foot in it again. I scan Luke’s face for any sign I’ve offended him. His nose, busy rummaging through the piles of linen, doesn’t look put out of joint though.
‘The couch is fine,’ I say.
‘As much as you deserve a night on the torture rack that doubles as our couch after what you just signed me up for—’ he glances in the direction of Rosie’s room where his sister is still singing, then lifts a brow at me, ‘—a ban on Mum’s chocolate cheesecake would be much worse. And that’s exactly what I’ll get served if she finds out I made you sleep on the couch.’
But if there’s no spare room and the couch is a no go … I fidget with the strap of my messenger bag. ‘So where do I sleep?’
Luke pushes a stack of linen, soft and floral, into my arms. ‘My room.’
&nb
sp; Luke
Bowling for Rosie
I could have delivered the sleeping arrangement information a little less sledgehammer-like, but then I would have missed out on MJ’s expression, and damn if I don’t enjoy watching that mouth of hers fall open in bewildered shock. Enjoyed it a little too much, an annoying voice in the back of my head says, but … whatever. I’ve got to get through this weekend somehow.
Inside my room, I get busy stripping my bed. I should have called Mum and told her about our weekend guest the moment MJ’s stubborn resolve slammed the station wagon’s passenger door after she got in. I’m glad I didn’t; Mum would have gone and readied the bed, and tidied my room, and vacuumed the house and, I don’t know, probably dusted our non-existent chandeliers. She’s got enough to do without trying to impress the little hedgehog.
Speaking of which, MJ’s standing in my doorway, death grip on the clean linen, spines stiff with shell shock. A quick scan of my room reveals it could be in a more respectable state. There’s a crooked stack of books on the table ready to knock the picture of Rosie, Mum and me into the laundry basket on the floor. My half-open dresser drawers are spewing an assortment of T-shirts over the rim. And the evidence of last Saturday night’s munchies litters my bedside table in the form of chocolate wrappers. At least the bed is made, although I’m not game enough to look under it. Still, somehow I don’t think the lack of neatly stacked T-shirts is what’s causing MJ’s spooked expression. More likely it’s the news she’s bunking down on my pillow this weekend.
I turn my back to her so I can tug free the furthest corner of the sheet—and so she doesn’t see my grin. I can’t figure out why rattling the girl is so bloody enjoyable. Maybe because she loses that prickly superior exterior. And I’m starting to like the MJ without it.
‘Theo usually sleeps on the spare mattress on the floor whenever he stays over.’ I point a foot to the worn wood boards next to my bed as I ball the rest of my dirty bed sheets in my arms. ‘But I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with that.’ I make sure I’ve got a clear view of MJ’s oh-so-expressive face when I deliver my next two sentences. ‘Besides, Mum would frown on a girl spending the night with me in my bedroom. Even if we’re not sharing a bed.’