Nona and Me

by Clare Atkins

  John looks uncomfortable but forces a laugh. It is Selena, after all. She pours a measure of ethanol then looks up, past John and the other students, to Nona.

  Calmly, deliberately, she says, “What do you think, Nona? Reckon they’d buy it?”

  Nona shrinks into herself, as if trying to disappear. I look around to see who else has heard. John catches my eye, in an uneasy plea for help. Behind him, Ali looks confused. Anya appears to be absorbed in her textbook. Ms Bamkin is busy helping Charlie; she hasn’t heard.

  Selena carries her ethanol back to our desk and sits on the lab stool beside me. I can’t meet her eye. She nudges me. “What?”

  I keep my gaze straight ahead. I crack the egg into the beaker.

  “It was just a joke, Rosie. Geez, lighten up.”

  Most days I let her comments pass. I tell myself she isn’t hurting anyone. But today is different. I can feel Nona’s ache from across the room.

  A few seconds later, Nona walks out. No one stops her.

  *

  Selena nudges me at lunchtime. “What’s with you? You’ve been quiet all morning.”

  I look away. She persists. “You’re not still mad about the ethanol thing, are you?”

  My silence provides the answer.

  Selena is disbelieving. “Why are you taking this so seriously?”

  Anya says, “Because it’s Nona, of course.”

  I’m quick to reply. “That’s not it.”

  Selena says, “I don’t get it. How could you guys possibly have been friends?”

  “Not just friends. Besties,” says Anya.

  Selena’s immaculate eyebrows arc up. “Besties?”

  I shift. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”

  “Well, then – how would you put it?”

  Her eyes are on me. I squirm. “You’re changing the subject. What you said in Science was racist.”

  “How is it racist? There are drunks outside Woolworths. I didn’t say they were any particular colour.”

  “You directed it at Nona.”

  “So this is about Nona.”

  “You say stuff like that all the time. It’s always ‘us’ and ‘them’.”

  “You’ve never said anything about it before.”

  Anya leans in. “Because it wasn’t about Nona before.”

  I snap at her. “Can you shut up about Nona?”

  Selena folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not racist.”

  Her voice is harder now. I start to waver. “You are some times.”

  “I’m friends with Jennifer and Lotu.”

  “You call Jennifer ‘The Asian’.”

  “She calls herself that too!”

  I try to downscale the accusation. “Anti-Yolŋu, then.”

  “I liked Wilson.”

  Wilson was in our class in Year 8. He got sent to boarding school in Darwin in Year 9.

  “That doesn’t count. He came every day, and he spoke perfect English.”

  “So Aborigines can’t do that? Now who’s being racist?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Give me another example, then.”

  “What about when Luke walks out of class? You always make comments.”

  “The double standard pisses me off. How come he’s allowed to walk out and we’re not? It’s nothing to do with him being Aboriginal.”

  “Yolŋu.”

  “Whatever. I’m not racist.”

  “Okay. Can we drop the subject now?”

  “Not until you take it back. I’m not racist.”

  Her face suddenly warps into a suppressed smile, like she’s thought of something funny. “You want me to prove it? I like black guys.”

  I look at her sceptically.

  She’s grinning now. “I do! I would totally sleep with Snoop Dogg or Jay-Z.”

  She’s winding me up and Anya snorts with laughter.

  Selena is on a roll. “I’d be their white ho handbag any day. Just get them out here. Jay-Z in Nhulunbuy – can you imagine?”

  I’m trying hard not to laugh, but she catches sight of the hint of a smile surfacing on my lips. “I saw that. You were laughing.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You were!”

  I shake my head. “You’re an idiot, Selena.”

  She slings an arm around my shoulder and hugs me to her, grinning. “Lucky you love me.”

  *

  Nona isn’t in Maths. Or History.

  As we’re walking to English, I tell the girls I’m going to the loo. As a gesture of peace, Selena offers to come with me. I tell her not to worry about it. We’re fine.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really.”

  I detour past the cultural centre and peer through one of the windows. There’s a big Bob Marley poster on the wall, surrounded by photos of Yolŋu kids from our school. Mrs Reid is at her desk, marking papers or something. In the middle of the room, there’s an island of desks surrounded by chairs. Luke is sitting there, with a few younger Yolŋu kids. He’s playing the yiḏaki. That’s what they call the didgeridoo up here. The sound comes out strong and full. Short bursts then sustained rhythms. The music takes me on a journey. He’s good. Very good. But I’m not here for Luke. I scan the room.

  And then I see her. She’s standing by herself in the kitchen area, eating a piece of toast. Her face looks blank, withdrawn. Guilt overwhelms me. I step away from the window and look out at the playground. A single blue-winged kookaburra swoops across the cloudless sky and perches in the mango tree near the Science labs.

  My mobile beeps in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s a message from Selena.

  You fallen in? ;-)

  I am almost relieved as I turn and head back to my friends.

  *

  I sketch the outline carefully in pencil, then mix the perfect shade of blue-grey for the wings. The brush glides across my paper, leaving a wash of colour. Paint bleeds and blurs, dark in places, light in others. The world narrows to what’s in front of me. My kookaburra takes shape. My breath slows. Up and down. Around. It follows the rhythm of the paintbrush in my hand. I dab at the palette. I’m running out of black paint. I look up. The spell is broken.

  Next to me, Anya and Selena are mucking around. Art is my favourite subject, but they only chose it because they thought it’d be a bludge.

  Selena pretends to slip and dabs paint on Anya’s page. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “You ruined my artwork!”

  “You call that art?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What’s it meant to be anyway?”

  “A crocodile. Can’t you tell?”

  “I thought it was a giant green poo.”

  Giggles and shoves. Our Art teacher glares, and is about to reprimand them when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Mrs Reid. She leans into the room. “Ms Naylor, could I borrow Selena for a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  Selena puts down her paintbrush and follows Mrs Reid out.

  I frown over at Anya; what could that be about? She shrugs, but looks concerned.

  I turn back to my kookaburra and try to lose myself in painting again. I fail.

  *

  Selena is waiting at my locker after school. Her face is blotchy red. Her eyes harden when she sees me coming. She gets straight to the point. “Was it you?”

  “What?”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

  “Apparently someone in our Science class felt ‘uncomfortable’ about my ‘racist comment’.” Her fingers insert angry quotation marks in the air.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “How would I know? What happened with Mrs Reid?”

  “She took me to Mrs Seville’s office.”

  My stomach sinks at the thought of the principal being involved.

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s calling my parents. Big deal. Like they�
��re going to care.”

  I know she’s not just saying this to appear cool. When we studied Yolŋu Matha, the local Indigenous language, for a term in Year 8, Selena’s dad, Mr Bell, sent a note in asking why we couldn’t learn a “useful language”. He’s not going to care about some slur about alcohol.

  I try to calm her down. “Then it doesn’t matter, right? It’s not like you’re going to be in trouble.”

  “Was it you?”

  “Selena, I wouldn’t –”

  “Not even for your bestie? Your so-called sister?”

  She sees the surprise in my face. “Anya told me the full story. We were just waiting for you to ’fess up.”

  “There’s nothing to confess to –”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “There was nothing to tell –”

  “The whole thing’s ridiculous anyway. How can you be sisters? She’s black and you’re white.”

  I avoid the question. “I didn’t dob you in today.”

  Her eyes search out mine. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You lied about Nona –”

  “I didn’t lie. I omitted.”

  “I thought I could trust you.” Her voice wavers.

  “You can.”

  A bead of perspiration drips down my temple. I need her to believe me. I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose her. “You’re my best friend, Selena.”

  “Am I?”

  She fiddles with her skirt, staring out at the sky. She looks vulnerable. I’ve only seen her like this once before. It was in Year 8, not long after she arrived. She’d sat with a group of girls who call themselves the Elites. After two weeks their leader, Stephanie, voted her out. Selena claimed it was because she was threatened, scared of the competition, and maybe she was right. Selena was pretty and confident, with all the imported cool of Sydney. Whatever the reason, Anya and I were secretly glad. Selena came and sat with us. We became a real group. We became someones.

  Selena’s eyes are teary. “What about Nona?”

  I hurry to reassure her. “Yolŋu families adopt people. That’s just what they do. The whole sister thing, it doesn’t mean anything. We were kids. I don’t even know her anymore.”

  I see Selena’s shoulders relax slightly. “That’s what I figured. Anya was just saying …”

  “Forget Anya.”

  I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I breathe out. “Are we okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pulls me into a hug. I hold her tight. She holds me tighter.

  As we turn to go, I see Nona waiting on a chair outside Mrs Reid’s office. She couldn’t be more than three metres away. She stands, avoiding my gaze, and walks off in the opposite direction. My heart sinks. I can tell she’s heard it all.

  4.

  1996

  We are following Rripipi up a small stream. Bony fingers of mangrove reach towards us, grasping for the water’s edge. We walk slowly, feeling the ooze of sticky mud envelop our feet as we walk.

  Nona stops just in front of me, and calls out, “Momo, dhän’pala!”

  Rripipi looks back at us, holding out a thin piece of wood she’s been carrying. “You want the stick?”

  Nona says, “Yaka.”

  She’s already twisting her feet deeper into the mud. She pokes her bum out and wiggles it from side to side. I giggle and she grins at me and sticks her bum out even further and twists, twists, twists. “Look! It’s the dhän’pala dance!”

  I laugh out loud. Rripipi and the other old ladies look over and smile. Nona’s cousins point and grin. Some start to copy.

  The dark brown sand at Nona’s feet has cracked into small faultlines now, like a miniature earthquake has taken place. She kicks some to one side, then reaches down and pulls up a fist of mud. She rinses it in the stream, then holds her open palm out towards me. On it is a large golden shell, covered in ridges that darken as they orbit down and out, ending in closed lips.

  Rripipi claps her hands, and beams at Nona. “Manymak, gaminyarr!”

  It is the biggest mud mussel I’ve ever seen.

  Rripipi gestures me towards her. “Mätjala, one for you there.”

  She uses her bottom lip to point to the side of the stream. “See that?”

  She makes the shape of a curved mound with her hand, but I can’t see anything except sand, pointy new mangrove shoots and scattered longbum shells.

  I take a step. Ripples rush forward, as if fleeing from my legs. And then I see it. The smallest bend in the water. A tiny liquid wrinkle, shimmering in the sun.

  I leap eagerly towards it and twist my feet in. I want to copy Nona. I do her dhän’pala dance. I wiggle my bum just like she did. Nona starts laughing. And then I’m laughing too and she’s slapping her leg and hooting and I can’t concentrate at all. She’s doubled over now, almost rolling in the mud, and Rripipi is telling her to get up, don’t be so silly, she’s covered in mud, but she’s not listening, she can hardly hear her, we’re both in hysterics and we’re laughing, laughing, laughing.

  5.

  2007

  “Go!”

  We bolt from our hiding place in the bushes and run towards the darkened house. My heart is pounding. There’s a street light behind us. I see my faint shadow cross the perfectly cut grass. Selena is in front, Anya just behind her. I’m last. We race towards the carport, desperate to conceal ourselves, and bang. A sensor light flicks on. Shit. Why did I let Selena talk me into this? I’m panicking. “Selena.”

  She waves me back. “Shhh.”

  She puts a hand over the gate and feels for the latch. Come on, come on, come on. Click. She finds it and pushes the gate open. We hurry through, relieved to blend back into darkness.

  Selena says, “It’s cool. No-one saw us.”

  I’m not so sure. I stand still, listening. A sprinkler shoots repetitive jets of spray next door. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. After ten long seconds, the sensor light clicks off.

  I move back to the gate and look out at the street. The neighbours’ houses are silent. I can see a TV flickering through a window across the road. They’re watching Home and Away. There are no yells of “Stop!” or “Who’s there?” No-one has seen us. Phew.

  I hear Selena whisper – “Guys” – and realise Anya is beside me, looking out. She looks as terrified as I feel. I feel a pang of sympathy for her before I remember her smug smile this afternoon.

  Anya seems to be recalling the same thing. “If Rosie’s too scared, we can go just the two of us, Selena.” She straightens her back, shrugging off nerves, as she makes her way through the carport to the back of the house. I follow her. We round the corner and see Selena, illuminated in the glow of a fridge light.

  She grins at us. “Hallelujah.”

  In front of her are rows of beer, a few casks of wine and a doorful of Coke Zero. She pulls out one of the beers. It has a foreign label. Maybe German? Selena smiles. “Benny said this guy had good taste.”

  Benny fridged this place a month ago. He’s the one who gave Selena the idea. The man who lives here obviously hasn’t learned because – lucky for us – he hasn’t put a lock on the fridge.

  Anya pulls her backpack off and hands it to Selena. She loads it with as many beers as she can fit, then zips it shut and gives it back to Anya. She tosses me a cask of wine to carry and grabs three cans of Coke Zero. Then we get the hell out of there.

  *

  The beer is warm and bitter. I have to stop myself from spitting it out. I think of that egg, scrambled in ethanol. Ms Bamkin’s experiment worked.

  Libby’s house is packed, bursting with bodies and beats. I am standing with Selena, Anya, Nick and Benny. The boys have their own entourage. Two Year 11 girls hover next to them, trying to catch their attention. Benny hardly notices them. His eyes are on Selena. They’ve been flirting for months now. Tonight, she has dressed to impress. She’s wearing a bright red strapless dress she ordered online. I
t clings to her curves, and ends elegantly mid-calf. Anya’s is the same style, in aqua, probably a size or two smaller. She’s petite; her hem touches the ground when she walks. She looks good, though. Confident in colour. I feel like the odd one out in a simple black dress borrowed from Selena before we went fridging. Still, at least I’m not wearing Mum’s tea-towel creation.

  Nick raises his voice above the music, leaning in towards Selena. “Where’d you get the beers from?”

  “Magic. Found them outside our house.”

  “Yeah, right. Did you fridge them?”

  He looks annoyed.

  Selena meets Benny’s eyes and grins. They say it at the same time, “4 Cassia Close.” Then they burst out laughing.

  Nick isn’t impressed. “What if you’d been caught?”

  “No-one was home. Don’t pretend you’ve never done it,” says Selena.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh, come on, Nick. You can’t seriously be mad about me taking a few beers. You did heaps worse than that in Sydney.”

  The Year 11s giggle flirtatiously. “Really? Like what?”

  I’m curious, waiting to hear his answer, but he ignores them and turns to his mate. “Benny, don’t corrupt my sister.”

  Benny can’t stop smiling at Selena. “I haven’t been able to – until now.”

  Selena smiles back at him. “Maybe tonight’s your lucky night.”

  Benny takes a swig of his beer, probably trying to swallow his drool before it drips down his chin. Nick looks at me. “Did you all go?”

  Before I can answer, Anya jumps in, laughing. “Rosie was shitting herself. You should’ve seen her.”

  Nick frowns. “I didn’t take you for the break-and-enter type, Flipper.”

  “Trust me. She’s not.”

  Anya’s interjections are annoying me. I manage to find my voice. “Maybe you don’t know me that well.”

  It has just the right dose of challenge. I’ve surprised myself. I’ve surprised Nick. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.

  Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” comes on, and Selena squeals. “I love this song! Let’s dance!”