All the Ways to Here

by Emily O'Beirne

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Put your headphones in, then.” Willa lies back against her pillows, clutching her maths text, and pouts as she watches Finn pack her schoolbag.

  “I’ve officially finished all my homework.” Finn does a little fist pump. “Which means I’ve totally made up for being a slacker.”

  Willa wishes she could say the same. She’s still got Lit and Japanese to do tonight. But first she has to make dinner.

  Finn drops her bag on the floor and leans in close, pouting right back at her. “Bye.”

  Stubborn, Willa pulls Finn right down over her until she’s a delicious weight, a Finn blanket. “I wish you could stay for tea,” she whines.

  “So do I. We’re going to Anna’s. So you should feel terrible for me, because she’s an awful cook.” She drops a kiss on Willa’s neck.

  The feel of Finn’s lips makes Willa’s blood ripple, and for an electric second, she wishes they were alone and she could send her hands all the places they would like to go right now. Why can’t they have some time? And why doesn’t she have her own room? “I’m so sorry all we do is hang out here and do homework,” she whispers.

  “It’s not your fault. Anyway, I still get to hang out with you, and it’s not like I didn’t need to catch up on homework.” Finn kisses her once more and climbs off.

  Willa sighs, feeling the absence of her body like a loss.

  Finn holds her hand out. “Walk me downstairs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bye, Miss Riley. Behave,” Finn tells her.

  Riley doesn’t hear her. She’s staring at her tablet, headphones on now, doing some lip sync thing with her friends online. She shimmies, her mouth moving to the words of some song only she can hear. How great it would be to be eleven and have twenty minutes of homework every night? Willa taps Riley’s knee, thinking how Nan hates it when they spend too much time on their tablets. “Hey, Finn said goodbye. And you can come help me with dinner.”

  Riley drags her eyes from the tablet and stares at Willa like she hasn’t understood a word.

  Willa raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t even bother.”

  Instant pout. “Okay, but can we make homemade pizzas? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Not tonight. I’ve still got a lot of homework to do. Maybe on the weekend.”

  “You’ve always got homework.”

  “You should be grateful she even makes you dinner.” Finn steps up on the edge of Willa’s bunk and taps Riley’s nose. “If it was me looking after you, it’d be vegemite toast every single night.”

  She grins. “But at least it would be fun.”

  “Hey, that’s not very nice.”

  Riley has the decency to look contrite. Only because it’s Finn telling her off, though.

  Willa wishes Riley’s comment didn’t sting, but it does. It’s not as if she doesn’t want to make pizzas with her little sister. To do something fun with her. But she knows she’d be up until late cleaning up and making up for lost study time.

  “Thanks for defending my honour,” Willa says as they traipse downstairs.

  “She doesn’t really get it, does she? How much you have to do?”

  “She’s only eleven. She’s not meant to get it.”

  “Well, I see everything you do, and I think you’re an okay sister.” Finn gives her a winning smile.

  “Oh, gee, thanks.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Riley pushes a cutting board of roughly—incredibly roughly—chopped cucumber towards her. Riley’s knife skills are horrible. It probably didn’t help that Willa gave her the bluntest knife she could find, but she’d rather hacksawed salad than another hospital trip.

  “Okay, you’re done,” Willa says. “You can go watch TV.”

  “Yes!” Riley spins in a circle, grinning. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”

  “Spaghetti and salad.”

  Her shoulders drop. “We always have spaghetti.”

  “That’s because it’s one of the only things I know how to cook,” Willa reminds her. “And you can’t cook anything, so you don’t get to complain.”

  Riley stalks off into the lounge room, looking disgusted.

  Willa’s throwing the pasta in to boil when her dad enters stage left. Awesome. More awkward small talk.

  He fills a glass with water. “I watered the veggies.”

  She nods. What does he want? A medal?

  “Your friend gone?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t even realise he notices Finn’s coming and going. Or anything, really.

  “She’s new, right? I remember that Kelly kid always being around, but not her.”

  “Her name’s Finn.” Willa considers telling him the truth. But does she want to make things potentially more awkward? For the sake of honesty? A second later, she hears herself saying, “She’s my girlfriend, actually.”

  Yes, apparently she does.

  He nods slightly, but there’s not a shimmer of a reaction in his expression. He just puts the glass down on the sink, slides his tobacco from his pocket, and goes straight back out into the yard.

  She frowns and watches the spaghetti surrender to the roiling water. What the hell was that?

  ~ ~ ~

  “Nothing?” Kelly frowns. “He said nothing?”

  “Nothing. Like, I don’t even know if he heard me. No, he did hear me.” Willa thinks of that tiny nod. “But maybe he just didn’t get it.”

  Kelly shakes her head. “No, he got it. What’s not to get about ‘she’s not my friend, she’s my girlfriend’? Seriously?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you think he’s a homophobe?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him.” Willa kicks at a pebble. “I hope not.”

  “You know what? Who cares? He’s a shitty dad. Just another thing to add to the list.”

  “He’s not that bad,” Willa says, because she knows Kelly’s just packing all her bitterness about her own useless father into this character assassination. Willa’s dad hasn’t proved himself a bad dad, he’s just been a non-dad. “He always sends Nan money, and he’s here now, isn’t he?”

  “Stop making excuses for him,” Kelly says. “He dumped you here and left. Just because he remembers your birthdays and came down here to save you from the social workers doesn’t mean he wins a prize.”

  Willa doesn’t want to think too hard about how much she may or may not agree with that. She prefers to stay in a kind of stasis of non when it comes to her thoughts about him. It’s comfy there. This way, he’s just a guy in her house. An annoying but necessary presence.

  “What did Finn say?”

  “I didn’t tell her.” She doesn’t want Finn to feel uncomfortable here. Because she might not come over any more. Then they’d never see each other. And it’s not like he’s going to say anything about it. That’s pretty obvious after the dead air tonight.

  Willa kicks another pebble and sighs. “I better go do the dishes so I can finish my homework. He never cleans or cooks or does anything.”

  “Sounds like my brother and dad.”

  “What are you up to tonight?” Willa asks her.

  “I was going to ask if I could hang out here and watch TV, actually. It’s kind of obnoxious at mine.”

  “Sounds like it.” Willa heard the music coming from Kelly’s as she set the table. You can still hear it now, the muted thrash of guitar drifting between houses.

  “Yeah, Dave got paid for that three-day construction job, so they’re celebrating. Like earning an actual wage is some glorious feat. I’ve been doing it since I was thirteen, and I’m actually going to finish school.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Dunno.” Kelly plucks a hibiscus flower from the bush and twirls it between her fingers.

  “You can hang here,” Willa tells her.

  “I won’t distract you, promise.”

  “I know you won’t. There’s spaghetti too, if you’re haven’t had tea yet.�
�� Willa’s happy she can help her friend, even in this small way.

  “Thanks, Will.”

  Kelly’s so different when she smiles. It changes her face, softens that default glare she faces down the world with. Willa would tell her that, but Kelly always shoves compliments away. It’s like she refuses to believe good things about herself.

  “So, where’s Princess Riley?” Kelly asks, following Willa into the kitchen. “I haven’t stirred her up in a while.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Finn

  Finn shakes herself loose from a pile of cat and dog and shuffles into the living room. She can hear her mother on her phone in her room, her tone hushed and deliberately steady, the way she sounds when she talks to Finn’s dad these days.

  The house is a mess, signs of distraction piled up everywhere. Finn moves a stack of washing from the kitchen bench to the dining-room table. They never eat there now, anyway. It might as well become an extra wardrobe. Finn hadn’t realised that this would be a gap left by her father’s absence, this new trail of chaos sprouting from her mother, choking every path she takes through the house. Finn never noticed how much he did around the place. Every weekend, Anita wrangles it back into being, but it all creeps back to catastrophic by midweek.

  The kettle’s nearly boiled, and a pile of empty shopping bags gets shoved into a drawer when her mother comes out of the bedroom, buttoned into her work clothes, phone gripped in hand.

  “That was Dad, wasn’t it?” Finn asks.

  Anita nods, putting her work bag on the table. “He’s going to call you after school.” Things move in and out of her bag at lightning speed.

  Finn watches her, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me you talk to him?”

  She pauses for a fraction of a second. “I guess I didn’t want you to think too much about it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. How could I not be thinking about it?” Finn plucks the milk from the fridge door. “My parents, who formerly coexisted peacefully, now live in different states. Trust me, I’m thinking about whether they talk to each other or not.”

  Anita’s gaze drops to her bag. “I know you are.”

  “Or do you mean you didn’t want me to get my hopes up?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t know what I meant.” Suddenly, Anita looks small again. How does she do that? “I just don’t want you to worry.”

  Too late.

  Anita hovers, keys in hand, and Finn knows she’s wondering if she should stay, if she’d be a bad mother if she left for work now.

  “Have a good day,” Finn tells her, turning away.

  The silence is long, chased by the jingle of keys. “I’ll be back by dinner, I hope. I’ll pick up something up on the way home, okay?”

  Even dinnertime is a gamble these days. When her dad was here, they’d eat at the regular time and save leftovers if Anita was late. Then she’d come home and bring her plate in front of the TV with them, catching up with their days while they watched whatever they watched. Now Finn eats at the bench alone half the time. Or just doesn’t come home.

  “Actually, I might go to Willa’s.” They haven’t made plans, but Finn’s sure it’ll be okay.

  “I think it would be nice to have dinner together.” Anita’s got her careful voice on. The “I want something to happen, but I don’t want to fight over it” voice. As if tone can control the moment. “And you’ve been at Willa’s a lot lately. Surely a night at home wouldn’t hurt.”

  Finn doesn’t respond, hoping this is just a random, rhetorical observation.

  There’s a shake of keys. “Finn?”

  “Sorry, yeah, I know. I’ve been helping her look after her brother and sister. I’ll try to be home by tea tonight. If you really want.”

  Suddenly, her mother’s marching across the room, trying to smother the tension with one of her sneak-attack hugs. “We’re going to be okay, you know,” she says into Finn’s shoulder.

  Why does Finn feel like this is more for her mother than it is for her? “I know,” she whispers, annoyed at the way it makes her throat ache.

  Ten seconds later, the front door is closing. Finn listens to the silence drop around and switches off the coffee machine. She can’t be here right now.

  ~ ~ ~

  She spots Craig in the corner of the cafe, eyes glued to his computer screen, a huge mug of something frothy next to him.

  She smiles to herself. A comrade. That’s what she needs this morning. “Hey.”

  “Howdy.” He grins and gestures at the empty seat across from him.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” What is it about Craig that just feels so easy to be around? “What are you doing here so early?”

  “Just chilling and caffeine loading. If I try and do it at home, the mother ship will default to nag mode. You?”

  “Trying to catch up.” She orders a coffee from a guy who looks far too harassed for the four customers total in the place and pulls out her laptop. “I am this close to dropping the ball.”

  “That’s not good. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example to us lower beings?”

  “Sorry.” She gives him a wry grin. “Can a school captain be impeached? For being a slacker?”

  “You don’t even know the meaning of slack.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Once she’s armed with coffee, Finn digs deep into Speech Night planning. She reads through the notes and lists and permissions from last year’s event. It’s all pretty basic. Boring, actually. Organise the hall hire. Find an interesting alumnus as well as all the usual suspects—school and sports captains, the principal—to speak. She has to create a run sheet, get one of the graphic design kids to make the invite. Find some willing slaves to usher and turn lights and music on and off. Do the social media. Get Admin to send out letters. Write the letter. It’s just another bunch of lists to tick off.

  “So I heard about the school captain being from Year 11 next year.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You ready?”

  “If I get it.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  Finn wishes people would stop acting like it’s a given. Until lately, she probably wouldn’t have cared so much. She’s always been secretly proud that people think of her as that girl. But these days, she’s not so sure she deserves it.

  When she looks up, he’s staring at her.

  “What?”

  “Do you want to be school captain?”

  “Of course. If I get the chance. It’s good to be able to say you were captain. Resumes and stuff.” She sounds like Willa.

  “But do you like doing it? I mean, it seems like a whole lot of work.”

  “Honestly?” She pulls in a deep breath. “Lately, I don’t like it as much as I thought I would.” Even as she’s saying it, part of her wishes she could yank the words back into her mouth and lock them away. “Please don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  He lifts his hands, as if to say “who would I tell?”

  It’s true. Craig is probably the safest repository of secrets there is. Finn’s never heard a single word of gossip out of his mouth.

  She stares at her screen, hoping he won’t pursue her little revelation.

  But of course he does. He stares at her some more, head tipped to one side. “So you’re saying future leaders camp made you less prepared to lead? Put that in the feedback survey. No one’s going next year.”

  “That’s not what happened. Not exactly. It’s been more of a thing since I got back. I don’t know, I just thought there’d be more to this job.” She actually got to do more for the school last year when she was just a student rep, coming up with ideas for charities and awareness events and campaigning for new programs. Back then, she had time to form ideas to make the school better. Now she’s too busy being the token student at parent-teacher things, writing mundane reports, being a glorified event manager, and organising Speech Night—plan-by-numbers slave labour.

  “Maybe it is a little bit about camp too, though,” she muses. “After all the quick thinking we h
ad to do at Camp Nowhere to win, this captain job seems even less exciting.” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what the teachers had in mind for me to learn, but I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder if everything is really just preordained. That to be captain, all you really have to do is be a model school citizen, turn up to stuff, and do the jobs no one else wants to do.”

  “So you’re just like their little student-bot photo op?”

  “It feels like it sometimes.” Finn thinks of the parents group meeting she had to go to last week, where she was asked to read a report she’d written on the Year 9 and 10 extracurricular activities. When she was done, they’d just thanked her and carried on with the same petty, circular arguments they’d been having about everything, from uniforms to budget priorities. No one had asked her what she thought, or even talked about the students, really.

  Finn had sat there, bored, eyes on the conversation but her thoughts floating loose, drifting through a million things: her new painting, Nona’s second attempt to convince them they should have a sit-in at the community centre, the ripple of Willa’s ribs through her T-shirt as they kissed against a tree in the park last night, waiting for Jack to finish soccer practice. Anywhere but on that bickering and power-playing in the room that had nothing to do with her.

  “So,” Craig says, “you’re saying you wouldn’t care if you weren’t picked for school captain next year?”

  “I’m not saying that,” she says quickly. That hadn’t even occurred to her. Maybe it will be different when she’s whole-school captain. “It’s just a bit…” She sits back in her seat. “I don’t know, uninspiring this term. Like organising Speech Night.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Speech Night is just awkward.”

  “You’ve been to one?”

  “Have I ever.” He taps his chest. “You’re looking at number-one lighting director. I’ll be the one turning the spotlight on yet another earnest, heartfelt speech about school spirit from the principal—who will talk forever if you don’t stop him, by the way.”

  “That’s one volunteer to tick off my list.” She grins at him. “I’m putting you down as confirmed for this year.”