by Nova Weetman
I can’t say the rest. I drop my head, too ashamed to look at Maggie to see what she thinks of me.
‘Then?’ Maggie prompts.
‘My life would be easier.’
Maggie picks up her cup of tea and takes a sip. It clinks as she places it back down on the china saucer. ‘So you lied to your friend?’
I nod and bite into a chocolate biscuit, trying so hard not to start crying again.
‘Why would it be easier if your mum died, Clem?’
‘Because she was always in bed and crying and sad and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just be like other mums.’
Now it’s Maggie’s turn to nod. ‘She was depressed.’
‘I guess. Yeah.’
‘Depression is just like being physically sick. She didn’t choose to feel like that, Clem. She just did.’
‘I guess.’
‘What would happen if you told your friend the truth? The girl who lost her mum?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You could try. Try explaining and see what she says.’
I shake my head, imagining Ellie’s reaction. ‘But her mum was really sick. She died. Mine didn’t.’
‘But you wanted her to …’
‘Yeah. I did.’
When I look up, I hide behind my messy hair. I can just see Maggie watching me and I’m relieved that her eyes are still kind and not full of judgement.
‘How about a game of Scrabble?’
The question throws me for a second. Could Maggie know that I used to play with Mum and she’d patiently explain why ‘cathedral’ wasn’t spelt ‘catherd’ or that sometimes she’d just let me go with my imaginative spelling, even if it meant I scored nearly 100 points in one go and won the game?
But then Maggie says, ‘Do you know how to play?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
Maggie’s Scrabble set is really old. The tiles are wooden and the board has a strong crease down the middle from being opened and closed so many times.
I pick up seven letters and place them on the rack. Looking at the tiles and touching them in my hands is pulling me back to Mum, to our old kitchen and to playing board games in winter with cups of hot chocolate. And it reminds me that Mum wasn’t always sad. We used to rug up in Dad’s pyjamas and play on the floor in front of the heater, giggling as she’d try to teach me to spell her favourite words.
‘You go first, Clem.’
I rearrange my tiles, trying to escape my memory. Then I see a word that I’ve made: ACHE. And I feel like Mum is with me, in this flat, in my head and, all of a sudden, I really need to see Dad.
‘Sorry, Maggie, but I have to go. I’ll see you another day,’ I say, leaping up quickly and tipping over the rack of tiles.
Maggie starts to follow. ‘Oh, Clem. Are you okay? I’ll walk you back …’
I hear the concern in her voice, but I run out the door, down the stairs and back to our flat. I try to put the key into the lock but my hand is shaking. I steady it with my other hand and finally the door swings open.
Dad’s asleep on the couch again. Only one of his muddy boots is on the square of newspaper in the kitchen, the other is still on his foot. I bend down to untie the laces and try to slide it off without waking him, but it gets a stuck. I’m just about to give up, when I hear him cough.
‘Clem, your hair’s wet,’ he says, sitting up.
I pat it, feeling the frizz caused by the rain. ‘Yeah. A little.’
‘The plants will be happy. Hasn’t rained like that for a while.’ Dad gazes out the window.
My heart is pounding as the words take shape. ‘Dad …’ I start. Then all of a sudden they burst out of my mouth. ‘I think I’m ready to see Mum.’
Dad looks back at me and slowly starts to nod. ‘Okay,’ he replies.
Only ‘okay’? I’d expected a hug at least or something to show me that he understands how hard this is for me. I slump back against the couch, still on the ground, still looking at the bottom of Dad’s muddy boot. I can see all the little tucks and grooves underneath it, where seeds and grasses have been trapped, like they are hoping if they hold on tight enough they might get a free and exciting ride.
‘I’ll get started on dinner now. Okay, honey?’
‘Okay.’
I feel Dad’s rough hand pat my damp hair as he gets up from the couch.
But I’m not hungry at all.
Chapter 28
If my Converse make it through the day it will be some kind of miracle. The run home from school yesterday took its toll and the hole is now being held together by sticky tape. I put them on then I find a clean t-shirt at the bottom of the laundry basket. It must be one of the things Dad salvaged from the washing line in the backyard of the old house. You wouldn’t think you could forget you owned something but, as I pull out the faded green material with seams unravelling along the sleeves and an ice-cream shop-logo on the front, I feel like I’m stepping on a landmine.
This was Mum’s.
She used to wear it when she went to yoga. I snaffled it for a nightie at some point last year when she was barely getting out of bed. It smelt so strongly of her and I needed something to remind me of who she was before.
I pull it on and it fits like it always has: loose and long and soft. But it doesn’t smell like Mum anymore and I’m surprised to find that I wish it did.
I so don’t look like any sort of runner about to compete in an athletics carnival. In fact I look more like I’m going camping in dirty old clothes. But since Ellie’s planning on thrashing me today it doesn’t really matter what I wear.
By the time I walk through the school gate I’ve decided that, if it’s not too late, I’m running the 400 metres as well as the sprinting events. I want to go home tonight sore and tired so that I can sleep all night, free of that fidgety feeling.
The school is aflutter with colour. Boys and girls have painted their faces in house colours, girls have ribbons in their hair and everyone is wearing t-shirts in blue, red, yellow or green. I really wish I weren’t in green house with Ellie and Tam. It’s going to be so weird running the relay with them today.
It’s not long before we’re all heading out to the buses waiting to take us to the athletics track. I sit alone while everyone around me sings songs to cheer on their teams.
Ellie and Tam are sitting a couple of rows in front of me. Tam looks like she’s trying out for the Olympics in her black skins and matching black-and-green athletics top. Even her sneakers look brand new. Ellie’s outfit is a bit more low-key but last time I looked she definitely didn’t have sticky tape holding her shoes together.
Half-an-hour later, we file off the bus and, within minutes, our PE teacher Tom is yelling into a megaphone explaining which events will run first. Whoever wins each event will make it through to District. Just the thought of District makes my leg muscles twitch, so I start jogging on the spot to try to contain my nerves.
I look over at Ellie talking to Tam and Ellie glances across at exactly that moment. The steely stare she gives me makes it pretty clear what she’s planning. Then Tam sees me looking and says loudly, ‘Can’t wait to see you thrash her, Ellie.’
Ellie looks away and I suddenly become very interested in pulling up my socks. All around me kids are talking and laughing and some are even stretching. This should be one of those special days, a day where I can enjoy competing. Instead my jaw is clenching, my hands are sweaty and the socks I picked are refusing to stay up.
But then I hear Tom call the 100-metre under-twelve girls.
That’s me.
I walk down the track to the starting blocks and notice it’s like my old athletics track. Along one side are the stands half covered by faded umbrellas and the track is the same burnt red. I kick at it, feeling my sole slip along the surface, and keep my eyes down. I don’t want to look at
the others and risk seeing Ellie again.
There are sixteen of us so there are two heats and a final. I claim the block on the outside lane in the first heat. I just want this done.
I bend down and get into position.
The starting pistol fires.
We’re off.
My Converse slam into the ground. I can hear my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Like my old Little Athletics coach showed me.
My body powers down the track. And I fly across the finish line.
It’s all over in thirty seconds. Someone hands me a blue disc. I won the heat!
I’m puffing and gasping for air but I can see Ellie lining up so I stay to watch her heat. Even from 100 metres away I can see Ellie’s determination. She doesn’t look at the other competitors once. But then, just as she steps up to the block in the same outside lane as I chose, she stares straight down the track at me.
Suddenly the gun goes off and she runs till she crosses the finish line … first.
It’s on.
The under-twelve boys run their heats next to give us a minute or two to catch our breath before the final. But I just want to keep running. So I start running on the spot. I feel my muscles pulling and enjoy the pain.
‘Your mum coming to watch today?’ says a voice behind me.
Without turning around I know that it’s Tam. I have two choices: choice one, I ignore her; choice two, I turn around and confront her. I’m so torn, but then I see Ellie walking towards us and I realise a fight isn’t really what Ellie needs right now when she has a race to run.
Choice one it is.
I jog back to the start line to wait for my race and see Tom talking to some of the other runners.
‘Is it too late to run the 400 metres as well?’ I ask.
‘That’s fine,’ Tom says, and writes my name down on his clipboard.
‘You have got to be kidding. The 400 isn’t your race,’ says Ellie, and I realise that she must have overheard my conversation with Tom.
She’s right. Why am I doing this? Why am I pitting myself against Ellie in her event when I know it’ll make her feel even worse if I win? It’s like I’m angry with her or something, but I’m really not sure why. I walk away before Ellie can say anything else, trying to get my head right.
But I don’t have a chance. ‘Under-twelve girls’ 100-metre final,’ calls Tom. He then starts organising us on the start line.
Because we’re the winners from the heats, Ellie and I are pushed into the middle lanes and then those that placed second and third stand next to us. Mum explained it to me, once, when we watched the Olympics on TV. By keeping the competitors most likely to win in the centre it’s much more visually interesting for spectators. Unfortunately, it means that Ellie and I are now running alongside each other.
I get into the starting blocks, wishing I had my old spiked running shoes instead of sticky-tape Converse. These have no grip and it’s almost like I’m running on ice. I concentrate on them anyway and stare at the ground like I’ve just found gold. I hear Tam cheering for Ellie and other kids’ names also being called. Nobody calls mine.
My heart is galloping madly as my desire to win takes over. I try to breathe deeply to slow it down. I need to harness the adrenalin, not let it run away without me. I close my eyes for a second, imagining crossing the line first. And then I snap them open, ready.
Suddenly there’s a bang and I shoot out. From the corner of my eye, I can just see the green of Ellie’s top and I sense that she’s edging in front. I cannot let this happen. This is my race. This is mine.
I charge. My lungs scream for breath. My fists punch the air. My feet pound the ground.
And.
I win.
Tom gives me a blue ribbon. ‘Congrats, Clem. You’re through to District.’
‘Nice race,’ some girl says as she walks past. ‘You’re fast.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
I turn around and see Ellie holding the red ribbon in her hand and she sees me with my blue one. She gives me a questioning look. I drop my hand down so the ribbon is by my side, and I turn and walk away off the track.
Chapter 29
It’s mid-afternoon and I’m resting in the stands. I don’t have any lunch, so I watch kids try to hurl the shotput, which only lands dangerously close to their toes. And I’ve watched Tam high jump her way to District. The last time I was at a track like this, Bridge was with me. Dad too. But today I’m on my own, stretching Mum’s t-shirt down and tucking my knees inside it until there’s only a bit of me showing.
Before lunch I won the 200 metres; Ellie came third. She said nothing as we lined up to drink from the water fountain afterwards.
The 400 metres is up next. There are only nine of us competing, so there are no heats, which is lucky because 400 metres is a lap of the track and I don’t want to run this race twice. It’s not like sprinting. You start in your lane and then as you round the first bend you can run across into the middle. Speed still matters, but it’s also about strategy.
As I walk past Ellie to my lane, Ellie sees me and whispers, ‘Good luck.’
I twirl around and search her face. Her eyes are sad, not fierce. She’s being genuine and it makes me wish I were back in the stands with my shoes off and my sore toes out of their falling-down socks.
Surprised, I straighten up. ‘You too,’ I say back to her, but my words are blown apart by the sound of the pistol as it explodes into the air. And everyone takes off except me. Ellie gets a head start because I’m still back in the moment where she was wishing me luck. Shaking off the thought, I start to run.
I pass a couple of girls quickly, but stay in my lane. And in seconds I’m even with Ellie again.
Then Ellie is passing me but only because we’re on the bend. As we start to run into the centre lane, it’s clear that Ellie and I are ahead of the pack. It will be hard for anyone to catch us if we keep running at this pace.
We round another bend and I can see the teachers and kids cheering for us at the finish line. Ellie and I are almost next to each other, nearly running in step, which is pretty hard given Ellie’s so much taller than me. But I still have enough energy left to sprint the last 50 metres, so I’m just biding my time until we reach that point.
Suddenly Ellie starts speeding up and I match her. And then I’m just a fraction in front and I know this race is mine.
In my head I can hear my old coach telling me never turn your head to look at your competitor. But I do. And I see Ellie. Her shoulders back. Her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail as messy as mine. And I start to think about how awful she must feel, and how rotten I’ve been to lie to her when her own mum was dying.
With just metres to go, I falter in my step and Ellie edges in front.
A second later she crosses the line first, and I thunder across after her.
With my heart pumping in my head, I take my red ribbon and walk back to the stands where I kick off my Converse. A couple of kids congratulate me as I pin the ribbon to my bag. I don’t want to wear it. I don’t want to wear any of them. My feet are stinging and I realise what I really need is a footbath like Mum used to make me after I’d competed in a race. She’d sprinkle in some of her special bath oils and let me sit in front of the TV with a snack for an hour or so, until my feet felt normal again. Obviously that isn’t going to happen, so I bend down and grab my shoes and a shadow falls over me.
‘You let me win,’ says Ellie, standing above me. ‘Didn’t you?’
I look up, but the sun’s behind her head so I can’t see her eyes.
‘As if,’ I say. ‘I’m not that nice, Ellie.’
‘I know you aren’t,’ she says, sitting down beside me on the wooden bench, blue ribbon in her hand.
My back is all sweaty and the breeze is blowing against it like a kiss. I pull at a loose thread on my sock but, instead of
snapping it off, I just make it longer and longer and longer.
Ellie coughs and the sound is forced, like she’s trying to push her words out.
‘You know how you asked me about getting to State when you came over that time?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Well the truth is that I choked. I got so nervous and I came last. It was the day after Mum had been diagnosed and I wanted to win so much for her that I just lost it.’
I nod and then stop. I don’t want Ellie thinking that I’m trying to be her friend again.
‘You lied to me,’ she whispers.
I inch away, surprised by how sad she sounds. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You really hurt me.’
I nod. I know.
‘That was really mean, Clem.’
I clench my fingers tight, trying to make my nails scratch into my palm. ‘Ellie, you’re really nice. Much nicer than me,’ I say, realising it’s the truth.
‘Yeah, I reckon I am. And it’s because I’m not angry like you are,’ she says quietly.
Suddenly the wood feels really hot under my legs, and I need to stretch.
But then Ellie looks at me really seriously and says, ‘Your mum isn’t dead, Clem. And no matter what she did or how much she hurt you, you’re lucky because you still have her.’
I start shaking after she says it. I know she’s right.
BTF I loved Mum even though she was so absent.
BTF I would have done anything to make her laugh again.
BTF I used to lie on her bed in the dark just to cuddle.
But lately, I’ve tried to pretend she’s dead.
Then I realise something. ‘Ellie, even though I lied to you about my mum dying, I didn’t lie about understanding how you felt. I know that feeling. I wanted things to be normal again after the fire … more than anything. I didn’t lie about that.’ My eyes fill up with tears because, even before the fire, it was like Mum did die. She wasn’t really my mum even though she was still alive.