I shower and put on my crumpled school dress, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. The cotton is scratchy against my skin and the hem falls above my knees—too short to pass regulations, but Dad insists he won’t waste money to replace a perfectly good uniform. It’s only a matter of time before Principal Moore notices and I get a detention. I’m looking forward to the battle between him and Dad; Dad’s as stubborn as a three-legged camel.
Gina, Dad’s truck, pulls out of the driveway.
Eight-fifteen. I have less than ten minutes to put on make-up and shovel down some breakfast.
I reach for the light switch in the bathroom and hit smooth wall. Stupid—it’s on the other side, not something I should forget. And the toilet seat has been left up, which means one of them has used it. I tie my hair in a high ponytail, wipe my face with a cool flannel and check my skin: blotchy, smudges under my eyes. They’re hazel, but today they look green. One pupil is slightly larger than the other. I grab for my make-up bag and knock it off the counter—I know I’ll waste more precious minutes picking up the scattered tubes and bottles, then proceed to waste precisely that amount of time thinking about picking them up, followed by the realisation that I’ve been standing in front of the mirror holding a razor.
What was I doing before this?
Make-up. Right.
‘Grace!’ Cody calls.
‘Two minutes!’
Cody is uncharacteristically silent on the drive to school. He won’t look at me. My brother takes after Dad: muscled, blond, tanned. I’m pale, fine-boned and dark-haired, like Mum, except her hair was shorter.
Like she was. I wonder if it still hurts Dad to look at me. He told me it did, once.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘Are you pissed off at me, too?’
‘You mean, Dad? He’s not pissed at you, Grace. That’s how he always is.’
‘Not with you.’ To cover the whine in my tone, I say in a hick accent, ‘Y’all are bestest buds now, drinkin’ brews in the shed. Probably lightin’ each other’s farts.’ Cody always found anything to do with farts funny.
He doesn’t find it funny. ‘We’re working on the car. It’s taken this long for him to even look at it, so back off.’
This long. He means since Mum died. And the car—of all the things we left behind on the farm, all the untainted memories, we had to tow the carcass of Mum’s red ’78 Celica to suburbia, to a house only she could have loved. The back verandah is scattered with its innards and even the kitchen stinks like petrol and grease. It’s like Dad’s still working on Mum’s bucket list after she’s gone.
‘Take it easy on him, will you? And be easier.’ He adjusts the rear-vision mirror and turns up the volume on the radio. ‘Because if you want the truth, you’re bloody hard work, Grace.’
‘Oh, I’m a girl so I should be easy.’ I fold my arms over my chest and turn towards the window. ‘It’s only dumb pranks. You did worse.’ Cody’s changed sides. He’s forgotten how to speak sibling.
He laughs. ‘You think hot-wiring a teacher’s car and parking it three streets away is a prank? You got off easy. I would have been charged for theft and probably expelled.’
‘Kenzie hot-wired the car. I just drove.’ I’m smirking but I don’t want him to see. ‘And I’m grounded. That’s not getting off easy. Kenzie got off.’
‘You’ve been grounded for half your life. Doesn’t stop you going anywhere. And Kenzie is a sweet kid—you’re the evil mastermind.’ He pulls into the student car park. ‘I’m just saying, Dad’s got a lot on his mind. Give him a break, huh?’
I sigh. ‘Yeah.’ As I grab the doorhandle, he puts his hand on my arm. I jump. We’re not touchy-feely people. ‘What?’
‘Your face…I have to ask.’
‘What’s wrong with my face?’ He’s noticed. I knew it. My eyes have changed.
‘It’s just…’ He squirms. ‘You look like something from Rocky Horror.’
I lean across him and flick down the visor. I normally wear mascara, concealer, lip gloss. That’s it. But I look like a clown. No, like a three-year-old has coloured me in. In the dark. Green eyeshadow, black skids of eyeliner, red over-sized mouth. No foundation, just clumpy puffs of powder on my nose and cheeks. My hair is parted on the side—me: middle part, always—and tied with a blue ribbon.
I rip the ribbon off, reach into my bag, pull out a packet of wet wipes and start scrubbing at my skin. Cody watches me, lost for words again.
Nothing is normal.
Amber slips into her seat beside me in homeroom. She used to be a tomboy, like Kenzie and me, but while we quietly grew into our bodies and gave in ungracefully to looking half-pretty and smelling nice most of the time, Amber turned into an explosion of girl. Now her hair is long, straight, dyed a deep red. Her dress was new this term but it’s already been shortened to above the knee; when she sits down, it rises to mid-thigh. Like an older sister, Amber has a sneaky way of bending school rules often enough that they’re slackened for the rest of us. The shy girl who pissed her pants on the first day of Grade Three is long gone.
‘Tamara Fraser is having a party next Saturday,’ she says. ‘She made a point of telling me no Swampies allowed.’
On any other day I’d see it as a challenge. ‘Why are you even talking to Tamara Fraser?’
‘Have you been crying?’ she says. ‘It looks like you’ve been crying.’
‘No. I’m just not wearing any make-up.’ My skin is dry and itchy where I’ve scrubbed it.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘About what?’
She shrugs. ‘Nothing.’ She bites her lip. ‘Okay, so Noah Wentz told me he doesn’t think you were faking.’
A lightbulb goes on in my head. ‘You’ve been consorting with the enemy.’
‘Consorting?’ Amber smiles dreamily. ‘I have loved my enemy.’
She knows any girl with a beating heart has lusted after Noah Wentz at some point in her life, if not for all of it. Swampie Public doesn’t have an equivalent god, so we’ve all lusted, we’ve all wanted him, but always from afar. This is treacherous new ground.
‘You’re trashy,’ I say. ‘It should be your name all over the wall, not mine.’
It’s loud enough for everyone to hear over the noise of the hut we call a classroom. There’s sudden quiet.
I clap my hand over my mouth. I’ve never said it aloud to her—only to Kenzie. Amber is a puzzle we all figured out long ago; she’s predictable, bossy, broken, but harmless. And honest. Loyal. Loving. Trashy is a label other people give her because it’s easier than trying to work her out.
Amber leans away. She seems half-irritated, half-pleased.
When did such a simple friendship get so complicated? I wonder what the others will think of me when she tells them—and she will. I’ve broken code. We’re not the most popular, we’re not cool, but we don’t need anyone else. We have each other. We are—or we were—complete. Six virgins with no ambition except to survive high school and move on to Phase II—Nirvana with the rooftop garden—at least with our friendships intact, if not our virginities.
At this rate I won’t survive high school. I’ll be a dead friendless virgin.
None of the crew is waiting around after school to walk with me or offer me a lift. Everyone has something pressing to do, except me. Straight home, Dad texted. No excuses. Grounded means grounded this time. Embrace thine infinite boredom. For once I’m okay with being grounded—after a whole day of avoiding people, batting away insults and steering clear of the wall, I’m close to tears and raw all over.
I blitzed the Biology test. I’m riding high on the relief that follows near-perfect recall of twenty-five facts about the endocrine system, as if a long-buried crypt had been opened in my brain. But then I remember what I said to Amber and my mood crashes; I’m imagining a fast and furious text relay where I’m bitched about, blacklisted and sentenced to eat lunch in exile for eternity.
I let myself into the house. Diesel’s lying in his bed by
the back door. He has his favourite soft toy tucked under his body, like he’s hatching an egg, and there’s another in his mouth. Six years ago we went to the shelter, took one look at his skinny black body and tiny paws, and brought him home. He was bits of this and that, and he stayed skinny and tiny for a few weeks, but then he grew. He didn’t stop growing for two years. Cody says he’s the love-child of a moose and a hyena.
Diesel’s always carrying something around—if it’s not a toy, it’s a sock, a shoe, or somebody’s underwear. He won’t greet a stranger at the door without the security of having something in his mouth. If he decides he likes you, he’ll offer it, drop it at your feet or in your lap; if he hasn’t made up his mind, he’ll test you. He’ll spit out whatever he’s carrying and wait, mouth open, almost smiling, and it’s a race to jam something between his jaws before he latches onto a limb instead. He doesn’t break skin; he just hangs on until you offer a sacrifice.
We keep a basket of odd socks near the front door.
I throw my bag onto the kitchen counter and grab a banana. I skin it and lob the peel into the bin. Crack shot. Except now I’m standing with a slimy, skinless banana in my hand and the sensation is utterly foreign—I always peel in increments, never the whole thing.
I am so confused. My head aches. There’s a stabbing needle behind my damaged left eye, and the cloud-shaped scar seems bigger.
I groan. Diesel launches himself to a sit, ears pricked.
Maybe I have a bleed in my brain. A clot. A parasite. Confused. Con-fused. Conjoined. As in combined, merged, melded…except that’s not what confused means, is it? It sounds like that’s what it means. Stupid thoughts.
I groan again.
Diesel drops his soft toy. He sidles up to my leg and sniffs. He cocks his head and a low growl vibrates in his throat. I reach down to pat him.
And he bites.
There’s a sickening pop, more sensation than sound. A fang punctures the base of my thumb. I yelp and tug my hand away. Diesel spits it out as if he doesn’t know what it is or how it got there; he drops his head and sways in anguish. For a second, I think it’s nothing, it doesn’t really hurt, his pain is worse than mine. But the pain kicks in when I see the blood. I stare at the wound: it only oozes at first, just a light tickle, a wet trickle. Then it begins to pulse and I can time my heartbeat by it; I’m thinking I can’t remember if thumbs have arteries and I know arterial blood is supposed to be bright red but blood is always red and out of nowhere comes: blood is black.
Diesel growls again.
I make the vicious sound we keep for when he pees inside or chews things he shouldn’t. ‘Baaaad dog. Aaaaach.’
Diesel drops to the floor and rolls belly up: classic submissive stance. He’s sorry, but instinctively I know if I touch him he’ll bite again. His ears are flat to his head and his tail is tucked. Like Dad always says about me: instinct is stronger than good manners.
I cradle my hand and move slowly to the bathroom, turn the tap and run cold water over my thumb. It’s weeping but the bleeding has slowed. The flesh around the wound is bruised and puffy. A tangle of veins bulges under my skin.
Diesel has followed me; he peers around the door, sad-eyed, but his hackles are raised. He’s on alert, the same way he is when fireworks go off on New Year’s Eve. In return, I’m wary of him and what he senses about me. My own senses are off-kilter, spinning like a broken compass. I’m freezing hot and seeing stars in a haze of red; I’m bone-tired but my muscles are restless and twitching. It’s as if I’m too full. Something squirms in my intestines like some kind of malignant bloat, and behind my left eye is the relentless, stabbing pain.
I sit on the floor and cover my other eye with the palm of my good hand. The pain eases, the red haze fades to pink, but my damaged eye is playing tricks; the familiar, drifting cloud has disappeared. In its place, a black smudge, dancing across the wall, just out of direct vision. I can’t catch it, so I stare straight ahead. The smudge has a life of its own—it darts behind me, and I turn so quickly the tendons in my neck burn.
It’s gone.
Diesel slinks away. I unclench my hand—the bite is bad. The blood is turning black.
Dad never hesitated to pop a slug behind the farm dogs’ ears if they showed signs of bad character, if they started nipping at sheep or developed a taste for blood. Diesel is as good as dead if I tell, and I know that’s not fair. It’s something about me that set him off.
‘Dad?’
‘Yeah.’
He’s glued to the late news, beer in hand, still wearing his work clothes, Diesel at his feet. The patch of carpet underneath his boots is worn through to the underlay and the couch slumps to one side, just like Dad. We moved the furniture, but nothing has changed; everything sags. We’ve given up.
‘I cut myself on a nail. I should get a Tetanus shot.’
‘How’d you manage that?’ He doesn’t look up.
‘You know…climbing fences.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Just a precaution.’
He sighs. ‘You have to be more careful.’
‘I know.’
He changes the channel. ‘I suppose I need to sign something.’
‘Probably.’
‘When did you last have a shot?’ He reaches down and rubs Diesel’s ears, shaking his head. ‘I should know this stuff, huh?’
‘I don’t remember. Three, maybe four years ago.’
‘Cody can take you.’ Diesel growls and Dad cuffs him lightly. ‘What’s up with you, boy?’
‘I can take myself.’ I wait. Dad’s sitting down and I have his attention, sort of. I should tell him there’s something worse going on with me than a dog bite or a scratch from a rusty nail. I won’t mention Diesel. I’ll tell him about the freakish pain and the weird sentences I say, the screwed-up thoughts I think, and the things I see that aren’t there. Maybe Dad will sign something and they’ll plug me into a machine that will make it all stop. ‘Dad?’
‘Yeah.’
An unholy screech sounds somewhere above my head and I crouch, hands over my ears. Diesel erupts, scrabbling across the carpet, barking, spraying slobber and snapping at air. Dad calmly gets up, crosses the room and stuffs a sock between Diesel’s jaws, but he keeps barking and gagging while Dad looks up at the ceiling with his hands on his hips, then down to me, still crouched on the floor.
He grabs my elbow and hauls me up. ‘Grace, get the gun.’
I run, skidding sideways on the kitchen linoleum. The gun? Where’s the gun? I catch sight of my own reflection in the kitchen window and freeze.
‘Grace? What’s wrong with you? Get the broom.’
The broom. Get the broom.
I get the broom.
The part of me still able to think rationally knows Dad doesn’t notice Diesel is barking at me. It takes longer for me to register that the screeching is the smoke alarm. Surely he sees my hair, crackling with static and standing on end as if the world has tipped upside down or I’m the wrong way up, but Dad only says, ‘Something must have shorted out.’ He reaches for the broom and stabs the detector with the handle until it spills its electronic guts, then he walks out, muttering something about a torch.
I step back into the darkness of the hall, away from the screeching, which has stopped, at least outside my head. My hair settles heavily on my shoulders. I wait, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs—too scared to go up alone and terrified to stay where I am—while Dad rummages in the fuse box outside.
Diesel watches me from underneath the coffee table. This time he’s not sorry.
Me: Are you mad at me?
Kenzie: I’m not mad.
Me: Are you avoiding me?
Kenzie: I’m not avoiding you!
Me: Where were you this morning? I had an early doc appt but I waited at Reilly’s. You could have texted.
Kenzie: Sorry. I was running late.
Me: Okay. See you at lunch?
Kenzie: Eating at Mitchell’s. See you
after school.
It’s not hard for Kenzie to avoid me—if that’s what she’s doing. The teachers got wise to our sneaky disruptions a long time ago and this year we only have two classes together, four times a week.
I wait for her—again—in the student car park after school, conscious that I’m standing there with a pathetically hopeful expression on my face, the only one of us with a licence and no access to a car. Cody won’t let me near his Commodore. We had to sell the farm ute and Dad won’t let anyone drive Gina. And I don’t want to drive a truck anyway. Even Amber, who’s already had two minor accidents, is allowed to borrow her parents’ car whenever she wants.
My skin is greasy with sweat and my backpack feels as heavy as a wet sandbag.
‘Grace!’ It’s Gummer, pulled over in the bus zone, out on the street. Cars are banked up behind his Ford but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. ‘Want a lift?’
I glance at my phone. No messages. It’s twenty to four already, and the cars stuck behind Gummer are starting to ride their horns.
‘Coming!’
I throw my bag into the back seat and climb in. The cab stinks of weed and the great unwashed. Gummer is wearing the same HR Giger T-shirt he had on yesterday and the day before that.
‘Did you skip school?’ I ask. I sound nasal from trying to breathe through my mouth.
He shakes his head. ‘I went. I have to keep my attendance up.’
‘You have to smoke less weed,’ I grumble, and lower the window. ‘Let me drive.’
He pulls over.
‘Really?’
He grins. ‘Yeah. I could do with a nap. Just drive until I tell you to stop.’
We switch places, and he surprises me by doing exactly that: reclining the passenger seat and pulling his beanie over his eyes. I pull out into traffic. The Ford is a great, hulking beast of a thing. I can barely see over the dash. My phone beeps somewhere in the depths of my bag but I ignore it, cruising past Lumpy’s, the pizza bar where Pete works, the shopping strip, the cemetery and Centennial Park. And because I’m in a different car and I think it can’t possibly hurt me now—it’s been two years—I turn down Waites Street and head for the intersection.
Ballad for a Mad Girl Page 4