by Andrew Daddo
I could hear a mozzie, but I couldn’t see it.
My bum was sore from sitting and cold from the dirt, so I decided to go inside. It wasn’t the Coke I was after; it was the comfort. Life on the run wasn’t nearly as good as I’d thought it was going to be. Lotus was sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea. She didn’t look up when I came in, but poured a cup that she’d already set out for me. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘I didn’t think we could have those things.’
‘It’s tea, dear.’ She smiled. ‘Some things are above all rules, and tea is one of them.’
‘I thought you’d be smoking.’
‘I gave them away,’ she said and tapped the table.
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. I do it all the time. I think this is the sixth time this year, and what month is it – March? That’s not bad, is it? One of these days it’ll work.’ She smiled at me and I smiled back.
‘I heard what your sister said. It was a lousy thing to say. And she was wrong.’
I knew Kylie was wrong to say it, but I was hoping Lotus meant she was wrong about me having boy boobs, too.
She topped up her tea and added a teaspoon of sugar. Then another. She was making me wait. ‘You don’t have boy boobs, Ashton.’
‘Really?’
‘In fact, you’re in good shape. What are you – thirteen?’
That made me laugh.
‘What’s so funny? Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re fourteen or fifteen. Sorry. Really. I was only–’
‘I’m eleven.’
‘Well, you’re not built like an eleven-year-old. Seriously. You’re muscled more like thirteen or fourteen. I could feel it when I gave you that massage. You’re strong. Those are real muscles, not boy boobs. They’re core power.’ It was hard not to smile, even though I didn’t really believe her. She was onto me. ‘You think you’re fat, don’t you?’
I wasn’t sure if I should tell her what I thought, or what I thought she wanted to hear. I went for both. ‘Not really. Well, a bit. I mean, I haven’t got a washboard or anything like that. And there’s this bit that hangs over the sides here.’ I made a pass at my muffin top and was a bit surprised to find that it was only there if I bent over. Maybe it was on the way out.
‘Do you know that just about every kid your age thinks they’re fat?’
‘As if.’
‘They do. It’s girls more than boys, but boys, too. You all want to look like top footballers or models or something you don’t think you look like. But what you kids seem to forget is that you’re growing, but you’re not growing at the same rate all the time. Your body needs a rest, and energy. So occasionally, between the growth spurts, it needs to put a bit of energy away and that’s what’s happening. You’re not fat, I promise. You’re normal. I’ll tell you who’s fat: I am.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I said. I’d seen Mum and Dad play this game.
She looked at me over the rim of her teacup. There was a twinkle in her eye, maybe a wink. ‘It’s all right, Ash. I am. I know it. I’ve been skinny and I’ve been enormous and this is the me that I am now. I’ve been this way for a long time. I don’t fight it. I’m not like Oprah. I’m comfortable in my own skin; all of it.’ But then she changed the subject. Kind of. ‘Do you want something to eat? Some dinner? When I saw you through the window I told your mum and dad you were here, so they’re not worried about you. All I’ve got is cheese on toast, I’m afraid. Your dad finished off the good stuff the other day and I haven’t had a chance to get to the shops.’
I couldn’t help asking. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit weird that you talk all that healthy mumbo jumbo, but you don’t stick to it? You know, Zen and the Art of the Sacred Swami, detox, nine-grain bread and monster mung beans? You talk about it as if you believe in it.’
‘Did you say you were eleven? I’m impressed.’
‘I’m nearly twelve. In November. It’s not that far away.’
‘It’s not that I don’t believe in the health stuff. Of course I do. I just believe it in a different way. You see, people come here looking for something. They want to feel healthy and they think if they eat mung beans and celery sticks and drink nothing but purified Algerian carrot juice they’ll feel better. And because they think they’ll feel better, they will.
‘It’s about the mind. Of course the yoga and the stretching are fantastic, because we all need physical exercise. The rest of it’s mental exercise, and it works because their brains are telling them it does. I mean, do you seriously think banging drums in a teepee is going to make anyone a more beautiful person? Of course it won’t. But if it makes them feel as if they are, who cares? Do you have any idea how many drums I sell to these bozos?’
‘I think Mum said she was going to buy one.’
‘I didn’t mean they were all bozos!’ she said quickly. ‘But you get what I mean, right? Do you want to know the secret?’
I rubbed my forearm, where she’d hammered her thumb into it and made me squeal with pain. ‘This isn’t going to hurt, is it?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. No, of course it won’t hurt. The secret isn’t much of a secret really. It’s doing things in moderation. If all you eat is crappy food, you’ll feel and look crappy. If you eat good food, and don’t stuff yourself until you start to burp it up, you probably won’t. And if you exercise you’ll always feel better. But the more you eat the more you have to exercise. It’s as simple as that. Everyone knows you’re going to drink Coke once in a while and that’s fine. Just not all day every day. The same as you can’t eat mung beans all day, every day.’ Lotus raised a cheek and pretended to let off. ‘Balance is the secret; just don’t go nuts. I remember a lady came through here and she said all kids should eat the gunk out of their zits so their bodies would build an immunity to it. Cheese on toast won’t kill you; you just need to eat other stuff as well. Green stuff, maybe. Like salad. So what do you say – would you like some?’
‘Zit gunk or salad?’
‘Cheese on toast. I’ll sprinkle some parsley about if you like.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ve got another secret.’
This could be big, I thought.
‘You know that “secret” pressure point, the one in your forearm?’
‘Yeah,’ I said pulling my elbows off the table.
‘It’s not where your secrets are kept.’
‘So where are they kept?’
‘I have no idea.’ She laughed. ‘It is a pressure point, though, and my brother used to dig his thumb in there whenever he got the chance.’
‘My sister needs a bit of work on hers!’ I said.
22
Lotus took me back to the others after we’d had dinner watching TV.
She was a Survivor tragic. She loved the contestants, but seemed to love hating the host even more. ‘He’s such a know-all, so smug. I’d like to get him on a massage table and show him a thing or two!’ Nearly every time he was on camera she said something about him. ‘Bad hair, too skinny, too sweaty, dumb dimples, teeth are too white, not sweaty enough, dumb, dumb, dumb, and what the hell kind of name is that anyway?’
Who was she kidding? I got the feeling she quite liked him.
Kylie mumbled a ‘sorry’ at me, which I pretended not to hear. ‘You could say, “No worries, Kyles. I’m sorry, too” you know!’ she said. ‘Like, that’d be the nice thing to do.’
‘You okay, Ash?’ said Mum. ‘Kylie didn’t mean what she said. She was just being stupid because you said–’
‘Okay, we all know what he said. Let’s forget the whole thing,’ said Dad. ‘You’re right, right?’
‘Yeah, I’m right.’
‘Good. Well let’s go and win the stupid trivia contest.’
So that’s what we almost did. If it hadn’t been for the table of lawyers from the inner west, we would have won easily.
We were all in bed by lights-out and Kylie was snoring before the usual mantra of saying good night
to our bodies. Mum still got a kick out of it.
‘Night,’ she said to anyone who was listening. I grunted, but managed a smile when I heard her and Dad give each other a noisy last peck for the day.
Later, after the music had stopped and the whole place was peaceful, I heard them talking. They were doing their best to be quiet, but Dad was a hopeless whisperer and they probably thought I was asleep.
‘Maybe we should bin the whole thing, Marn,’ he said. There was no response. Then I heard a slight ‘oof!’ and a groan. ‘Don’t you reckon?’
‘What? Huh?’
‘Do you think we should put an end to it? For the kids?’
‘An end to what? And for who?’
‘This makeover. I think we should forget it. I’m not sure the kids are coping. What if the “after” photo isn’t better than the “before”? What if they fail? It’s going to be all over the paper.’
‘Where’s this coming from? Do you mean your “after” photo won’t be any better than your “before” shot? That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Leonard? This isn’t about the kids, at all.’
‘No,’ said Dad. ‘I’m worried about what sort of message we’re sending them. I mean, we’ve all tried really hard at this, and what if it hasn’t worked? How is that going to make them feel?’
‘What are you on about? The kids look great. I checked the “before” polaroid.’
‘Really?’ Dad was saying exactly what I was thinking.
‘You’re the only one who hasn’t really changed, because while we’ve worked really hard at this, you’ve been gutsing yourself on the sly. You think I don’t know? Next time you should clean your teeth, bacon boy! And coffee stinks. So we’re not going to back out now, just for you.’
‘Don’t bring me into this,’ said Dad. ‘The whole idea was yours.’
‘Yes, darling, you remember it whichever way you like. The fact is that this is now about all of us. And we have to do what’s right.’
‘You are priceless.’
‘I’ll get to that. So you think we should back out of the makeover? That means I could lose the two-page spread and my shot at the big time? Fine. That’s no big thing, really. I’ll just keep treading water, writing about pet care. Maybe I could fill the two pages with a piece about long-haired dogs versus short-haired. Again. That might work. Buuuuuuuut – ’ We all hated the way Mum dragged that word out, because it always meant she was saying no. ‘It just means we’ll have to pay for the week here. Or you’ll have to pay. So if you don’t want to show the kids what commitment means, it won’t cost that much.’
‘What does “that much” mean?’
‘No idea. I never thought we’d quit, so I haven’t even looked at the prices of things – except the massages. They started at around a hundred.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Pesos, you ninny.’ Mum laughed. ‘Don’t you remember changing currencies?’
‘A hundred each?’ Dad sounded as if he was about to cry.
‘Each half-hour.’ The more revved up Dad was getting, the more Mum relaxed. It was kind of fun to listen to.
‘We’ve all had at least an hour of them every day, and you’ve had more!’
‘Don’t be like that, Len. I’ve got a four-hour treatment in the morning that I’ve been building up to.’
‘Cancel.’
‘There’s a cancellation fee, darling.’
‘Doh! Fine. Be like that! We’ll do the stupid feature.’
‘But what about the kids?’ said Mum in a baby voice. ‘I thought you were worried about them and how they were dealing with all of this.’
Dad snorted a laugh. ‘They’ll be fine.’
The weird thing was, I’d never been worried about the makeover or the pictures in the paper or any of that. I thought it was all fun. It was actually exciting. Having to squeeze into the shorts was a bit of a drag, but it wasn’t tragic. And Candy the photographer’s assistant had said I looked like Tarzan, and I knew that even though Tarzan was no longer cool, he was still pretty buffed.
I felt around for my muffin top.
Maybe my peejays were the wrong clothes to cook it up in, because there was nothing there. I’m not saying I was Mr Abs, but it all felt kind of good. I felt good.
23
As I came in to land I had to flap my wings extra hard. Much harder than when I normally came in to land, anyway. I was going too fast. This was going to hurt. The wind seemed to get under my armpits. I turned my hands like wing-flaps. I was slowing down, but I needed help.
The ground was a writhing sea of white, like maggots, maybe. But they had to be jumping or flying maggots. I didn’t want to go down there. They were squawking and screeching.
As I got closer, they were seagulls and they were flying and hopping about, fighting for something on the sand.
Oh, my God! The seagulls were fighting over a giant muffin top. It was huge, like a stuntman’s landing pad. Circles of poppy seeds showed the way to the centre. Like a target. When the seagulls saw me, they flew up, flipped me on my back and their song bobbed on the wind. ‘Wake up. It’s time to wake up!’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Go away. Never!’
I bounced on the muffin top when I landed. Just a bit. It wasn’t a hard bounce, but it wasn’t soft. Just right. I knew the inside of the muffin would be a bit like a stunty’s pillow: soft, light and full of air. But the best bit was the crust, not the inside, because it was stronger and didn’t fall apart. The muffin top is the landing place. It has to be inviting, begging us to hoof in.
I snuggled my back into it. Maybe the seagulls had picked the top away and made me a pillow.
A pillow.
I opened my eyes.
Weird. Very.
Carrot juice and yoga. Green grass juice and breakfast. The Culinary Secrets of the Japanese Geisha. The Spiritual Health and Wellness Centre was running like clockwork.
We went to a sculpture class.
I had expected to see stone blocks for carving, or at least clay to mould, but when we got there everyone was lying on their mats on the floor, waiting for the instructions on how to sculpt. Body sculpt. There was lots of talking and laughing. Even Dad was having a good time.
As in most of the other classes there were candles and wilting music, and the hour started with breathing.
My mind wandered to another place. When I’d accidentally hit George Kalledis, the toughest kid in school, with a tennis ball in the back of the head, I expected him to belt me. I cringed. ‘Sorry, it was an accident.’
He looked at the way I’d bound my hand with an old tie of Dad’s to give me more power at handball and said, ‘Don’t worry this time, dirtbag. Whatever blows your hair back!’ Then he threw the ball over the school fence. But he didn’t belt me, as I’d thought he would.
I didn’t have a clue what he meant. Whatever blows your hair back?
But now, I did. He meant what Lotus meant when she talked about different people wanting different things. If beating drums or Aztec breathing or Ng Ng dancing or even body sculpting made you feel good – if any of it blew your hair back – then that was cool. And if someone was short or tall or fat or skinny, that shouldn’t make a difference, either.
We were all different. Some bozos bought drums, and some beat them.
I felt about as well as I thought I could, and it was time to go.
Mum said she was a bit wobbly after her four-hour massage, but that didn’t stop her going to one final late afternoon session called Rebirthing with Pilates while Dad, Kylie and I packed our stuff and loaded up. When Dad asked Lotus for the car keys, she told him they were in the car.
‘They’ve been there all the time.’ She smiled.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No, you just forgot to look.’
Mum was red from the effort of her workout.
‘How was it?’ said Dad.
‘Interesting.’ She nodded. ‘A bit different from what I’d expected. I’ve never been to a reb
irthing class.’
‘Why would you want to?’ said Kylie. ‘Didn’t you get enough the first time round?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – ’ Mum’s bottom lip began to wobble. ‘A lot of stuff came out. It was really, ah, good.’ She started bawling, grabbed Lotus and hugged a ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ into her that left the shoulder of Lotus’s kaftan wet with tears. Kylie went next. More hugs, no tears. Kylie avoided a kiss goodbye. She was good at that. We’ve got an Auntie Maggie, the one with man-whiskers. Auntie Maggie sets up for hello and goodbye as if she’s going to air-kiss. Then, the last second before impact, she turns her head and nails us. Moustache whiskers, chin whiskers and ancient, hard lips of string. She gets me every time, but never Kylie. I wish I knew how she got out of it.
Lotus dragged me into a bear hug and whispered, ‘See you, Muscles,’ so quietly in my ear I almost missed it.
Dad gave her a handshake that turned into a kiss and said, ‘I owe you a pig’s butt of bacon.’
‘And I owe you a lung.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dad.
‘I haven’t had a ciggie in a few days. I think I’ve quit for real this time, and it’s all thanks to you.’
‘Really?’ Dad stuck his chest out.
‘Nah, not really. But I don’t think I’ll start again, all the same.’
Dad grinned at her. ‘So that’s it, is it? No weigh-out? No million dollars for the biggest loser? No final analysis of our insides or what’s come out of them?’ She shook her head. ‘We just leave?’
‘With a promise to return another day, because you all had such a good time.’
‘Done,’ said Mum.
‘You’re on,’ said Dad.
Orange Hannah came bouncing down the steps and said goodbye, too. Then we piled into the car and took off. Mum stuck a CD in the player. Pan Flutes from Panama.