by Lia Weston
An avenue stretches off the botanic gardens, terrace houses sloping down, their iron railings like bulldog under-bites.
We set up in the side road next to the first terrace house, outside the glare of the streetlight. There’s a grate on the corner, bars faintly gleaming.
‘Is that Amity’s place?’ says Gen.
‘Yup.’ I hand Gen the respirator and pull my bandana up over my nose.
‘Where’s yours?’ she says through the filter.
I pull my gloves on. ‘I’ve only got one. Hold the torch like this. And remember, if you see the police, drop everything and run like hell. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near this stuff.’
I unroll the acetate sheets and start taping. They’re bigger than normal, and this piece has five colours, which is two more than I usually bother with, but it will be worth it. Gen breathes like a mini Darth Vader next to me, hidden in the shadows. The wind is being a bitch; I have to wait for it to drop and then try to shelter the piece with my body while I spray.
Black. Blue. Green. I finish the red sections, hold the paint can away from Gen and clear the nozzle. I’m lining up the registration points on the final one when light floods the wall behind us. Gen ducks and shoves the torch inside her jacket.
After a few moments the light clicks off. It’s a bike, not a car. There’s the chink of a lock. At my gesture, Gen creeps back. I finish the yellow highlight, peel off the final sheet and hand Gen the can. ‘Do you know how to clean this?’
Gen turns it upside-down and starts spraying.
‘Away from the wall, dummy.’ I swing her arm in the opposite direction.
She scoots down the alley to finish, then trots back to look at the finished piece. ‘That’s so cool!’
A scarlet macaw emerges from the grate and flies straight up the wall, twisting in a vertical spiral, colour like tongues of fire in his wings.
‘Is it for Amity?’
‘She used to have one just like this,’ I say, rolling up the sheets.
‘Do we need to tell her it’s here?’
‘She should see it pretty quickly.’ I stick my head out from the alleyway to make sure the coast is still clear. Across the road, Amity opens her front door. Her visitor is briefly illuminated before he ducks inside.
I’d recognise that head of hair anywhere.
I glance back to make sure Gen is out of the way. She’s taking a photo of the macaw.
When I look at Amity’s house again, the door is closed.
Whatever my father’s doing right now, he’s not in Perth.
*
I’m stabbing mince in a pan and stressing about Dad when Mica’s distinctive knock sounds at the door.
‘I’ll get it!’ Gen bounces out of the lounge room so fast she puts a rip in the space-time continuum.
There’s a murmur from Mica I can’t hear, and then: ‘She’s bought chips!’ Myrrh to baby Jesus, forbidden snacks to Gen.
I managed to steer Gen in the opposite direction as we left Amity’s house so she wouldn’t spot Dad’s bicycle. Not that it’s likely she would have recognised it; to Gen, all bikes look the same – two wheels, a thing you sit on, and an inbuilt cloak of dagginess. Still, I guess Mum’d be happy that I actually managed to spy on Dad, even by accident. Even if it implicates her best friend.
‘Good God, he’s cooking,’ says Mica at the kitchen door.
‘You sound surprised, Micaela.’
‘Your name’s Micaela?’ says Gen, already getting stuck into the chips. ‘I thought it was like short for Tamika or something.’
‘That’s probably because you’ve never seen it written down,’ says Mica.
Gen laughs squeakily, as she does at most things Mica says.
I nod towards the lounge. ‘Gen, go and see if there’s anything you want to watch.’
Gen skips off. The dull clatter of DVD cases begins.
‘Nice shoes,’ I say.
Mica looks down. Her eyes are more sootily black than usual. Her dress shimmers with silver zigzags. ‘I’m surprised you noticed.’
‘Remember the Draco book?’ I dump half a shaker of dried basil into the saucepan. ‘I know the difference between a stiletto and a scarpin now.’
Draco, a very polite yet mind-bogglingly pedantic client, exhausted IF’s creative department in his quest for the correct shoes for his imaginary bride. It was Cinderella’s glass slipper nightmare. Too plain. Too clunky. Too white. Slightly not the right white. Too sparkly. Could be sparklier. When he finally approved our sixty-fifth offering (sateen, kitten heels, apparently just the right amount of sparkle), Mica burst into tears. It’s the only time I’ve seen her cry. She later put it down to allergies.
‘Mica, do you like thrillers?’ comes Gen’s voice from the lounge room.
‘Who’s in it?’
‘Tom Cruise.’
Mica makes the same face she did when she saw Kain in his cycling lycra. ‘Pass.’ She rootles in the fridge. ‘You don’t have any drinks.’
‘I didn’t even know Gen was coming over. It’s amazing I’ve got this far.’ I point my wooden spoon at the pan. ‘But there’s vodka under the couch.’
‘I’m not even going to ask why.’ Mica goes into the lounge and returns with the bottle.
‘Miiiiiiica?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Do you like Daniel Craig?’
‘Why, yes, I do.’
The TV turns on with a blip. There’s the rustle of the chip bag again, and Gen appears. ‘Did Tom tell you that he dumped his girlfriend in front of heeeeeeaps of people?’
‘That’s going on my tombstone, isn’t it?’ I tap the spoon on the edge of the pan and go to look for pasta.
‘We’ll get it carved in Comic Sans to really cap it off,’ says Mica.
‘Mum says Tom has commitment issues,’ says Gen.
The mention of Mum immediately brings Dad back to mind, shattering the sixty seconds of reprieve I’ve had from worrying about him.
Mica plants her elbows either side of the doorframe. ‘Well, I don’t know. Tom has committed to wearing the same T-shirt to work for three years.’
‘It’s not one T-shirt, it’s five identical T-shirts,’ I say. ‘Anyway, neither of you liked June.’
‘It’s the principle,’ says Gen, sounding thirty years old.
I shut the pantry. ‘You’ve never even been on a date.’
Gen immediately looks shifty.
‘You’re kidding,’ I say. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Oooh, does he look like Daniel Craig?’ says Mica.
‘Oh my God, can you not?’ says Gen, and huffs back to the lounge. ‘The movie’s starting.’
Mica and I look at each other.
‘We knew this day would come,’ she says.
‘I’m not ready.’
‘No one ever is.’
‘Hey, are you free next weekend?’ I unscrew the vodka cap. ‘Do you want to come to Rosie’s birthday party with me?’
Mica takes the glass and gives me a sweet smile. ‘Hell, no.’
Daniel Craig has kept Mica’s attention for a solid two hours. Gen has seen about a third of the film, judging by the amount of time she’s spent texting. In between, she sneaks glances at Mica and then subtly copies her positioning. It’s kind of cute.
‘He’s so pouty,’ says Mica, staring at Daniel.
‘He’s really squinty,’ agrees Gen. ‘Like, his eyes are tiny.’
Onscreen, Daniel pouts, squints and beats the crap out of people. The floor at Gen’s feet is littered with Burger Rings packets and empty bowls. Mica’s now curled up at the far end of the couch, one foot resting on her knee, watching the screen through the triangle of her legs. Gen, needless to say, is doing the same thing.
For the fortieth time, I mentally review how to tackle Dad’s whole surprise-I’m-not-in-Perth thing. I spin the roulette wheel: fury, disappointment, disapproval, bazooka. Do I go straight into attack mode, sever the artery before he realises what�
��s happening? ‘You lied to Mum’ versus ‘There’s something we need to discuss.’ It’s like attacking the Death Star: I’ll only get one shot before the whole thing shuts down.
There is one other option, of course. I can ignore what I saw.
I wish I could talk to someone.
‘Stop staring at me,’ says Mica without turning her head.
‘I was trying to work out your favourite icecream,’ I fib.
Gen snaps out of position. ‘We’re getting icecream? Proper icecream? Not frozen bananas?’
‘Not a single natural ingredient.’
‘Yay, yay, yay!’ She’s up off the couch and running for the door. For all her world-weary attitude, Gen is still very much a kid.
‘Need anything from the servo?’ I ask Mica, getting up.
‘I’ve got everything I need right here.’ Mica toasts Daniel Craig with her vodka.
Gen balances on the kerb outside the service station, sneakered feet white in the fluorescent light. The strip lighting picks up the diamond pattern on the back of her jacket, studding her shoulder blades. ‘Can I get M&Ms as well?’
‘If you eat them all before Mum picks you up.’
She prowls the aisles, selecting coloured packets, chewing her lip, her concentration intense. It’s not so much selecting a snack as it is choosing which pieces of gold to take from Aladdin’s cave.
The cashier gives her a once-over but abruptly stops when he sees me. He hands me my change with his eyes firmly elsewhere.
Gen’s got the bag open before the sliding door shuts behind us.
‘Oh my God,’ she says through a mouthful of crackling sugar.
‘Chew them. I don’t want to have to explain how you died.’ I shift the plastic bag of icecream to my other shoulder.
‘Mum’s been so cranky lately.’
‘I think she’s got a lot of stuff going on.’
‘Everyone does.’ This delivered in the tone of a Southern belle from the 1860s.
‘So what’s going on with you?’
Gen shutters down. ‘Nothing.’
‘No news? No new friends?’
‘I don’t have friends.’
‘You text a hell of a lot for someone with no friends. What about Tracey?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Stacey?’
‘Nuh.’
‘That one who always wore cat ears?’
‘Brie.’ Gen hops back up on the kerb. ‘They don’t talk to me any more.’ The edge of her lips has started bleeding blue and green.
‘Why not?’
She stuffs more M&Ms in her face. ‘I ’unno.’
‘What does Mum say?’
Gen rolls her eyes. ‘That I should try to smile more.’
‘What about Dad?’
She shrugs. ‘Didn’t want to ask him.’
‘Well, you can always hang out with me. It’s not the same, but at least I won’t tell you to smile.’
After a moment Gen lunges sideways to hug me, then springs back. She must be on a high, all the forbidden numbers and preservatives flowing through her veins. She’ll probably glow in the dark tonight.
At ten-thirty, there’s a knock at the door. Mica, coming back from the bathroom, answers it.
‘Well, hello there.’ There’s a purring undertone to her voice. It’s not Mum.
Gen scrambles to her feet as Dad walks in. ‘I thought you were in Perth.’
‘Just got back,’ he says.
Liar, liar, liar. He’s been borrowing Mica’s Tardis.
Gen drags Dad into a chair, plonks herself down on the arm and throws her legs across his lap, a little girl once again. The Burger Rings have definitely messed with her brain chemistry.
‘I have a question only you can answer, Mr Lash,’ says Mica.
Dad’s half-smile lifts whenever Mica speaks.
‘How are sand dunes made?’ she says.
I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not a ruse: Mica genuinely finds Dad’s work interesting. I suspect it’s because it’s so abstruse, like using the dance patterns of bees to explain the preferential voting system.
‘Actually, it’s a fascinating process,’ he begins, and then I mentally check out. It’s not that sediment transport isn’t interesting, it’s just . . . No, who am I kidding, it’s not interesting.
Mica looks rapt while Dad bangs on, sitting forward in her pretty zigzag dress, watching him with those giant eyes. It’s as if she’s listening to Daniel Craig explain how to subdue someone with a chokehold, not my father, a man who eats Vegemite on fruit cake, sometimes forgets to shave and can talk about sand for seven hours. His female students look at him this way too. It’s fundamentally baffling.
The discourse gets to turbulent sweeps. Gen yawns so widely I can see coloured bits of M&Ms in her molars, and lolls sideways over Dad’s shoulder to rest her head on the back of the chair. Dad stops lecturing and looks embarrassed. ‘Too much detail. Sorry.’
‘I don’t mind,’ says Mica, and there’s a moment when they smile at each other. Coupled with Mum’s paranoia and the Amity thing, irritation lights a fuse in my chest.
I stand. ‘It’s late. Gen’s tired. Go home.’
Both Dad and Mica look at me in surprise.
Okay, that was rude, even for me.
I wait until Gen’s in the car, face whitewashed from her phone.
‘How was the conference?’
A millisecond elapses before he nods. ‘Good, yeah.’ I wait, just in case he decides to explain that it was cut short or he came back on a sonic jet or has a twin brother because I’m really reaching at this point.
Nothing.
‘What time did your plane get in?’
He looks into the space between us. ‘I came straight from the airport.’
‘I saw you at Amity’s.’
He glances into the car to see if Gen is still occupied. ‘Don’t say anything to your mother, please.’
‘That’s not –’
‘Tom.’ His arms are folded, sleeves pushed up, the perpetual tan from fieldwork having faded slightly over autumn. ‘Please.’
I don’t want to be caught up in this, swept onto the beach by the flows and complications of my parents’ relationship.
‘Daaaad,’ comes from inside the car.
I can’t trust what kind of tone is going to come out of my mouth so I say nothing.
Dad waves to Mica, who’s watching from the balcony. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he says to me, and gets in the car.
I stay on the footpath until the tail-lights disappear around the corner, giving myself a minute before going back inside.
You know how I wanted access to the secret world of grown-ups? I think I’ve changed my mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m marooned in a sea of toddlers. Pink bunting laces the ceiling and walls, pastel streamers fluttering from every corner. Rosie’s name is spelled out in gold helium, bobbing above the chaos. The dining room table has been dragged in and scattered with rose petals. In the centre is a pink cake on a pedestal, its label declaring it free of everything that gives cakes flavour.
‘Tom.’ Ellie marches forward. ‘Hello.’ The slightly indulgent tone she used to take with me is gone. I am no longer her husband’s arty, harmless friend. I am now a complete bastard.
She holds her hands out for Rosie’s present, then looks askance at the fluffy platypus puppet and flat wrapped rectangle I hand over. ‘Is there a card?’
‘I forgot, sorry.’
She gives another woman a significant look.
‘That’s fragile,’ I say as she bears my gifts off to no doubt dump in a corner somewhere or possibly into the bin.
Out in the garden is a teepee surrounded by children who all have names like Lily, Oscar and Jaxson. The boys are wearing feathered headdresses, the girls white flower crowns. They stumble over the teepee’s cushions, following each other in a clamouring mass from one item of attention to the next.
Dan is trying to light the
barbecue burners in the wind. He’s got a lite beer in one hand, which he’s only drinking under sufferance.
Inside, Ellie’s friends all clop like horses across the tiled floor, putting out trays of cupcakes, straightening skewers of fruits, hands on each other’s arms. Their partners, pastel-shirted men who wear loafers without socks, are all out with Dan, offering conflicting barbecue-related advice. The gender divide is clear. I take a carrot stick from a plate and receive a pained sigh from Ellie for disturbing the symmetry of her vegetables. When she turns away, I jumble the canapés together.
‘Dom, Dom!’ The birthday girl clasps my knee.
I pick her up. ‘Happy birthday, Rosie-roo.’
‘I’m five!’
‘You’ve got a new dress.’
She grabs the edge and flaps it up and down. ‘Yes yes yes!’
‘Rosie, don’t do that.’ Ellie plucks her out of my arms and deposits her on the floor.
‘Ellie, is there any guacamole? Hudson won’t eat anything but avocado at the moment,’ says a woman in a mushroom-coloured shift. She’s holding a baby and wearing a necklace that looks like it’s made from plasticine. The baby jams the necklace into its mouth, gumming at it furiously.
‘June was supposed to be bringing it,’ says Ellie, ‘but she just let me know she’s not coming.’
They both look at me accusingly. Breaker of innocent female hearts, denier of guacamole, the reason that Hudson will starve today.
‘Dom! See my things?’ Rosie tugs my hand towards the teepee outside. I follow obediently and sit among the cushions and romping children while she brings out all her presents one by one and tells me who they’re from and how much she likes them. She patiently answers all my dumb questions.
I don’t know if Gen talked this much at Rosie’s age. I was almost twenty by then and had already moved out to a crappy share house. Share housing is the reason I now live alone. On the plus side, it taught me that no matter how bad your life gets, at least you’re not living with a meth addict who likes to have angry sex and then wander naked around the kitchen while eating homebrand cabbage dumplings.