Mirror Me

by Rachel Sanderson

  YOURE NOT WELCOME HERE GET THE FUCK OUT

  I feel my jaw set. I think of Kat, and the way she stood up to Dave Hill this morning. She was strong. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was the way I want to be.

  I fumble around in a drawer until I find the lighter that Stacey stashed there for lighting tea candles. I open the window over the sink wide, turn the exhaust fan on, then hold the paper over the sink and set a flame to it. I drop it in and watch it flare and crumble.

  Chapter five

  Tom runs in ahead of me, bounding up the steps like an enthusiastic puppy. The veranda is clear of trash and the grass has been cut. I see that a gentle slope leads down to an orchard, though the trees look like they’d take a bit of convincing to provide fruit of any kind. At the bottom of the hill is a small dam, shaded by a gum tree.

  ‘That’s the fence line there,’ Stacey says, squinting and pointing to the opposite hill. ‘Amazing, huh. All that space is ours.’

  I feel a shudder moving through me. What are you meant to do with empty space? It almost makes me dizzy. I just don’t get the point of it. It sits there, all day, every day, doing nothing. But when I turn to say this, I see the look of happy contemplation on Stacey’s face, so different to her usual baseline of stressed and grumpy, so I don’t say anything.

  I follow Mum up the steps and into the house. The place is spotless. It has a delightful bouquet of fresh paint, nasty solvents and heavy-duty cleaning products. The walls are all properly white, the carpet has been replaced with something boring but unstained. The skanky linoleum benchtop has been re-surfaced with a retro-looking lemon-yellow and grey zig-zag pattern. There are two taps. And there is no sign nor smell of dead possum anywhere.

  ‘Geez Mum, you must have really scared them. I can’t believe they did all this in a week.’

  ‘I’ll let them know you’re impressed.’ My mother is a big believer in positive reinforcement. ‘Go check your room. Tell me what you think.’

  I walk through the lounge-room/kitchen and down the corridor. ‘Last door on the left,’ Mum calls. Tom is racing around from room to room without stopping, making excited noises like somebody has given him drugs.

  I push the last door on the left open. The room is small, even without any furniture in it. My old room was small too, I remind myself, in an attempt to be fair. We used to joke that my old room was probably meant to be a storage cupboard. I didn’t mind, though, because it was the only upstairs bedroom and it looked down onto the street, and I could lie on my bed and watch everything happen. There was always something to see. The window in this room looks down the grassy hillside towards the dam. Outlook – a whole lot of nothing. A shudder passes through me again.

  I don’t want to live like this. I like the city. I like being surrounded by people. There’s always something happening, something to do. People talk about big cities like they’re dangerous but I always feel safe. You’re never alone. Out here anything could happen and who would know? And for a second I think of Rebecca O’Reilley and her parents, killed in the middle of the night in their own home, nobody finding them until the morning. And then I think of the note. I shiver again. I pull out my phone, thinking I’ll text Leah a photo of my new view. She’ll probably think it’s hilarious. Then I see there’s no reception.

  Bloody hell. How much worse can it get? I want to kick the newly painted wall but I restrain myself. Tom sticks his head around the doorway. ‘Great hey, Abbie? My room’s right next door. We can knock messages on the wall like we used to when we were little. Remember?’ and he races off again. A few seconds later I hear a tap, tap, tap.

  I close my eyes and groan. I try to ignore it but he does it again. I imagine Tom sitting in the next room, ear to the wall, waiting. Hopeful and enthusiastic. I give in and knock back a reply.

  Long story short: moving sucks. The fridge doesn’t fit properly. Stacey’s antique writing desk is cracked. There are too many boxes and we can’t find any of the things we need. Everybody gets grumpy and tired, even Mum. And I have a very strong feeling this is all a horrible mistake. We shouldn’t be here. I watch the removalist’s truck finally drive away down the dirt road late on Saturday afternoon. The sun is turning golden and the birds are making too much noise. They have no off button.

  ‘How long would it take to walk to town from here?’ I ask Mum, as she’s sorting through a box of kitchen stuff.

  ‘I don’t know. Are you planning on walking?’

  ‘I have to be able to get around somehow.’

  ‘We don’t mind driving you,’ she says evenly, examining a spatula.

  ‘That’s not the point. I can’t always be relying on you and Stace. So how long would it take?’

  ‘Well, it’s a fifteen-minute drive so maybe fifty minutes? An hour? At a guess? I’m not sure, but we could try it if you like? I’m sure Tom would be up for a walk.’

  ‘Totally!’ I hear a muffled yell from behind the couch where Tom is unpacking his computer stuff.

  ‘Mum, you don’t get it. I don’t want to do a family walk. I want to have some independence. What if I need to go and see somebody or do something? And you’re busy or Stacey’s got the car or something?’

  ‘We’ll figure it out, sweetheart. I promise. I know it seems complicated at the moment…’

  I frown and shove a tin of baked beans onto the shelf under the sink. That will probably be our dinner. Shipwreck food. I think of the kebab place down the road from our old house and my stomach growls.

  ‘I know this is all different. But there might be things that make up for what you feel like you’re losing.’

  I turn on her, glaring. ‘I don’t just feel like I’m losing things, Mum, I am losing things. I’m losing my friends. I’m losing my whole life, basically. You realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘Abbie…’

  I go to storm out. I stride past where Tom is lying on the floor surrounded by gadgets, heading for the door that leads out to the corridor. The door is jammed.

  Storming out when there’s a jammed door is less effective than storming out through, say, an open door, or even better, opening and then slamming a door behind you. I have time to think about this as I jiggle the door handle and use my shoulder to get some leverage.

  ‘This place bloody sucks,’ I say to Mum.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve got someone coming to take a look at that. There are a few other things that still need fixing too. Let me know if you spot anything else and I’ll add it to the list…’

  The first night in the house, I barely sleep. It’s too quiet, and not having reception in my bedroom means I can’t message Leah, can’t check my Facebook, can’t do anything. I feel like I can hardly breathe.

  After lying awake in a silence punctuated by weird buzzings and occasional birdy-shrieks, I finally fall asleep only to be woken by the sound of a car engine. I check my phone. It’s 3am. I lift the blind a little and peer out into the blackness, but I can’t see anything.

  I think about that note again. Someone wants us gone. My heart races. At our old place, if anything happened you could just stick your head out the window and yell, and somebody would hear you. The police station was only a few blocks away. Here, the reception is non-existent and the landline isn’t connected yet. If we needed help, one of us would have to leave the house and run up the drive or down the hill searching for an elusive half bar or so to, perhaps if we’re lucky, allow a call to be made.

  As I’m thinking all this, the sound of the car’s engine fades. I lie in bed for a long time after, thrumming with adrenalin.

  You’re being stupid, I tell myself. Lots of people live like this. Most of the world isn’t populated by murderers or rapists; most people are just people. There’s no reason to feel any less safe here than in Sydney. In fact, it’s probably safer.

  But I can’t stop the thudding of my heart or the little voice in my head that whispers: tell that to the O’Reilleys.

  Chapter six

  My Sunday night
phone date with Leah can no longer take place in the comfort of my bedroom. Instead, as 6pm approaches, I walk outside and trudge away from the house up the driveway to find a spot where I’ll get a signal.

  She calls on the dot. I answer desperately, like I’m starving and she’s my last crust of bread.

  ‘Hey Abs, how you going? Are you in the new house?’

  ‘Outside the new house,’ I say. ‘Where the signal is. How’s things?’

  ‘Amazing. Brendan got us tickets to see the Blue Grand play tonight. They’re doing an all ages gig. I’ve got to get ready. Oh my god, what do you think I should wear?’

  For a moment, I can’t speak.

  Leah keeps chatting away, excitedly. ‘I was thinking the black dress with the pink flowers but it might look too much like I’m going to a beach party. I could wear jeans. Should I wear jeans? Damn it, I’m so used to having access to your wardrobe, my options feel severely depleted…’

  ‘Wear the dress,’ I say. Happy, happy, happy, I tell myself. I’m happy for Leah, happy that she’s having fun, going to see a band I love and have been desperate to catch all year. SOOOO happy. ‘The dress will look great. You can always wear your ankle boots with it, then it won’t look beachy at all.’

  ‘Ah thank you, you’ve saved me an hour of painful indecisiveness...’

  ‘Make that two,’ I say. ‘Minimum.’

  ‘So sorry Abs, I really have to go. I’ll send you photos of Shaun Miller if I get close enough to get any good ones.’

  Shaun Miller, lead singer of the Blue Grand, is my definition of perfection with a Y-chromosome. His voice makes me melt. Everything about him just seems entirely too much – his eyes, the tattoos ringing his incredible arms, his style, the words that he sings…

  Before I’ve even had the chance to tell Leah to have a great night, she’s gone. I hang up the phone. The sound of birdsong assaults me. Then I feel something moving on my leg. I jump. I’m paranoid about snakes and spiders – I’m sure something’s about to bite me. How long would it take for an ambulance to reach us out here? I look down and see a grasshopper, huge and gangly, hanging off my leg. I kick a few times and dislodge it. It arcs into the yellowing strands of grass beside the drive.

  My vision blurs. Those are not tears, I tell myself. I am absolutely definitely not crying.

  On Monday morning, I go and hide in the toilets rather than go to homeroom. I don’t want to see Dave Hill. I keep thinking of the note and the way Dave looks at me and it makes me feel anxious and exposed. I figure homeroom isn’t really a proper class anyway, it’s not like we’re learning anything, so missing it shouldn’t be too much of a big deal. I know it’s not a long-term solution, though – I can’t just not go. But I slept badly and I feel miserable and I want a break.

  On the plus side, I make it to art, which is my first class, nice and early. I like the art-room. The walls are covered in students’ paintings, the windowsills are lined with small bits of pottery – cups, bowls, sculptures. High-ceilings and big stretches of glass make the room light and spacious. Ferns and trailing vines hang from pots on a tall shelf.

  I find a seat, get out my art book and start looking at the sketch of fruit I was working on the week before. A minute later, somebody thuds into the seat next to me.

  ‘Abi-gail…’

  My gut twists. Dave Hill. I hadn’t even noticed he was in art with me. And now, he’s right next to me and Kat’s not here to step in. My instinct is to run away. When fight or flight comes into play, I always choose flight.

  Then I think of Kat. She seemed so cool, so completely in control responding to him. What would she do? I hold Dave’s gaze, which makes me feel like I have leeches sliding under my skin, but still – a minor victory. Then he tilts his head on an angle and frowns.

  ‘Has anyone told you, you look just like Becky O’Reilley?’

  All the blood rushes to my face. Rebecca O’Reilley. The dead girl. I feel a strange pounding at the base of my throat, like my heart is working too hard pumping blood.

  ‘Seriously,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I mean her tits were bigger. I’m probably not meant to say that. I could say it when she was alive, but now she’s dead…’ He shakes his head slowly and gives me a long, appraising look. ‘Fuck, it’s a bit of a freak out.’

  ‘Was she your friend?’ I ask, my voice wavering.

  ‘She fucking hated my guts,’ he smirks. ‘And now she’s dead. How about that, hey?’

  I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be a joke but it’s a joke that’s equal parts creepy and tasteless. And not even remotely funny.

  ‘Google Rebecca O’Reilley when you get home tonight. Look for a photo. I’m betting fifty bucks you’ll go and get a hair-cut within a week. Who wants to look like the dead girl?’

  The rest of the class is a blur. I keep telling myself that Dave must be exaggerating, but that doesn’t stop the curdling nausea in the pit of my stomach or the alternating chills and heat that wash through me. I can’t focus with Dave sitting there next to me. He doesn’t say anything else but he tries to catch my eye and smile every now and then, and each time he does my skin crawls.

  When we finally make it to the end of the fifty minutes, I grab my bag, hoping to leave as quickly as possible. Because of the way the desks are set up, I have to walk quite close to Dave Hill to get out. He doesn’t move to give me any room. I’m first to the door. I push it open. I walk through it, trying to look normal. I turn down the corridor. I count my steps to try and keep them steady.

  I need to get away.

  Chapter seven

  Has anyone told you, you look just like Becky O’Reilley?

  Dave’s words keep looping in my brain. Could it be true? It would explain so much if it was. But how is it possible? It’s just so damn creepy. And when I think about the fact that she was murdered…

  I know Cara and Helena and Zeke are expecting me to come and sit with them, but I can’t deal with talking to anybody right now. I head to the library. I find a desk in the farthest corner and get my maths textbook out. I try to focus on the equations, to steady my mind, but the numbers don’t make any sense. I get my phone out to text Leah. For a second I think of what Dave said. Google Rebecca O’Reilley when you get home…. Not yet. Not here. I don’t feel ready for what I might see.

  I just want to talk to Leah, to hear her voice. I want something to feel normal.

  How’s it going? I message.

  A minute later my phone vibrates.

  SO AWESOME

  A few seconds later –

  Shaun Miller totally smiled at me

  The gig. I’d forgotten. I feel the disappointment again like a low ache but it barely seems to matter now. A few seconds later my phone pings again –

  And Brendan kissed me!!!!

  I send a WOW emoji and turn back to my maths. There’s a test tomorrow, my first since I moved. I want to do well, to prove to my teacher that I’m not a complete idiot. I want to distract myself from thinking about Dave Hill and Becky O’Reilley. And truth is, I just can’t deal with Leah’s excitement. It’s making me feel even more miserable.

  My phone vibrates. I ignore it. Work through exercise seven. Take it slowly, step by step. Turn to the back of the book to check the answer. I’ve got it completely wrong and I don’t know why. Excellent. My phone vibrates again.

  I pick it up and look at it.

  But how are you going Abs?

  Are you okay? None of the good things are as good without you.

  I know she’s just saying that to make me feel better. She must be on cloud nine right now.

  I’m fine. I type back. Studying for a maths test. Talk later. And then, in case it sounds harsh, I add some kisses and a smiley face. Then I dump my phone in the front pocket of my bag and turn back to the start of the chapter.

  Zeke catches me on the way out at the end of the day. ‘Abbie, wait up… Is everything okay? I thought we’d see you at lunch…’

  ‘I went to the library. T
rying to catch up on some work,’ I say, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  I shake my head and keep walking. I want to get out of the school grounds, away from Dave Hill, away from everybody. And then… home? The thought doesn’t really make me feel any better.

  ‘Is it that thing with Dave?’

  I stop and turn to him. ‘You heard?’

  ‘Kat came by at lunchtime to see if you were okay. She said you didn’t show up to homeroom. Don’t worry about Dave,’ Zeke says, putting a hand on my arm. ‘Seriously, Abbie, he’s a tool. Everybody knows he’s a tool.’

  ‘Do you think I look like Rebecca O’Reilley?’ I ask.

  Zeke flinches. ‘Um, well…’

  ‘Dave said I look just like her. Is that true?’

  ‘I guess… she had hair the same colour, and a similar kind of smile. She was pretty.’

  I let that attempt at a diversionary compliment wash over me.

  ‘Had you noticed that I look like Rebecca O’Reilley? Like, when you met me, did you think to yourself, gosh that Abbie, she looks a lot like my classmate who is dead?’

  ‘Abbie –’

  ‘Please just tell me.’ I already know it’s true. I can tell by the look on Zeke’s face and the way he won’t meet my eyes.

  ‘I’d noticed. But mostly when I first saw you. Once I’d talked to you I could tell you’re nothing like Becky. You’re you. So I hadn’t really thought about it since then.’ He looks up at me. He looks worried.

  I groan. ‘Great.’

  ‘Does it freak you out?’

  ‘You mean, that I’m walking around town looking like a dead girl? No, not at all. Why would that freak me out? Why didn’t you tell me, Zeke? Why didn’t any of you tell me?’

  ‘I just… we hoped you might not find out, I guess. We figured people would get used to seeing you around…’