Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11)

by Mo Johnson

  I recognised that voice. Of all people, Sam was waiting at the counter.

  ‘Hi.’ Rob smiled at me. ‘Do you like my frog?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Your film is ready and your dad’s too. Do you want the lot?’

  I lost the power to speak and couldn’t answer either of them. Neither seemed to mind.

  ‘My toe’s a bit better,’ Sam said.

  I recovered my wits. ‘Oh, I didn’t stamp hard enough then?’

  He smiled.

  Yummy!

  ‘You’ve got a lot of photos there,’ I commented, just for something to say, nodding at the five or six sets of print-wallets in his hands.

  Yes, that’s me, a master of the obvious.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been busy,’ he said politely.

  The door opened again, and the sudden croaking startled me so much that I dropped my photos. Sam moved to help me, but he stumbled over the school bag that I’d left at my feet. In an attempt to steady himself, he dropped his photos too. Thankfully the actual prints didn’t slide out or we’d have been there all day, neither of us able to escape from our camera-shop nightmare.

  ‘Here,’ I said, returning his wallets.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ He grabbed them quickly and escaped.

  ‘Croak, croak, croak.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said crossly. I didn’t need a stupid frog to tell me that he was gone.

  At the station my train was waiting. I rushed aboard, found a seat and began flicking through my photos. I was still captivated by them when I reached my destination, forty minutes later.

  Some of them weren’t mine.

  They were Sam’s. They took my breath away. They were beautiful, haunting portrait shots, all of the same subject, all in black-and-white, and all taken from a variety of angles without the person’s knowledge.

  Of this last fact I could be absolutely certain, because they were all of me.

  When I got in I checked out the fridge for any changes since breakfast, but there was nothing to distract me so I climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

  The house was quiet. Kicking my shoes off, I flopped onto my bed.

  This was bad. No, it was good.

  Bad! No, good!

  My stomach flipped. The minute Sam flicked through his photos and found that this set was missing, he’d realise I’d seen them.

  That would be embarrassing for him. Perving in class was one thing, but it wasn’t normal to take secret photos of someone, was it?

  Gran McGonnigle knew a pervert once. He lived in her street when she was about my age, and he used to run around the place stealing all the girls’ underwear off the washing line. The day he snuck into Gran’s back garden, he took her mum’s knickers and not Gran’s. She reckons it was one of the biggest insults of her life, being rejected by a sleazy pervert in favour of her mother.

  Surely Sam wasn’t a sleazy perv.

  I went through the photos again. They made me feel special, not creepy. In a couple of them I was even…

  ‘Isla, did you pick up my photos?’ Dad was shouting from the bottom of the stairs.

  No!

  I hadn’t even bothered to check the last lot of pictures.

  ‘Isla?’ Footsteps on stairs.

  I sorted through them hurriedly. My film. Sam’s film…my film. I’d given Dad’s prints to Sam in the mix-up.

  ‘Did you hear me, Isla?’

  I scooped a pile of clean underwear into my arms and opened the door.

  ‘Did you get my pictures?’ He hovered cautiously on the threshold.

  ‘Oh,’ I said as evenly as I could, ‘Rob, at the camera shop, said there would be a slight delay. You’ll have them tomorrow.’ I smiled over the top of my bundle.

  ‘What!’ It wasn’t a question.

  I dropped a bra on his shoe.

  We both looked down.

  ‘Can you get that, Dad? My hands are full. Just tidying my room.’

  Honestly, you’d think I’d asked him to pat a red-back. He paused mid-bend, hoping for a reprieve, but I stood and waited patiently, so he swooped up the offending garment and hurled it at me as he turned and fled. He didn’t even notice that it had landed on my head.

  Mission accomplished: missing photos forgotten.

  I untangled the bra hooks from my hair and picked up Sam’s snaps again. They had been taken at school, in the yard, on the oval. That could hardly be called stalking; we had to be in the same places together each day.

  The last picture in the wallet was slightly different. It was a close-up, but the background was fuzzy and unfamiliar. Taking it over to my desk, careful not to leave fingerprints on it, I reached for my magnifying glass. I love desk gadgets, although I don’t think of the magnifying glass as a gadget because I rely on it regularly to check out my proofs. I peered through it now.

  I was vaguely aware of a door slamming somewhere, announcing Terry’s return. My heart began to race as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing in the top right-hand corner of the shot.

  It may have been slightly obscured by my head, and it may have been out of focus, but it was definitely there – big black letters on a white background – the sign for Coledale Railway Station.

  So, Sam Doyle had followed me home?

  Now that was a bit creepy!

  ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth,

  but if you’re doing the cooking,

  Isla, one will do just as well.’

  (Gran McGonnigle)

  I didn’t have time to dwell on the whole mess because I had to get dinner started.

  Downstairs, Terry was in the kitchen slowly peeling a potato. Dad was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Careful,’ I said, nodding at the other three, ‘you might peak too soon and be so exhausted you won’t be able to finish the carrots.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be slaving over a hot stove?’ she countered. ‘Dad says he feels like chicken. There’s one in the fridge.’

  I pulled a face. I hate touching raw chicken. You have to stick your hand right up inside the bird to get those extra bits out before cooking it. Gross! I can’t stand doing that.

  ‘Well, go on,’ she said, watching slyly, ‘take the yucky bits out.’

  ‘They’re giblets,’ I snapped, opening the bird, which had to be the biggest chicken in Australia; it swallowed up my whole arm. I rummaged around in growing alarm until I finally located the little plastic bag.

  Terry was laughing so hard that snot came out her nose.

  ‘Great look,’ I said viciously.

  ‘So is that,’ she snorted, pointing to the chicken on the end of my wrist. And you’re going to have to get faster. They pay you by the bird at the chicken factory.’

  ‘Shut it!’

  ‘I can just see you in a few years time,’ she laughed, ‘meeting some guy in a club and telling him you’re a…chicken stuffer.’

  ‘What a foul job,’ I said, and we both grinned.

  ‘How come you were so late tonight? Did you miss the train?’ I asked.

  She blushed and scrutinised the veggies like they were the most interesting things on the planet.

  My brain made one of those lightning connections. ‘Did you meet some guy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You did too.’

  She turned away.

  ‘Who is he?’

  She continued to ignore me.

  ‘It’s Jake Say-and-Spray, isn’t it?’ I deliberately plumped for the most ridiculous kid in her year, Jake Tobin, who had so much twisted steel on his teeth he could have swallowed the Harbour Bridge.

  ‘It is not!’

  Just then Dad appeared, thumping a bag down on the bench. ‘What’s going on?’

  Terry threw me a warning glance.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the barbied chicken. Didn’t your sister tell you I’d gone to get one?’

  ‘Terry!’ I spun round. She’d disappeared.

  Dad laughed when he saw what she’d done. ‘She got you. That�
��s funny.’

  No, it wasn’t.

  ‘Never mind, cook that one up anyway and it will do for our lunches.’

  I waited until he wasn’t looking and shoved it back in the fridge. There was no way I was having chicken sandwiches all week for lunch.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ I asked later as I served dinner.

  ‘It isn’t,’ he said glumly.

  ‘Never mind, you’ll bust him in the end,’ Terry said, appearing at the door.

  I agreed. ‘Just keep at it, Dad.’

  We ate together and talked about random stuff. It was nice.

  ‘Hi, you three.’ Mum popped her head round the kitchen door. We hadn’t even heard her come home. It’s those sneaky nurse shoes. They may be daggy, but don’t be fooled; if your mum ever acquires a pair, you’ll need a stronger Parent Coming radar, I can tell you.

  ‘Hi, toots.’ Dad hugged her. ‘How was your day?’

  She looked tired. ‘Awful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I lost a patient today,’ she said sadly. ‘Poor old Mrs Sweeney.’

  ‘You were kind of expecting her to pop off though, weren’t you?’ Terry was getting some ice-cream out of the freezer. Talk about tactless. I held my breath, waiting for Mum to jump on her. Oddly enough, she didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, but she’d been much better recently. Then today she just went…eating her custard.’

  ‘I hope I die doing something a bit less ordinary than scoffing dessert,’ Terry said.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ I said. ‘So, what killed her?’

  ‘They’ll have to do an autopsy. I suppose it could be any number of things at that age.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Dad said. ‘There are people dying now…’

  ‘… who never died before,’ we all sang in unison.

  ‘Ah, I miss your Gran McGonnigle’s wonderful logic,’ Dad said, smiling.

  Me too. I do. At the sound of one of her funny sayings, I’d felt a sharp stab of homesickness so acute my hand had reached automatically to rub it, hovering helplessly between my throat and my chest.

  Just what is homesickness, exactly? If it only exists in your mind, how come it can feel so physical? Like a pain gripping your heart. Or a lump that swells in your throat.

  I swallowed hard and pretended the tears, which had flooded my eyes with astonishing speed, were tears of laughter.

  ‘I love it when Gran says that.’

  Everyone smiled fondly, except Terry.

  ‘If you think about the new diseases that kill people nowadays, she is kind of right,’ I said.

  ‘And she’s still kind of bonkers,’ Terry observed.

  Dad poured himself some tea. ‘My father, your Granddad McBay, died shaving, didn’t he, love?’

  Mum nodded.

  ‘He always hated shaving,’ sighed Dad. ‘I like to think that his last thought was, “Oh well…at least I won’t have to bother with the other side of my face today.”’

  Mum chuckled. We all did, even though we’d heard the story a million times. ‘This is a fine topic of conversation,’ she said. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we? Tell me about that maths test result, Isla. Did you get it back?’

  Dad eyed me closely.

  ‘Hey, I thought we were going to stop talking about people dying,’ Terry quipped.

  ‘I didn’t completely die! At least I passed. I got fifty-two per cent.’

  ‘What was the top mark?’

  ‘Er…ninety-nine.’

  Dad whistled. ‘Who got that?’

  ‘Oh, some girl called Molly Phillips,’ I said grudgingly, not wanting to think about her. ‘She’s a maths freak.’

  ‘You’d be a maths freak too if you had a dad like hers,’ Terry said.

  ‘What info have you got about Molly Phillips?’ I demanded. ‘Oh…just what I’ve heard around school.’

  She didn’t fool me. She knew something.

  ‘What’s wrong with her dad?’ Mum asked her.

  Terry was squirming now. ‘Oh, he’s a bit…you know, strict about homework and stuff.’

  ‘That’s not that Allen Phillips, the builder who lives up on Morrison Avenue, is it?’ Dad asked.

  Terry nodded.

  ‘How come his kids go to your school? Isn’t it a bit far for them?’

  ‘They moved to Coledale after they’d already started high school in Sydney and they didn’t want to switch schools either.’

  I searched her face. How come she knew so much about Molly Phillips’ family?

  ‘That’s good for you, Isla. There’s a friend you could be making in the area. And let’s face it, pet, if she’s good at maths, you need her.’ He hooted at his dumb joke.

  ‘Maybe we ought to take a leaf out of this Allen Phillips’ book, Jim,’ Mum said. ‘Perhaps we should be pushing this pair a little harder.’

  I groaned, but Terry remained silent. She began to clear the teacups.

  ‘How do you know him?’ Mum asked Dad.

  ‘I met him down at the RSL. Nice enough bloke, but he doesn’t smile much. His wife teaches at the uni, I think. He’s got a son as well, hasn’t he, Isla?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue, Dad.’

  ‘Isn’t there a boy in your year, Terry?’ Dad continued. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sean.’ She was barely audible.

  ‘So how come you two aren’t hanging around with the Phillips kids?’

  I certainly wasn’t about to reveal that Molly Phillips was my worst enemy. Terry didn’t bother to answer, either. Dad’s query hung heavily in the air, until Terry smashed a cup.

  We all jumped.

  ‘That better not have been my Celtic mug,’ Dad said.

  ‘Sorry.’ She faced him. Both Mum and I took the chance to escape the scene. Neither of us wanted to watch a grown man sob as he tried to complete a mug jigsaw.

  I caught Terry’s expression as I snuck away. She didn’t look remotely sorry. She looked relieved.

  I went to school the following day armed with the snapshots, but with no clear plan for returning them.

  Obviously the important thing was to get Dad’s photos back. I had to get some answers from Sam.

  The first person I saw turning into the corridor was Molly Phillips, maths genius. She moved in front of me, blocking my way.

  ‘Alice Greystains reckons you’re meeting Sam on Sunday morning at the beach. Is that right?’

  I stepped round her, but she put her hand on my backpack.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Other people are interested in Sam and they were here first, okay?’ She was wearing a scary smile.

  ‘You mean, you?’ I attempted to go round her again. She stood her ground. ‘Don’t worry, Molly, I have to meet him for our art assignment. Okay?’

  I strode past her but she continued to shadow me.

  ‘As long as that’s all it is. Sam Doyle is not available to you.’ Then, with a quick glance around, she hissed, ‘So you can take your scraggy face out of the picture.’

  I thought about my ‘scraggy face’ in twenty-four pictures.

  ‘What if Sam Doyle just happens to like my face better than yours?’

  ‘Get real. You and your ugly sister are ferals.’

  ‘Leave my sister out of this.’ What did Terry have to do with anything?

  ‘Yeah, if only that were possible,’ Molly snapped.

  I thought back to Terry’s odd manner at dinner. Was this about Molly’s brother, what’s-his-name? Before I could ask, she kicked me on the ankle and zoomed off.

  I was dumbfounded. I’d just been assaulted at school. It wasn’t even painful, but that wasn’t the point. What had driven her to such outrageous behaviour? It had to be jealousy. She must know about the photos. Sam liked me and she couldn’t cope.

  The idea sent me floating along the corridor, vaguely aware that I should be in maths, but in no hurry to get there.

  Then I bumped into something, which is why I’m normally not mu
ch of a floater, and I came out of my daze to find Jack Ferris grinning at me.

  ‘Hey, Elephant Feet, watch where you’re going,’ he said, falling into step beside me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, speeding up, determined to outpace him.

  ‘Why are we walking so fast?’ he asked, managing to keep up.

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for you, Jack, but I’m trying to get away from someone.’

  ‘Oh…right,’ he sympathised. ‘Molly Phillips?’

  ‘No. You, stupid!’

  ‘Molly must be getting to you.’ Before I could deny it, he continued, ‘It’s understandable after your train-station incident yesterday. What a classic. Molly and her mates laughed all the way to school.’

  ‘I’m really glad you told me.’

  ‘No sweat,’ he said. ‘I thought it was pretty funny myself.’

  ‘How come you were at Coledale station?’

  His smile disappeared. ‘Visiting my dad.’

  ‘Does your dad live down there?’ I was surprised.

  He closed his mouth, which was unlike him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He sometimes stays at a mate’s place. They catch lobsters off Coledale Beach. They’ve got permits.’

  He needn’t have bothered being so defensive. I couldn’t give a stuff about him, his father, or their dumb lobsters.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, Jack?’ I wondered why it was taking him so long to get the words out.

  ‘Achoooo,’ he whooshed, covering me with spray.

  ‘Yuck! Ferris, you’re gross!’ I snatched his jumper from his shoulder and wiped myself down.

  ‘Sorry.’ His face crinkled like he was going to do it again. I chucked his jumper back at him. He caught it and then, holding up a hand to stop me from running off, he tossed me an envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, catching it. It was sealed.

  ‘Sam asked me to give you these when I saw you in maths. It’s your photos. How come they’re sealed? Are they for your Major Work? Are you still keeping it a big secret?’

  Dad’s missing photos.

  ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t be bothered telling him about the mix-up, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about Sam’s photos of me. They were private.

  ‘I can’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like I’m going to steal your idea. I’ve already presented mine to Miss Reid and she loves it. Talk about paranoid.’ He pointed to the envelope. ‘I suppose you asked Sam for his expert opinion?’