by Erin Gough
‘Hey,’ says Edie gently, drawing the towel around to the back of her neck. ‘It’s okay. You’re in shock, that’s all. How about you come round to my place tonight and we can … debrief?’ Holding my gaze, she presses the towel down the front of her T-shirt and across.
‘I’d love to,’ I say, fumbling with the lid of my ball cannister. ‘But I can’t. I know Tuesday is our night, but I promised Arthur I’d go with him to see a movie. His band members have cancelled practice because of some concert they have tickets to and he’s still down about this girl who dumped him. Could we reschedule?’
‘Oh,’ says Edie, scrunching her towel into a tight ball.
There is nothing I hate more than upsetting Edie. I obviously haven’t given her a clear enough picture of the situation. ‘I really would love to, but Arthur is a mess. I’ve never seen him like this before.’
‘Really, that’s fine.’ Edie shoves the towel into her bag. ‘I just thought. Given it’s been a while since we’ve spent time together.’ The bag lands on her shoulder with a thud. She starts striding towards the gate.
‘I thought you’d be preparing for your public speaking competition,’ I call out.
Edie turns around slowly.
‘I thought tomorrow night, when it’s over …’
‘The thing is,’ Edie says, walking back again. ‘Now that you’ve mentioned it, I could use your help with my SpeakOut prep.’
This is a surprise. ‘But what about the ideas I already gave you?’
‘They were great, really great,’ says Edie, suddenly enthusiastic. ‘I just need a bit of help fleshing them out, that’s all. You know, like you’ve done before.’
I blink. ‘You mean the debate card thing?’
‘Exactly!’
The ‘debate card thing’ I do for Edie is to set out each of the speech points on separate numbered cards. Beneath each point I write a list of sub-points that she can use to expand upon her main point. It is a heck of a lot of work, but it helps her tremendously.
I think about Arthur. He really is grieving over this girl. Last night I found him watching Beauty and the Beast and he is strictly a horror movie man. That’s when I decided to take him to the Wes Craven retrospective at the Verona. I know how much he is looking forward to it.
Edie looks at me hopefully. She has put her hair up in a loose bun and strands are playing about her ears. ‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘You’re my lucky charm, you know.’
She is so sweet. I was late to practice and played so badly. I have to make it up to her. Besides, what kind of a person says no when her girlfriend needs her help?
‘Let me see if I can catch Arthur before he leaves the house,’ I say, pulling out my phone.
‘Thanks Bubble, I knew you’d come through.’ She begins jogging backwards to the gate. ‘Meet you at the Lexus.’
Arthur answers on the second ring. ‘You’re cancelling, aren’t you?’
His voice, sounding terribly far away, echoes down the line. ‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘Where are you?’
‘At the courts. I’m about to leave.’
‘To meet me at the movies?’
‘Oh Arthur, I’m sorry. No. Are you in the kitchen? Is that why the sound is so hollow?’
‘The bathroom.’
‘What are you doing in there?’
There is a pause. ‘Having a bath?’
Arthur only ever showers. In a flash I see him lying there, his head lolling against the porcelain, a razor floating in the water, blood running from his arms. ‘Do I need to call an ambulance?’
‘What? No!’ He laughs. ‘I’m not actually in the bath.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘You don’t want to know, Harri, believe me. Why aren’t we going to the movies?’
I pause guiltily. ‘Something’s come up.’
‘I see.’ He sounds very unimpressed.
‘We could always go tomorrow,’ I venture.
‘You mean tomorrow as in I’m-getting-two-teeth-wrenched-out-of-my-head-tomorrow?’
Oh dear. I had forgotten about Arthur’s teeth. Our father has diagnosed a ‘crowded mouth’ and is pulling them himself. Arthur will be spending the night on the couch with an icepack strapped to his head. ‘Then can I cheer you up sometime on Saturday?’
My brother grunts. ‘I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be able to slot me in?’ he says sarcastically.
‘Come off it, Arthur,’ I say, irritated. ‘I’ve never known you to be in such a mood. This Candice girl wasn’t all that, you know.’
‘Sorry.’ He is clearly far from it. ‘How could I forget? How could anyone, ever, be as perfect as Edie?’
‘Oh, Arthur.’
‘You’re not writing another speech for her, are you? One where you give her all the material and she takes all the credit? I knew it was a bad idea for you to give up debating.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Arthur sighs. ‘You gave it up so you could focus on tennis. Whereas Edie gets to do well at tennis and her public speaking because she makes you do all the work.’
I clear my throat. ‘Look, I know you’re very miserable, but it’s no reason to lash out at Edie or me. I’m just trying to help. Anyway, tennis isn’t the only reason I gave up debating. I’m also chair of the Formal Committee. It’s a big responsibility. There is a venue to organise, not to mention tables, music, catering … Arthur? Are you still there?’
At Arthur’s end something has been draped across the receiver. I hear the muffled sound of flushing water. A second later my brother is back on the line.
‘I think I missed most of that,’ he says.
‘I was just saying – oh, never mind. Come on. Please say yes to Saturday.’
‘All right,’ he grumbles.
‘Good, then.’ I recover my jovial voice. ‘If you see Mum or Dad, tell them I’ll be home around eleven.’
‘Since when do they care whether we’re home or not?’
‘Just tell them, anyway.’
We hang up. I walk quickly towards the car park. I don’t want to keep Edie waiting. She gets in such a bad mood when she has to wait.
Chapter 9
* * *
WILL
It’s Sunday night. Mum is on the couch watching the news, trying to pretend she doesn’t have a date. I know she has a date because she has her bathrobe on, which she only wears for two reasons: when she’s about to have an actual bath (which happens roughly three times a year – showers are more her thing) and when she’s pretending she doesn’t have a date.
Before a date, my mother swans about doing ordinary things like watching the news or picking dust off chair legs or repairing wall cavities with polyfiller. Sometimes she’ll even make the two of us an early dinner and mime eating it in front of me, chopping things up with her knife and fork, prodding food around the plate and making ‘mmm’ noises. Then surprise, surprise, the doorbell will ring, and she’ll drop the bathrobe to reveal a glamorous outfit while slipping into a pair of three-inch heels.
‘I’m just off to a movie with Jen,’ she’ll call from the hallway, blocking my view of the open door.
Jen is her sister. Who hates movies.
‘Hi Graham,’ I’ll call out.
‘Um. Hi Will,’ Graham, on the doorstep, will call back.
The whole masquerade has become its own pathetic ritual.
I flop onto the couch beside her. ‘Nice bathrobe.’
‘Don’t you have homework to do?’
‘I’m doing so well my teachers gave me the weekend off.’
‘So you’ve finished your major work as well, I take it? I’d love to see it.’
‘I’m just waiting for the paint to dry. It’ll be ready in an hour. You’ll be around then to look at it, won’t you?’
Mum is silent.
I victory punch a cushion.
Don’t think I’m blind to the fact that Mum’s whole no-date masquerade is entirely
for my benefit. I get that it’s related to the first time Graham picked her up for dinner and I threw a frying pan in the vicinity of his leg. I wasn’t aiming to hit him. I am not a monster. I was just a bit reckless in letting the frying pan slip out of my hand while pirouetting on the linoleum.
Mum slides a piece of paper off the side table. ‘Do you know anything about this? It came in the mail from the school.’ She holds it up.
I glance at it. ‘Looks like an invitation to another fundraising night,’ I say. ‘What is it this time? A two-hundred-dollar-a-ticket karaoke night to raise money for another state-of-the-art science lab? Or a three-hundred-dollar-a-ticket medieval paintball weekend to buy Rosemead a fleet of racing yachts?’
‘A cabaret-themed dinner,’ Mum says. ‘For another swimming pool, it says here. You know, I wouldn’t mind going to at least one of these things before you leave school, if only to see what they’re like.’ She sounds wistful.
I level a stare at her. ‘Except you’d need to sell a kidney to afford it. Seriously, Mum. You pay enough in fees as it is.’
Mum sighs and folds up the flyer. We turn back to the news.
The evening bulletin is full of tragedy, as usual. New South Wales has lost the State of Origin again. A federal politician has been sprung emerging from a sex club. A breakfast television host has worn a revealing dress to an awards ceremony.
After those headlines the real news starts. There’s a report on the aftermath of a recent earthquake in Nepal: shots of flattened villages and teeming hospitals. Apparently foreign aid has been slow to arrive. First World governments are such jerks.
If that wasn’t cheery enough, the latest plane crash story comes on. This one’s been running for over a week now. They show the footage of the crash scene again: a rescue worker picking up a cabin bag from the rubble and dusting it off to reveal a Disney character; a close-up of a dead passenger’s passport open to the photo page.
It’s the passport photo that brings home the human tragedy, and makes my tongue turn as dry as chalk.
The headshot stares out grimly as if she knew all along what would happen. You think your life is the worst? Think again, says her face.
My heart starts up a crazy beat.
‘You don’t need to watch this.’ Mum looks worried.
‘It’s not as if it didn’t happen just because I’m not watching,’ I say, swallowing.
‘But maybe you’ll think about it less.’
‘It’s research. It’s the topic of my major work.’
‘You mean the one you finished tonight and therefore no longer need to research?’ She readjusts her robe with a small smile, like the one she gets when she beats me at Canasta.
As the news story cuts to a scene of distressed relatives crying at an airport, the phone rings in the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you answer that? It could be Nat.’ Mum prods my arm when I don’t respond.
‘Maybe it’s Graham calling to say he’ll be late.’
‘Late for what?’
You have to admire her commitment to the ruse. I stand up and walk to the phone.
‘How are you, Will?’ says my father down the line.
Damn. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
Dad laughs in an overly cheery way. ‘That bad, huh? It’s horrible to hear your voice.’
‘It’s fabulous to hear yours.’
The worst thing about these calls is how upbeat Dad is. I prefer the way he was before he left us for Naomi: suavely dismissive with a misanthropic edge. Pre-Naomi, Dad loved nothing more than ripping to shreds the latest exhibition of some poor emerging artist over a bottle of Scotch.
‘How are you going at that school your mother insisted she spend all her life savings to send you to?’
Dad hates Rosemead almost as much as I do. It’s been a long-standing theme in arguments between my parents, even before they split. Mum’s position is that schools like Rosemead guarantee a good education and opportunities, whereas Dad has always said they’re a waste of money and breed a ‘dangerous elitism’.
Whenever they used to have this argument I wholeheartedly agreed with him. I still do. But then Perth happened and I fell out with Dad, and leaving my old school for Rosemead after year nine like Mum wanted suddenly seemed like a good option. It was a way of getting back at Dad, for starters. If I’m honest, it was a way of solving some other problems I was having, too.
‘Oh, you know. Topping all the classes. Winning all the awards. Same old,’ I tell Dad.
He pauses. ‘And on the friend front?’
I clear my throat. ‘Couldn’t be better. Just last week I won the Most Popular Kid in Class trophy. Matter of fact, I’m polishing it up right now.’ I make a noise like I’m hocking a ball of spit into a handkerchief.
‘Look, I was thinking about something that would really suck,’ Dad says.
‘Breastfeeding babies really suck. Was that what you were thinking about?’
‘What would you say about a visit to Perth next month?’
‘At what point between me being born and you moving to Perth did you forget everything about me?’ I say, and hang up.
Okay, I don’t hang up. I want to hang up. However, hearing Dad’s breath on the line, with its echo of desperate cheeriness, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. But I don’t say anything for a really long time and it’s a very uncomfortable silence.
Instead I wait for Dad to say something else. He doesn’t say anything. He’s still there, though. There, in Perth. Not here in our microscopic unit, where the shelf above the fridge holds his half-empty Johnnie Walker bottle even though he’s never lived here, and his Woody Allen movies are lined up in their anniversary box set on the bookshelf.
The box set makes me think of something.
‘Hey, Dad?’
‘No, Will?’
‘Remember that movie you made me watch the year before last, the one about the guy who finds out his whole life is a hoax?’
‘I forget it in vivid detail.’
‘Do you know any movies that work the other way around?’
The doorbell rings. Mum squeezes past me to grab her purse from the kitchen bench. Her bathrobe is off, revealing a green dress I’ve never seen before, which she’s matched with a pair of extremely high platforms. I put a hand to my mouth in a performance of acute surprise. She squeezes back past me, blowing silent kisses in my direction, then pulls the front door closed behind her.
‘Movies that work the other way around? I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘A movie where it’s not the world that’s the hoax, it’s the person who’s the hoax.’
‘A movie about a person who isn’t real?’
‘That’s it.’
Dad breathes into the phone. ‘What about Victor/ Victoria? Julie Andrews pretends to be a man to land a gig as a female impersonator.’
He isn’t getting it. ‘I’m talking about films with characters that don’t actually exist.’
‘I can’t think of any films, but remember Mr Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street?
I snort. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
Dad pauses. ‘Have I ever told you about Nat Tate?’
‘I don’t think so.’
At the other end of the line I hear a fridge door open and the rattle of an ice tray. ‘Nat Tate was an American abstract expressionist who committed suicide by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry,’ says Dad. ‘Only he wasn’t. And he didn’t.’
‘Huh?’
Ice hits the bottom of a glass. ‘He was pure fiction.’ The fake cheeriness is gone; he’s genuinely happy now he’s managed to shift the conversation from film to visual art. ‘Nat Tate never actually existed. David Bowie – you know, who sang Space Oddity?’
‘The “Ground Control to Major Tom” song that was on your fortieth birthday party playlist?’
‘That’s the one. Bowie and a British author called William Boyd made Tate up. They published his biography in the late nineties and fooled the New York art world into be
lieving he was an actual artist. They had quotes from famous people who claimed to have met him, reproductions of his surviving paintings, even photographs of him and his family.’
‘Where did they get all that stuff?’
I hear the sound of a drink being poured. ‘Boyd did the paintings – they were pretty terrible – and he used anonymous photos he’d found in junk shops for the family photos. He and Bowie asked famous people they were friends with to make up quotes about him, too.’
‘Which meant telling them about the hoax, I suppose?’
‘Exactly. It was their big mistake. They let a few too many people, including a journalist friend of theirs, in on the game. The journalist published a scoop about the truth behind Nat Tate just a week after the biography came out.’ Ice clinks against the glass again. ‘Game over.’ Dad’s lips make a smacking sound. ‘Shame, really. They could have kept the hoax going for a lot longer if they’d kept it to themselves.’
‘The moral of the story, then,’ I say slowly, ‘is to never trust a fine-arts journalist. Got it.’
‘Ha, ha. So what do you say, kiddo?’ says Dad. ‘You, me, the Swan River? I could book your flight right now.’
‘I’m busy that weekend.’
‘But we haven’t even talked dates yet!’
‘I’m busy every weekend this year. Mum’s just made dinner. Gotta go.’
At lunchtime on Monday I discover, to my great misfortune, that Principal Croon is back from Japan. I’m tossing an apple core into the nearest bin as she rounds a corner. Unfortunately, I miss.
She stops in front of me.
Here’s the thing about our principal: you know she’s the devil incarnate, but when you’re taking in her silk shirt and sheer stockings and breathing in her French perfume, you get sucked into an alternate universe where all you want to do is please her.
‘Wilhelmina Everhart.’
‘Oh! I didn’t see you there. How’s it going, Principal Croon?’ I say, glancing between the apple core splattered on the floor and her impeccable teeth.
She flashes me a blinding smile. ‘The bins are strategically placed to ensure we can find one when we need one,’ she says, holding my gaze with the steel of a thousand girders. ‘We therefore have no excuse for tossing rubbish up and down the corridor, do we?’