Six Impossible Things

by Fiona Wood

  Problems, responsibilities, frowns. It feels like a million years ago that all I had to worry about was beating ancient games on Nintendo, or getting homework done on time.

  I decide I could do worse than speak to Oliver about some of this stuff.

  18

  WHEN YOU WATCH SOMEONE shave, a barrier is broken down. It feels easy to talk to Oliver now.

  I mostly need to ask him about clothes and money, so I’m as surprised as anyone to hear myself lead with, ‘What do you think about Estelle from next door?’

  He gives me an assessing once over.

  ‘Out of your league, man, unless you do something about the look,’ he says.

  ‘You said outward stuff doesn’t make you cool.’

  ‘It’s definitely not the thing, but it is a thing. It’s one of those weird paradoxes life throws up – it can’t make you cool, but it can make you uncool.’

  Now he tells me.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Getting rid of the bum fluff was an excellent move. Now you need clothes that do you some favours, give you some edge. And the hair,’ he shakes his own svelte locks, ‘I’m gonna be brutal, it needs a total rethink.’

  My hair? I haven’t even given it a think, let alone a rethink. And that, possibly, is the nub of the problem. It’s been months since the last haircut and it’s just hanging there. I do keep it clean. More or less. When I remember.

  ‘We need Em.’

  ‘Hairdresser?’

  ‘Girlfriend. She’s a DJ, but she’s pretty good at chopping into hair.’

  ‘When’s she coming back?’

  ‘Soon, I hope. You still working at the op-shop?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Those bags over there – it’s stuff I don’t wear any more, right. How about you go through it, take what you want, and drop the rest off for me?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Forget it. You’re doing me a favour.’

  Oliver thinks a new school uniform can be acquired from lost property. I dump the old stuff there and pick up whatever someone else has been careless enough to lose. Swings and roundabouts etc.

  Heading off to meet Fred, I’m wearing some of Oliver’s old clothes – jeans with pockets like diagonal slashes, a jumper that’s the colour of eggplant, and a big grey jacket that Oliver tells me is made from boiled wool, by some Japanese designer. It all looks a bit weird to me, but I decide the trend guru knows more than the dag guru about what to wear.

  Fred walks a full circle around me.

  ‘You look older, taller and cooler. How’s that possible in a couple of weeks?’

  ‘I’m running every day, with Howard, and pumping the doorstops.’

  ‘I see the results. You’ll lose that whole geeky charm thing you’ve got happening if you’re not careful.’

  I give him a good solid punch in the arm.

  ‘Hey, I might have a girl for you,’ I say. ‘She’s in my class, and she’s maybe going to be looking for someone to ask to the social soon.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Fred asks.

  ‘That’s a low self-esteem question, my friend,’ I say.

  ‘Does she have pimples? Is that why she’d go with me?’

  ‘A few pimples. But she’s pretty, and smart, and nice. And she’s got a sense of humour. I don’t even know if she’d take you, but I’m planning to suggest it – if you’re okay with that.’

  He’s unconvinced. He’s extremely choosy for someone with no track record with girls at all.

  ‘I’ll think about it. Will you be asking the unattainable one?’

  I let out a deep sigh. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the guts anyway, but I’ll never find out because I’m pretty sure she’s asking someone else.’

  We’re in the queue for cinema tickets. Fred gets out his wallet.

  ‘Plan B says pay for your ticket, because of the crisis. She said no arguments. Is it still on?’

  ‘Worse than ever. She’s still talking people out of getting married, but I don’t want you to pay.’

  ‘What part of “no arguments” don’t you understand?’

  ‘I feel bad.’

  ‘Would you do the same for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then shut up about it. Your problems are my problems.’

  ‘I’m making some money, though, but I feel like I need to save it for emergencies.’

  ‘Yeah, you should. I’m not being nice, Dan. And it’s not even my money. But the person who’s got more should pay more, it’s only fair. Think of it in political terms.’

  ‘Okay, but only if I keep a record, and then I pay you back when the crisis is over. Or buy you the same amount of movie tickets, or whatever.’

  ‘Not necessary. But if that’s what it takes, fine.’

  The movie’s not much good, after all that. I zone out and start thinking about work this morning. I did the early shift and so did Janie. She was no friendlier to me than usual. Which you’d think she would be if she wants to soften me up for this big ask, whatever it might turn out to be. Unless she thought she was being nice when she told me on our break, ‘Forget Estelle, everybody loves her, and you don’t even rate.’

  After the movie, Fred and I go our separate ways. He’s got homework. We don’t get homework. But I’ve got motherwork. I figure if I can’t manage to be properly nice to her, I can at least dig up someone who can be.

  She’s in a good mood when I get back. Radiohead is blaring out at high volume, and there’s some cash sitting on the kitchen table. Mrs Da Silva has picked up the cake.

  ‘A paying customer. A satisfied, paying customer. We should celebrate. How about takeaway for dinner?’ she says.

  ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘Not really, but, hey, we could all be dead tomorrow. Let’s live it up.’

  That’s her version of a cheery comment at the moment.

  ‘Okay.’

  My plan is to ring my mother’s friend Rachel. I ask her to come around and to invite their other friend, Alice, as a surprise for my mother. I suggest they might like to bring takeaway. More shameless sponging.

  ‘I don’t know, Dan,’ she says. ‘I’ve tried to catch up more than once, but I’m still getting the same, very clear “stay away” message. I think she wants to settle in alone for a while.’

  ‘She might say that, but it’s not what she needs. She’s gone all weird about Thom Yorke.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘It happened with Bono, the year after we left school,’ says Rachel. ‘Your dad led a house intervention to confiscate and destroy The Joshua Tree. I still can’t listen to it to this day.’

  ‘She’s by herself too much. The business is going really badly. She never goes out anywhere, and she probably needs someone to talk to besides me.’

  It’s a massive relief to blurt it all out.

  ‘Okay, honey, I’ll call Alice. We’ll come early with food. I won’t ring and let her put me off.’

  Rachel is my godmother and my mother’s oldest friend. They shared a house with my dad and Alice when they were at university. Alice is a very brainy journalist. Rachel is a legal aid lawyer who, my mother says, has ‘no illusions’ about some of her clients. That means quite a few of them are crooks, but they need representation just like the innocent ones.

  Seeing her friends seems to cheer her up, although she cries and hugs them when they come in bearing food and wine and says, ‘I look like a mess.’

  To which Alice says, ‘It suits you.’

  We go into the formal dining room to eat. Lebanese food; it’s great. They have a couple of glasses of wine each, and they’re off, all talking at the top of their voices. I leave them to it. Or pretend to. I stay outside the door and listen. How else am I going to find stuff out?

  ‘The problem was we kept trading after Rob knew things were down the gurgler. Not that I knew at the time. I think he was hoping for a last-minute miracle.’

  ‘It’s a shame after all the ha
rd slog,’ says Alice.

  ‘You could have told us about the big gay scandal sooner, lovey,’ says Rachel.

  ‘You were the first to hear. After me,’ says my mother.

  ‘Remember we all thought he was gay when we first met him?’ says Alice. ‘Too handsome to be straight, we thought.’

  ‘We were right,’ says my mother, and they laugh like lunatics.

  ‘Be fair, though, he gave it a pretty good go,’ says Rachel. ‘Baby and everything.’

  ‘I’m bereft, of course,’ says my mother. ‘But I’ll get there. I’m sure I’ll be happy for him one of these days. Possibly after I get some post-break-up sex.’ They all laugh again. I shouldn’t really be hearing this.

  ‘He couldn’t have come out way back then, anyway, even if he knew,’ says Alice. ‘Remember his family? Those awful parents!’

  ‘My hideous in-laws. May they rest in peace. No, they would have had him executed or something. It took him all this time . ..’

  ‘Didn’t he used to say he was bisexual way back then?’ asks Rachel.

  ‘It was probably as close as he could come to saying “I’m gay”. If I wasn’t so dim, I might have picked up on it,’ says my mother.

  ‘We were babies. What did we know?’ says Rachel.

  ‘No, she’s right,’ says Alice. ‘He was your best friend, you slept with him, got yourself knocked up, and forced him to live a lie!’ More laughing.

  ‘But all these years, you were still . . . ?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  Aaaagh! Too much information.

  I lean back and look up at the hallway ceiling. Crazed and stained. The ceiling, not me. Sounds like my dad tried to be as honest as he could be back in the day. My grandparents sound dodgy. If your own parents won’t let you be who you are, who will?

  ‘Dan’s been amazing,’ I hear, with amazement. ‘He’s got a job, settled into his school. He’s really risen to the challenge. Hardly complained at all.’ I’m burning with shame when I hear this. A generous interpretation, I’d call it. Listening to how good I’ve been makes me feel like the lowest of the low. She doesn’t mention the cold war, or my pissy behaviour about her scaring off clients. Is it loyalty? Does she really not notice that stuff? Or does she suspect I’m listening at the door?

  ‘Rob must be missing him.’

  ‘Horribly. Dan doesn’t want to speak to him yet, though.’

  ‘Well, he has walked out on the kid,’ says Alice.

  ‘He’d be just as happy for Dan to live with him, but we thought it’d be better if he stays with me. At least I know we can settle here. Thank you, Adelaide! What I would have done without this place, I don’t know.’

  ‘We’d have taken you in,’ says Rachel.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ says Alice.

  ‘Rob would be around here in a second, if Dan would see him. Of course I don’t want to see him for a while.’

  ‘He’s a proper bastard!’ says Alice.

  ‘Bastard!’ agrees Rachel.

  I’d like to find out more about how he stuffed up the family business and sent us bankrupt, but it’s not like I can post an eavesdropper request under the door.

  ‘And why couldn’t he have gone ten years ago when I was still good-looking?’ my mother says. ‘What hope have I got now?’ And they’re laughing again. It must be the wine.

  I casually return for some baklava, and disappear again when they start asking me about girls.

  As I leave, Alice proposes a toast to Rob, and, in memory of his ‘interminable’ lists, they launch into the ‘top ten bastards we’re better off without’ list, to more gales of laughter.

  But I’m thinking he’s maybe less of a bastard than I thought.

  19

  MY MOTHER’S IN A good mood and seems relaxed for the first time in ages. She thanks me for asking Rachel and Alice over.

  It’s Monday, and my fifteenth birthday.

  Big deal.

  We have pancakes for breakfast, with lots of sugar and lemon juice – the best way. My present is a small stuffed crocodile with green glass eyes – a bit morbid, perhaps, but I love it. And Rachel left a present when she came for dinner; it’s the same every year, books. This year it’s Catch-22, by Joseph Heller, a self-help book for boys living without fathers, and The Right Stuff, by Tom Wolfe.

  My dad rings while we’re having breakfast. ‘He’s here,’ my mother says, nodding coercively as she hands me the phone. ‘It’s Rob.’ She has the mouthpiece covered.

  ‘I’m not here,’ I say.

  ‘Just say hello,’ she says. So, only because I think it will make her feel better, I take the phone.

  His voice spills with emotion, and hearing him smile makes me want to cry – go figure – which I would rather cut off my head than do. With a lump the size of an apple in my throat, it’s as short a conversation as I can manage. He says, ‘Happy Birth-day, Dan.’ I say, ‘Thanks.’ He says, ‘How are you?’ I say, ‘Fine.’ He reminds me of the present he’s left for me. I say, ‘Okay. Bye,’ and hang up.

  It’s hard to believe my mother when she tells me it won’t always be this hard. I honestly can’t see how it’s going to change.

  Even at school I can’t get my father out of my head. Pittney is late for homeroom and there’s some feral stuff happening. One of the homie boys is off his meds and roving around tagging people’s books. Mel, a transposable bracket, says he can tag her, and offers the inside of her thigh, on which he writes his phone number. Jayzo is leaning on one of his friends to lend him money. Estelle, Uyen and Janie are talking together. I sit nearby, and they start talking to me, which draws the attention of Jayzo and Deeks.

  ‘Why would you talk to the cake boy?’ ask Jayzo.

  ‘Why would you care?’ says Estelle.

  ‘I don’t,’ he says. Then proves he does by hanging around, needling and abusing us. It makes it kind of hard to concentrate. We try ignoring him but he doesn’t like that. He craves attention like a two year old. He grabs Janie’s phone. It’s her favourite thing; she’s always making little videos on it. And I know she doesn’t have much spare money, so if it gets broken it’s a big deal. She goes to grab it back, but he chucks it to Deeks. There’s no point chasing the phone, it’ll just get thrown around some more.

  ‘Give it back,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Jayzo.

  ‘Cake boy’s talking tough,’ says Deeks.

  ‘Give her phone back,’ I say.

  ‘Make me,’ says Jayzo.

  Is there anything more pathetic yet frustratingly effective that someone bigger and stronger can say?

  No one’s expecting me to do anything. No one is ever stupid enough to take on Jayzo. Deeks is just standing there, holding the phone out of reach and grinning like a chimp. I feel all my anger dots join up in a surge of really hating Jayzo’s stupid bullying and intimidation. The element of surprise is on my side and I use it. I grab Deeks’s wrist hard, take the phone and hand it back to Janie. Deeks is wincing and grimacing as though I’ve really hurt him. Good. I hope I have.

  ‘You faggot,’ Deeks says.

  With a wash of relief I realise that, even though I can’t talk to him, I’m on my dad’s side. I feel angry on his behalf. I want to defend him. I hate that these idiots use faggot and gay as insults. And they do it all the time.

  ‘Stop using that as a put-down. There’s nothing wrong with people being gay. And don’t use girl as an insult either. Half the people in this room are girls.’

  Jayzo looks stunned and says, ‘Yeah, well that’s what I’d expect from a . . . gay . . . girl.’ He is, for this one glorious moment, completely deflated.

  It feels great not letting myself be intimidated by someone I despise.

  ‘Slam dunk,’ says Lou.

  ‘Mmm, thanks,’ says Janie grudgingly.

  I stop lying low in class and instead recklessly expose myself as the nerd I am. Forget ‘under the radar.’ I answer questions like there’s no tomor
row.

  As Lou correctly points out, there may well be no tomorrow for me if Jayzo gets me alone on the way home.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I say. ‘At least he’ll know I’m his intellectual superior.’

  That cracks her up.

  ‘You assume he can draw conclusions. He’s barely smart enough to draw breath.’

  At lunchtime, Jayzo hangs around near Estelle, Janie and Uyen. It makes me edgy.

  ‘Probably apologising for acting like a sexist, homophobic thug,’ I say.

  ‘More likely sniffing around to see if he can get Estelle to go to the social with him,’ says Lou.

  I snort with laughter at the very idea.

  ‘They went out last year,’ she says. ‘Year Eight relationship. It lasted about five minutes, but still . . .’

  How can that be true? The picture of perfection and the missing link?

  Lou follows my look of incredulity.

  ‘He’s pretty good-looking, you know,’ she says. ‘And he reformed briefly; they put him on a good behaviour contract. Given up on him now, of course.’

  I remember Fred.

  ‘I’ve got a friend you can ask, if you’re not already taking someone,’ I say.

  Her look is hard to read. It’s certainly not ‘thrilled’ or ‘delighted’.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asks. ‘Has he got pimples? Is that it? No girlfriend? No one else wants him?’

  Lou and Fred are so perfect for each other it makes me want to dance.

  ‘I’ll let you know closer to the time,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a better sense of (a) if I’m going and (b) if so, how desperate I am.’

  ‘She couldn’t possibly say yes, could she?’ Lou follows my eye-line back to Estelle.

  ‘I don’t know, Dan,’ she says, with a small sigh.

  Estelle walks with me as far as Phrenology. We don’t talk. She’s listening to Kings of Leon with one ear. I suspect she’s trying to protect me from Jayzo while he cools down, maybe thinking he’s less likely to thump me if she’s there. I hope she’s right.