by Fiona Wood
What? My heart is racing. I read it again. I can’t believe my eyes. Love? She loves me big time? I know these girls are inclined to a bit of hyperbole. And love doesn’t exactly mean ‘love’, it’s more like ‘I approve of you big time’, or ‘I’m grateful to you big time’, but it’s enough to make me worry again about whether I should ask Estelle to the social. I scan my memory trying to recover the exact words she used that night at her place. ‘I might be taking someone’ . . . ‘I’m probably taking someone’ . . . ‘I think I’m taking someone’. Was she just trying to put me off or had she actually asked someone? What if she hadn’t? Things between us have improved since then, haven’t they? And what about disc boy? Maybe he’s about to do something useful like move base to the other side of the planet.
When the alarm beeps at five to five it is as though my brain has been sitting awake for some time, just waiting for my body to join it. I jump out of bed and pull on track pants and runners. There’s a scraping noise as the manhole cover moves. I put food into Howard’s mouth, as planned, and go into the storeroom. Estelle peers down, then puts herself into reverse and climbs on down the ladder. She gives Howard a pat and beams at me, her eyes shining with excitement. Howard, miraculously, doesn’t bark.
I’ve done my homework, too. I know the fourteenth step creaks. I’ve got a backpack to carry Howard in, and plenty of snacks to shut him up if he’s about to bark. I’ve even oiled the back door, a compulsory Enid Blyton-style manoeuvre for night-time escapades.
As we make our way downstairs I nearly fall over when step number thirteen creaks and groans. Aaaagh! I must have counted the landing as ‘one’. I freeze, teeth chattering, slipping Howard a pre-emptive shut-up snack. Estelle grabs my arm really hard. She’s quaking with suppressed nervous giggles. The step creaks again when we step off it. Estelle takes a couple of deep, calming breaths. I make myself count to ten. When I get to ‘six’, I hear a door open.
‘Dan, is that you?’ my mother says.
Estelle grips my arm again. She carefully moves down one step in front of me so she’ll be hidden if my mother comes to the upstairs landing.
From who knows where, I manage to dig up a sleepy-sounding voice, despite an adrenalin spike that’s nearly blowing my head off.
‘Just taking Howard out.’
‘Do you want me to take him?’
‘It’s okay, I’m halfway there. Night.’
‘Night, darling.’
Following a splodge of mobile phone light, we fly silently through the garden, my heart rate just about returning to nor-mal as we get to Oliver’s door where Janie is waiting for us.
‘Did you lock up?’ I ask.
I sense some eye-rolling as Janie hands me the key.
‘You only reminded me about a hundred times, so, yeah.’
Then we’re out the gate, up the lane, past Mrs Da Silva’s and into the street around the corner. There’s hardly any traffic and no one around except a few people sleeping on benches as we make our way through the park.
Just before we get to the city a police car cruises towards us. I get Howard out of the backpack and hiss, ‘We’re training.’ The car slows and pulls up beside us.
‘What’s he talking about?’ Janie starts to bleat, silenced by a nudge from Estelle.
‘Everything okay here?’ the street-side guy asks.
‘Yep. Just out on a training run. For rowing,’ I say.
‘You’re a fair way from the river.’
‘We do an hour’s circuit before we get to the boatsheds then an hour on the water. Five days a week.’ I shut up, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. Just talking to a policeman makes me feel as guilty as anything.
The two of them look us over carefully. We are obviously not drunk or otherwise trashed.
They ask to see our backpacks. Janie offers hers for inspection. All she’s got in it is clothes, which could conceivably be to change into after training. What are they looking for? Spray paint? Automatic weapons? Large quantities of class-A drugs?
They exchange a couple of quiet words and even if they suspect something is amiss, they must decide there are bigger problems than us in the throbbing metropolis.
‘Good luck with the rowing,’ the driving one says before they take off.
It’s cost us a few minutes so now we have to run.
The city is busier than you’d imagine at five in the morning when the stars are still out. Deliveries are being made, streets being swept, cleaners roll in and out of buildings. Industrial garbage trucks roar and charge about like armoured beasts. And there are quite a few clubbers on the ugly end of a great night out.
We get to the depot with about a minute to spare and wave Janie off with kisses from Estelle and ‘break a leg’ from me.
Estelle and I walk back home, co-conspirators. We are elated. And starving. It’s still cold and dark and we’re falling over ourselves laughing as we sift through the morning – Howard knew not to bark, what a champ . . . Your mother waking up! I thought we were dead for sure . . . Training? Where did that come from? . . . What were they even looking for? . . . What if they’d asked us anything about rowing? . . . She’d better win, after getting us up before dawn . . .
We cut through the park diagonally, then cross Victoria Parade and run to the closest shops on Gertrude Street. There’s a café taking a delivery from a patisserie van. Pooling our coins, we talk our way into an early coffee and get an escargot to share.
We perch in a tram shelter, knees up, Howard curled between us like a hot water bottle.
‘What’s your credit on the film?’ I ask.
‘Writer, executive producer and special effects.’
‘That was you? The noise when they cut the head off? It was gruesome.’
‘Grade five cello,’ she says modestly.
‘What happens if she wins and they want to buy it?’
‘We haven’t exactly figured that out yet.’
‘They won’t be able to do a contract with her, because of her age.’
‘It’s in the category of brilliantly good problem. We’ll worry about it when it happens.’
I can’t believe my luck, having all this uninterrupted Estelle time. She is utterly beautiful, even more so with her messy hair, slob clothes and not a scrap of make-up. Her eyes are as clear as the lightening morning sky. As usual, I cannot stop looking at her.
She wipes her mouth self-consciously. ‘Have I got froth?’
I want to say, I love you big time too, but I settle for, ‘I’m just admiring your beauty’, which she chooses to take as flippancy.
‘Very funny.’ She brushes a finger along my chin. ‘Crumbs. Come on, we’d better get going.’
It’s still about half an hour before anyone is ever up at my place but she’s right, it’s getting lighter by the second.
I offer her my hand. She takes it.
‘I’m ready for more sleep,’ she says standing up. ‘Too early for running.’
We walk home in silence, stopping in the laneway next to the back gates.
‘You know the social . . .’ I begin.
‘Don’t start about the DJ again. Just because I’m tired doesn’t mean I’ll cave.’
‘Sure – it’s just . . .’
‘Did I tell you I found the best dress to wear?’
‘No.’
Remembering I’m a boy, with all that usually implies about fashion awareness, she looks apologetic. ‘You’re probably not even vaguely interested.’
‘Of course I am,’ I lie.
‘Okay, so strapless, dark grey silk organza with a fitted bodice and the skirt has black netting underneath. It’s gorgeous.’
‘That’s great, I just wanted to . . .’
She is listening. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering and am momentarily distracted by a baby magpie warbling.
‘You just wanted . . . ?’
Howard makes a disgruntled sound. He’s as impatient with me as I am.
I dig a
bout in my pack and find a snack to keep Howard quiet. There’s a bit of fluff-covered courage in there too.
‘I just wanted to ask if you’d like to come with me.’
She looks at me.
‘To the social.’
‘Oh, Dan,’ she says, sounding . . . is it disappointed, or just embarrassed? ‘I’ve already asked someone. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s cool. No big deal.’
‘But thanks. Heaps.’
‘Sure. No problem.’
When we go into the kitchen there’s already something cooking. I hear water running in the downstairs bathroom. Why is my mother up so early?
I hurry Estelle out of the kitchen just as the bathroom door at the end of the hallway starts to open, and manage to bustle her into the front sitting room and start untying my shoes with apparent nonchalance as my mother emerges.
‘Dan! Where have you been?’
‘Running.’
‘You left before six?’ The tone is high-pitched incredulity.
‘Er, yeah.’
‘But you run in the afternoons.’
‘Usually, but not always.’
‘And what’s Howard doing in a backpack?’
Oops.
‘He’s got a bit of a sore leg.’
‘So why didn’t you leave him at home?’
‘I thought he’d enjoy the – scenery.’
‘In the dark? How long have you been gone? Your bed was stone cold.’
‘Not that long. How come you’re up so early anyway?’
‘I’m making stuff for Phrenology.’
She fixes me with her X-ray ‘I haven’t got to the bottom of this’ look, which doesn’t augur well, and goes back to the kitchen.
I grab Estelle from the sitting room where she’s frozen, eyebrows-up-in-alarm position, and we race back upstairs. Before she climbs the ladder she gives me a quick hug.
‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’
23
THE FINAL PIECE OF the great Sydney con is the phone call from Janie’s ‘mother’ telling school she won’t be in today. We appeal to Lou – level-headed, deep-voiced Lou – who pulls an Academy Award-worthy performance out of nowhere. So, done and dusted, and all we need to do now is wait to hear if Janie wins.
As the day wears on, Estelle has checked her phone three gazillion times. She has to keep checking because it’s on silent. So when the text finally comes through during the last period Estelle is so wired for it that she screams, pretends she’s seen a wasp and is told to act her age. And after all that the message is: NEARLY THERE, HAVE FUN IN MATHS HA HA X
After school Estelle waits for me as though it’s a regular thing that we walk home together. She nibbles at her sleeve and invites me to put in an earbud and listen to some Hot Chip. Our shoulders and upper arms bump together from time to time and it feels, to me at least, like we are joined by the sort of electric charge you see in old horror movies when they’re doing a brain transplant. She seems oblivious or immune to any such effects. But maybe I do from the outside, too.
‘Do you want to come to mine and see how she goes?’ Estelle asks.
Do I?
‘I’ll get us a DVD,’ I say, trying to remind my heart that it’s a super-fit muscle and not a drum getting the crap beaten out of it.
‘Cool.’
I go inside, do a cursory sniff of armpits. Okay. I lick the back of my hand, let the spit dry and smell it – apparently a better breath checker than breathing into your cupped hand. Also okay. I let Howard come with me to Oliver’s to choose a DVD.
‘What do you think about Donnie Darko? It’s one of her favourites. And if you like that movie, you can always enjoy a new viewing. And it’ll be one more thing we have in common.’
Howard barks his approval/disapproval.
‘If, by that, you mean I shouldn’t know she likes the film, you’re right. If you mean we’re going to bond over the film, also right. If you’re wondering how I reconcile the two positions, I don’t know.’
He does the worried whiny noise. It either means he wants to pee or he thinks I’m morally compromised.
The credits are rolling on the film, we’ve finished a pizza and I’m wondering if I can ask Estelle who she is taking to the social. I’m assuming it’s disc boy. I can’t decide if I can bear hearing about it or not. Now we’re in a new phase of our relationship – ie we have a relationship – she might think she can confide in me and tell me how much she likes him. I definitely can’t handle that. Probably better not to know. I’ve just decided it’s definitely better not to know when a text beeps into Estelle’s phone: DIDN’T WIN, CRAZY, LOVE YA X
Estelle rings straight back and we get the low-down. Even though Janie didn’t win, the audience loved her film – lots of laughs and big applause. One of the reasons it couldn’t win was the copyright problems caused by the cast: Barbie, Ken, and the Power Rangers.
‘I didn’t even think of that,’ says Estelle.
‘Neither,’ yells Janie, ‘but the honcho guy loves my vision. He said stay in touch.’
‘We love your vision, too,’ says Estelle.
‘Who’s we?’ Janie wants to know.
‘Me and Dan,’ Estelle says, smiling at me.
‘Don’t miss the bus,’ I yell.
We’re still buzzing when we hear the sound of a key in the front door. Estelle jumps up in alarm.
‘Someone’s breaking in. And they’ve got a key!’
I look around for a weapon and pick up the remote – not as deadly as I might have wished but it was that or a large book on someone called Cy Twombly.
We both stand, ready for action.
But it’s only Vivien. She comes in with her arms full of folders and a laptop bag slung across her chest.
‘Mum?!’ says Estelle, trying to recover from the shock.
‘I do live here, darling.’
‘But it’s Friday. You’re never home till late.’
‘Well, sorry, but the gallery’s bedlam. I can’t escape my phone and I need some clear space to think.’
She turns around. Someone is coming up behind her as she takes her key from the door.
Estelle’s face turns white as she hears, ‘Vivien, hi.’
Panic in her eyes, Estelle silently mouths ‘fuck’ and hisses, ‘It’s Janie’s mum! What do we do?’
I shrug, helpless. For someone who has foreseen this very problem there isn’t a single light bulb flickering on.
‘Sarah. Come in,’ says Vivien.
‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ asks Sarah.
‘Escaping from work, so I can get some work done.’
‘Good luck. I won’t come in, but can you give this to Janie? One night without a toothbrush is fine, but two? That’s going to get furry.’
‘I didn’t even know she was coming. I’m so sorry – negligent mother! My headspace is entirely taken up with the show. Estelle, where’s Janie? Sarah’s brought her toothbrush.’
I can see Estelle is as much at a loss as I am. Is she wondering whether she can try, ‘in the shower’ . . . ‘in the garden’ . . . ‘gone through the back of the wardrobe . . .’?
‘And she’s staying tomorrow, too? That’s great company for Stell while I’m so busy,’ says Vivien.
Janie’s mother is now standing in the hallway looking confused.
‘But . . . she was here last night.’
‘No . . . Thursday? No! She wasn’t, was she, Estelle?’ Vivien is momentarily concerned that she has vagued out so completely on household arrangements that she doesn’t even know who is staying here.
‘Sarah, do come in for a bit. I haven’t seen you for ages. You can tell me what I should know about school. Our children. Life. The universe . . .’
Estelle knows she can’t fake it. Vivien would eventually recall last night’s dinner, and that Janie wasn’t there.
Right now would be a perfect time for me to step in and save the day, but I still don’t have a clue what to
say.
Janie’s mother is reading Estelle’s concerned look.
‘My God, what is it?’
Estelle and I look at each other, recognising a dead-end street when we see it.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s fine,’ says Estelle. ‘There’s absolutely no need to worry.’
‘What on earth do you mean, Estelle? Where’s Janie?’ asks Vivien, ushering Sarah in and closing the door.
‘She’s about to catch a bus home, very, very soon.’
‘Very,’ I add. Truly dismal, but it’s all I’ve got.
‘What bus? From where?’ asks Vivien, snapping with impatience.
‘Actually – Sydney,’ says Estelle. ‘Please don’t get mad.’
Janie’s mum sits down as though her leg bones have gone wobbly.
Five minutes later my mother is sitting in front of us too, and the interrogation is on in earnest.
It’s fair to say they are angry, furious even, and without having to confer Estelle and I realise it’s best to just roll over on this one. There are times when mounting a defence only makes things worse. So we agree we’ve been stupid, irresponsible, immature, deceitful and encouraged a friend in risk-taking behaviour.
Once Sarah has spoken to Janie on the phone and reassured herself that she is indeed okay, Estelle attempts to exonerate me from the crime.
‘It was all planned before we even told Dan. All he tried to do was make sure we were safe walking to the bus depot. He even tried to talk us out of it.’
‘We don’t need any persuading that you and Janie are the evil masterminds here,’ says Vivien from narrowed purple lips.
‘And I don’t care how small a role you played in this, Dan, it’s not okay,’ my mother says. ‘And when I asked you a direct question about it this morning, you lied.’
‘It wasn’t exactly lying,’ I begin. My words freeze as I register how angry she is. We head for home.
‘You’re grounded for a month and it’s not negotiable,’ Vivien is telling Estelle.
‘But what about the social?’
The last thing I hear is Vivien saying, ‘You must be joking!’
By the time we get home my mother’s anger has turned to disappointment, which is a lot harder to handle.