Six Impossible Things

by Fiona Wood

  Estelle swivels around to eyeball him. ‘It’s true.’

  The bell starts blaring like a siren and Pittney says, ‘Settle down, that’ll do now, homeroom’s over,’ as everyone stampedes from the room and Jayzo glares at me with an extra load of hate bombs.

  It’s fair to say not much schoolwork is getting done today. Em and Oliver and a few technical types dressed in black are setting up speakers and lights in the gym, so from time to time we hear satisfyingly loud bursts of music as they do sound checks.

  The transposables are in there too, checking off lists on clipboards as stuff is unloaded from vans.

  A large number of the girls leave to go to dentist or doctor (hairdresser) appointments during the afternoon.

  Surrounded by the buzz, Estelle and Janie are at a fever pitch of misery that they still haven’t persuaded their parents on the sleepover, the essential first step of the great escape.

  They have a last resort ploy they’ve been hoping they wouldn’t need: telling Janie’s mother that it’s okay with Estelle’s parents and hoping she’ll cave and not check the story.

  ‘Think about it – I’ll be leaving the house with a sad face, school books, no social dress, plus already in massive trouble for Sydney. As if I’d risk it!’

  ‘But you are,’ I say.

  ‘But she wouldn’t suspect that I would.’

  I give them even odds at best, but they’re desperate enough to try anything.

  Even though it’s still uncertain that she’ll even make it to the social, my guts are churning at the thought of Estelle with her date. I sweep my eyes around the playground, looking for disc boy. He’s probably a Year Ten. Or maybe even Eleven. They’ll probably kiss and I’ll probably see it, and then I’ll feel like hitting him, and if I do that, Estelle will probably feel like hitting me. I’m not looking forward to any of it.

  ‘Dan, are you okay? Are you sick?’ asks Estelle at the end of the day.

  Lovesick, sick at heart, sick with longing, sick of feeling confused, jealous and hopeless.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get some rope sorted. Just in case.’

  Of course Mrs Nelson has rope. What doesn’t she have? I get a length of rope and a rope ladder, which she says every upstairs bedroom should have in case of fire.

  Then I see the shoes. I know nothing about girls’ clothes but they catch even my witless eye. ‘Are these new?’

  ‘Just in today. Never been worn.’ She turns them around, admiring them from every angle.

  The magazine browsers join in a chorus of admiration.

  ‘Fairy shoes.’

  ‘Princess shoes.’

  ‘Cinderella slippers.’

  They are pale pistachio green, sewn all over with little beads in a leaf and flower pattern. They remind me of Estelle and even though I have no idea what her shoe size is, I get them for her. Ten dollars all up including the rope and ladder. I wonder if Mrs Nelson is giving me a special price because I used to work there, but then remember everyone seems to get special prices.

  I rig the rope ladder between my window and the tree trunk. Sounds straightforward but it’s not. I tie one end of the ladder to the trunk easily enough but it takes ages and eventual weighting with a stone to successfully chuck the other end through my bedroom window. I drag the iron bedstead to the window and attach this end of the ladder firmly to its base.

  Then it’s back up the tree to secure a separate length of rope about a metre further up the trunk, leaving its two equally divided ends loose so we can hold them for balance. I have to weight the rope ends too, because whoever uses it first has to throw both ends back to the next person. It’s still potentially neck-breaking but I try it a couple of times, being careful not to look down, and adjust it so it’s as safe as possible for Estelle. And Janie.

  I won’t need to use it. I’m allowed to go to the social, so I get to use the stairs. When I climb down the second time, I come back in to find that Estelle has left some clothes for me to wear tonight.

  She’s chosen a dinner suit, with satin lapels and a striped collarless shirt. I put the jacket on and check myself out in the wardrobe mirror. Not a bad fit. Not bad at all. The pants are the right length and a bit big, but okay when I put a belt on.

  There’s an impatient knocking at my door. What? My mother never comes into my room. She says it’s better for her equilibrium not to see the mess.

  ‘What do you think? This one or this one?’ She’s wearing a slip and an anxious expression, holding two hangers up for my inspection.

  ‘I know it’s not really your area, but I can’t decide.’ She holds the dresses up again. If she wants to come into my room there is no easy way to explain why I have a ladder suspended between my window and the tree.

  ‘I’ll come and look properly if you want to try them on.’

  We go to her room. She puts on the first dress. It looks fine. Then she puts on the other one. That looks fine, too. This is difficult. They’re clothes from our other life, dressed up and expensive-looking. It makes me realise she hasn’t been wearing stuff like this for a long time. I’m used to seeing her in jeans and jumpers, and that’s the way she looks most like herself to me. So I tell her and she laughs.

  ‘Yep, I’ve found my level, but I can hardly wear jeans tonight.’

  I do a mental coin toss.

  ‘Maybe the purple one?’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  I notice her earrings – diamonds the size of peas.

  ‘Adelaide’s,’ she says. ‘Mary thinks we should share them.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? So does that mean you can sell one of them?’

  I say it absently, not really thinking about money for a change but it brings on an unexpected ‘serious talk’, identifiable by the hushed tone and small frown.

  ‘Dan, you know what this whole thing has taught me more than anything?’

  It’s a rhetorical question so I wait patiently, hoping for a short answer.

  ‘It’s not what you have, it’s what you do that counts. We know that in theory of course, but we have been lucky – yes, lucky – to have that theory tested. And it holds.’

  Maybe for her. I’d like to tell her exactly how much money I need for not-so-lucky Howard, but I shut up.

  ‘I’ve had my tooth fixed today and that’s certainly not wonderful for the budget, but here we are, happy, busy, both going out, surrounded by generous people. And do you know what? I’m rediscovering who I am and what I want to be doing.’

  ‘Which is what? The wedding cakes aren’t exactly booming.’

  Oops, said it out loud. It’s just going to prolong things.

  ‘I’m not giving up on them, but I love making things for the café and then seeing people enjoying them. And talking to those people and being part of the eating and the talking and general . . . connectedness.’

  She notices what I’m wearing.

  ‘You look lovely, darling. Very handsome. Even with that writing all over your face.’

  She does the misty-eyed mother smile that used to make me feel angry and smother-loved, but now I’m relieved to see it. It’s like proof she is still herself under there, despite everything.

  ‘And this has been great for you, too, Dan, although it mightn’t seem that way.’

  No, it still feels like I’ve been dumped by my own father.

  ‘You’re so independent.’

  Not really, just doing what it takes.

  ‘You’ve settled into school.’

  True.

  ‘You’re fit and strong.’

  Some would say buff.

  ‘And looking after yourself, and Howard, so well.’

  If only she knew how I’m not looking after Howard.

  ‘And you’ve got a job.’

  With shit pay.

  ‘You’re altogether a different boy from the one who moved in here and curled up in bed for days on end.’

  ‘It was cold.’

  ‘It was. But that bed was like a cocoon, a
nd you’ve really . . . hatched.’

  Now I’m a moth? And that’s good?

  ‘Well . . . thanks.’

  She pats the bed for me to come and sit next to her. A peck on the cheek and that’d be a wrap, and I wasn’t even in trouble. She takes my hand and writes ‘12 midnight’ on the back of it.

  ‘I’m trusting you to take that cake out of the oven. I mean it. Midnight. To the second.’

  I groan. ‘Stop worrying! I’ve said I’ll do it, and I’ll do it.’ Although I’d completely forgotten about the stupid cake to be honest.

  She nods at the hand. ‘Matches your face.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Can you make yourself a sandwich for dinner?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a shame Estelle isn’t allowed to go to the social.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is she upset about it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I saw her coming home from school with Janie, though.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So at least she’s got company.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Chatty guy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean no. I better get ready.’

  ‘Me too. Ali’s coming in for a drink when he picks me up.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘An hour or so.’

  I start shaving and soon I’m brooding on the poisonous idea of Estelle’s date getting ready for the big night. And of Estelle getting ready, too, right next door, right this minute, and no doubt thinking about her date.

  That propels me back outside to check with Em about the playlist having no slow songs. I give her some background so she understands.

  It’s a stupid thing to ask. Em patiently points out that (a) some people might want a bit of make-out music, (b) I could possibly hook up with someone else (as if), (c) if Estelle wants to kiss someone else, she can and I have to deal with it, (d) if Estelle can’t see what a hottie I am with my new haircut, she doesn’t deserve me (that sounds like I’m up myself, but she said it), and (e) if you’re lucky enough to get DJ Pony doing the music at your Year Nine social, she calls the shots and you say thank you.

  28

  MY MOTHER IS ANNOYINGLY mobile tonight as she zips from the kitchen to the upstairs bathroom to her bedroom – up and down the hallway, up and down the stairs. She’s taking cake layers out of the oven and putting the last layer in, preparing snacky things to have with drinks, doing her hair and make-up. Singing. It’s like the one night of my life I’m trying to do something sneaky and she’s turned into three women. Why is she making such a big deal of someone else’s dumb old class reunion? Proof she doesn’t get out enough.

  She knocks on my door. Again! I’m popular tonight. ‘Shouldn’t you be going soon?’

  ‘Soon,’ I call out. ‘I don’t want to be too early.’

  She’s right, though. It’s time to go. Estelle and Janie should be here any minute. In fact they should have turned up a while ago. It’s quarter past seven. Five more minutes pass. And another five. Five more crawl by and now they’re half an hour late.

  ‘Where are they, Howard?’

  He sighs and settles, looking up at me as though it’s all so obvious.

  ‘It can’t just be hair and make-up.’

  He resettles and yawns, smacks his chops a few times and closes his eyes.

  ‘You’re right! Why don’t I just call her?’

  I’ve got no credit on my phone so I go out to the hall telephone – it’s a low-tech vehicle with the handset attached by a springy cord.

  ‘Dan! You need to go, don’t you? You should be there in case Oliver and Em need help with anything,’ my mother says, en route to her room.

  Estelle answers. It seems that her father is in the mood for a relaxed chat with the girls.

  ‘Why tonight? He’s had fifteen years to be sociable! Don’t worry, I’m going to remind him we’re studying and tell him we’ve got hair removal plans for later,’ she whispers. ‘If that doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know my father. See you in five or not at all,’ she ends dramatically.

  Estelle is halfway down the ladder and Janie looking down from the manhole when my mother knocks and turns the door handle.

  There is no time to close the storeroom door as she steps into my room.

  For no apparent reason, Howard starts barking like a maniac so my mother looks down, not through to the storeroom, not over to the window. Howard is jumping all over her and wagging his tail. Because she’s completely occupied with getting him to stop jumping so he won’t wreck her stockings, she is bending down and stepping backwards and I can jostle the three of us into the hallway without her spotting the girls. Close shave. It’s as though Howard knows exactly what he’s doing.

  ‘If you don’t go now, you’re going to be really late.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I say, heading downstairs.

  Janie must have started climbing as soon as I shut my bedroom door, because she’s more than halfway down the tree by the time I get outside. But she didn’t manage to get the guide ropes back to the bedroom and was afraid to keep trying because of the noise they made whacking against the wall. Apparently my mother already stuck her head out of a window once to have a look around.

  By the time I get up the tree, Estelle is already climbing across the rope ladder without the guide ropes. She’s halfway over but not moving.

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could break your neck doing this.’

  ‘All right, so I worry,’ I say, ready to take a bagging.

  ‘No. You were right. You really could. I really could.’

  She is frozen with fear. The trouble with climbing across without the guide ropes is that it’s much wobblier and you have to crawl, which forces you to look down in the ‘plummet to certain death’ direction.

  The wind changes, swinging a cold gust through the branches, making the tree and ladder sway and pitch. A glimpse of the dark ground staggering giddily far below brings on the familiar hot and cold nausea that happens just before I faint. I will not, cannot, must not let that happen.

  ‘I’m dizzy,’ says Estelle. The ludicrous idea of both of us sprawled and bloody at the foot of the tree, all for the sake of getting to a Year Nine dance, somehow snaps me into action.

  ‘Don’t look down,’ I say in a voice that sounds much calmer than it feels. ‘I’m going to get the ropes to you and you’re going to hold onto them, and we’ll get you to the trunk. It’s easy from there. And you’re really close.’

  She looks at me, trying to calm down.

  I start quietly singing a song, the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Wild World’. It’s used at the end of the last episode of the first season of her favourite ever TV series, Skins, and I know, because of the diary snoop, that she once looked at this sequence five times in a row.

  She looks surprised and fleetingly suspicious (or is that my paranoid imagining?) as she clocks the song, but she tries to join in, her voice a reedy shadow of itself, swallowed by fear. I loop the ends of the rope together and throw them to her. It’s a sweet throw. She just has to reach across less than half a metre and she’ll have the guide ropes in her hand. It has started to rain. Big plashy drops that make a racket as they hit the leaves.

  ‘Come on. You can do it.’

  Estelle looks at me, alarmed.

  ‘I can’t unclench my hand.’

  ‘Relax. Breathe slowly.’

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ she says, staring mystified at the closed hand. ‘I’m trying. It won’t undo.’

  I move out towards her on the rope ladder, flat on my stomach, until I can reach her hands by stretching right out. Forcing myself not to look down, I unfold her fingers and put the rope into her hand. It’s as though touching the rope undoes a spell. She refocuses, gathers up both rope ends and, holding them tightly, manages to find her balance and stand up. I’m inching my way back towards the trunk as she moves towards me hanging onto the guide ropes as though her l
ife depends on it, which it does.

  She steps onto the branch and into my arms. Safe.

  Her heart pounds against my rib cage as she takes some huge, gulping breaths.

  ‘That was massively uncool,’ she says.

  She smiles, relieved but still shaky, and follows me down the tree.

  It’s hard to believe how great Estelle looks. She’s chosen a dress with a straight up and down shape, but it’s somehow floaty too, the sort of thing a grown-up elf might wear. No, I don’t think there is such a thing, I’m trying to give a general impression. In fact, the dress looks as though it’s been made to go with the shoes I got for her.

  Her hair is shiny, so are her eyes. And her lips, for that matter. She shimmers.

  ‘So, how do we look?’ asks Janie, spinning around. ‘Freak show, or awesome?’

  I think Estelle looks ethereal, otherworldly, elegant, but I settle for ‘awesome’, for once using the word with no sense of exaggeration.

  When she smiles right into my eyes, I’m breathless.

  I take the satin shoes out of my pocket and hand them to her.

  ‘I got you these.’

  ‘Dan, they’re . . . wow –’ she says, looking at them.

  ‘You don’t have to wear them. They’re just from the op-shop.’

  ‘No – are you kidding? I love them.’

  She sits down to put them on.

  ‘Exactly my size,’ she says, seeming genuinely pleased. ‘Sometimes it feels like you know way too much about me.’

  Smile. Instruct face not to assume guilty expression.

  The girls leave their climbing sneakers in the garden and we head off to collect Uyen.

  By the time we get to school the girls are definitely in a party mood. Particularly Estelle, deliriously relieved as she is not to have broken her neck.

  I, on the other hand, am feeling more miserable by the minute. Here we are finally and that means Estelle’s date, too, will soon be arriving.

  The asphalt driveway is soaked with colour as girls totter along in high-heeled shoes. Parents tell their kids to behave or to have fun, to be waiting here or there at pick-up time. Girls are screaming as they run from cars trying to keep hair-dos dry. Music throbs out into the night. With building hostility I watch every guy arrive, trying to assess whether he measures up as a possible date for Estelle. Not one of them does. Then Phyllis turns up, Estelle’s friend from the art class where she volunteers. It stops raining as though a switch has been flipped, and we’re all going inside.