Pan’s Whisper

by Sue Lawson

  A honeyeater lands on the edge of the dish under the ball, dips its head to drink, then darts under the water, ruffles its feathers and flits to the fence to dry.

  If only I could do that – go where I want with a flap of my wings. But I can’t and I’m stuck with Livia. Superior, success-story, always-right Livia.

  Sneering, sensible, self-assured Livia.

  Her stance, blond hair that stays where she puts it and pretty face make me think of Morgan. Confident, rock chick, Morgan.

  They both make me feel like a piece of crap.

  Morgan,

  Went up Mount Dandenong with the plastics today. Drive, walk and picnic huddled under a shelter while it bucketed down. Oh, what a fun together day.

  Anyway, while we were at the lookout, I was staring through the leaves at the only patch of blue in the sky, when this memory drops out of nowhere and smashes me right between the eyes. It was so real it made me gasp.

  It was you and me when we were little. I must have been five or something. We were hiding from a bunyip, or yeti, or something big and scary, behind the Selange’s front hedge. We were on our way to Grandy and Grandma’s house. You made me carry my Barbie backpack. It was hurting my shoulders, but I stayed quiet because I could hear the bunyip thing screeching.

  Do you remember that or am I imagining it?

  I’d have followed you anywhere, then. You were fun, made things so exciting.

  But that was then.

  Pan

  Morgan sat on the sofa, long legs curled under her, watching her favourite movie, Mulan. Again. Kylie, dressed in pink stockings and beret, red tartan skirt and purple T-shirt, had left a couple of hours ago to visit her current boyfriend, Tyson. Pan had been watching the movie with Morgan, but disappeared during the avalanche scene. Morgan couldn’t understand why Pan couldn’t just close her eyes at the scary bits and ride it out. Why did she have to leave the room?

  The back door slammed, tearing Morgan from the movie. She listened hard. A chair scraped on the lino. Something heavy thudded on wood. Sounded like Kylie was alone, but the noises weren’t enough for Morgan to gauge her mood.

  Morgan crept to the kitchen and peered around the door.

  A chair had toppled to the vinyl. Kylie’s handbag lay abandoned on the kitchen table. Kylie stood facing the backyard, hands gripping the sink, muttering. Her beret was gone, her plaits were falling out and her stockings laddered.

  Morgan strained to hear.

  “Acting crazy? Me? How would he know? Idiot.” Kylie looked from the backyard down to the sink.

  Morgan chewed on her lip. She and Pan had forgotten to wash the dishes after lunch – instant macaroni that Kylie said Pan could have only if they washed up. Properly.

  Kylie slapped the bench with an open hand. “Bloody useless kids. Morgan! Get here.”

  Morgan didn’t move.

  Kylie pushed off the bench as though she was a mighty size, not all muscle and sinew like a greyhound. She spun around. “Morgan!”

  Kylie’s mascara was smudged and her eyes were wild. Morgan shuddered. The signs had been building for a couple of days.

  TV light flickering under the lounge room door at two in the morning.

  Cupboards cleaned out at dawn.

  A new “project” started in the dark of night – this time a garden bed by the back fence.

  Too much loud singing and dancing.

  Promises: movies, new clothes, Disneyland.

  After Kylie mentioned Disneyland, Morgan had packed pyjamas, knickers, toothpaste and a toothbrush in two backpacks and hid them behind the sofa.

  Morgan backed away from the kitchen and sprinted to Pan’s room, where Pan sat on the bed, playing with her only Barbie.

  “Morgan. Where are you?” A crash and swearing filled the air. “Answer me!”

  “Hey, Panda, want to visit Grandy?”

  Pan shook her head. “Not now.”

  “Yes, now,” hissed Morgan.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Morgan heard the drawer by the sink open, the rattle of rummaging, then it slamming shut. Not the spatula.

  “Come on, Panda. We have to get to Grandy’s before the hairy-nosed, boogie-bummed bunyip catches us.”

  “There’s no such thing, silly.”

  Kylie stomped up the hall, her voice a low growl as she passed Pan’s room towards Morgan’s at the end of the house.

  “Yeah, there is, and it’s gone up the corridor. Come on.” Morgan grabbed her sister’s hand and before Pan could speak, raced to the lounge, grabbed the two backpacks and rushed out the door.

  “Slow down,” yelled Pan.

  “Shut up,” hissed Morgan. “The bunyip will hear us.”

  Too late.

  “Get back here now!” Kylie was screeching, the sound wild and dangerous like the cat fights outside Morgan’s window at night.

  Morgan dragged Pan along the avenue and pushed her behind the Selange’s hedge. Morgan placed a single finger against her lips and lifted Pan’s backpack onto her shoulders.

  “Pan. I’ll rip the head off your bloody doll,” Kylie is yelling

  Pan whimpered. Morgan shook her head and nodded at Pan’s hand; she still held her only Barbie.

  Kylie thundered past, ranting and swearing. Morgan and Pan slipped down the Selange’s drive to the backyard and through the hole Mr Selange had cut in the fence so Koby and Aimee could reach the park without having to go all the way around.

  “Can we play?”

  “No, not until we reach Grandy’s.” Morgan took the long way to her grandparent’s house, going down side streets and laneways and backtracking every now and again to avoid Kylie and her screams. She ignored Pan’s whining and kept her distracted with stories about bunyips and goblins.

  Grandy had opened the door before they placed a foot on the wooden verandah. He hugged them both and ushered them inside.

  After steak, mashed potatoes, beans and carrots for dinner, Grandy tucked the girls into the twin single beds in Kylie’s old room and read them stories about Pooh Bear and a boy called Christopher Robin. He kissed Pan’s cheek, then Morgan’s.

  “You’re a brave girl, Morgana,” he said.

  Morgan lay awake, wondering if their mum would turn up, like she did last time. Grandy had driven Kylie to the hospital.

  Restless, Morgana decided to go to the bathroom. She opened the bedroom door. Grandy’s voice floated down the hall from the kitchen.

  “That’s right. The girls are here and safe. No, they walked. No, not until you go back on your medication.”

  Morgan crept back to the bedroom and climbed into bed behind Panda.

  Thirteen

  My maths teacher, Mr Atkinson, or Atto as he told me he prefers to be called, is writing on the whiteboard when Hunter comes in late. I watch Hunter without lifting my head.

  He stands in the doorway and scans the room. His usual seat up the front, next to the window, is taken by Jade Gorski. In the few weeks I’ve been here, Jade has sat up the back with her bestie, Tash. Not today. At lunchtime they’d had a spectacular fight in the quadrangle, which reminded me of the fights at Deakin Bay. Only there were no knives or nunchuks, just screaming and open-hand slaps. Judging by the new seating arrangements, it’d be fair to say they haven’t made up.

  Hunter dumps his books on the empty desk beside me. “Hey, Pan.” He says it as if we are old friends.

  “Hi.” I move my chair a little away from him.

  Hunter takes a red and a blue pen from his fraying pencil case. He flips open his folder at a blank page. One earbud is tucked in his left ear as usual, the other pokes out from his school jumper. I can hear the buzz of whatever he is listening to.

  “Who won?” he asks, not looking at me.

  “What?”

  He jerks his head towards Jade. “The bitch fight.”

  “Oh that.” Jade sniffs into a tissue. Two scratches cross her cheek to the edge of her nose. “Tash.”

  Hunter’s mouth pulls down
and his eyebrows rise. “Who’d have thought?”

  I smile in spite of myself.

  Atto spins to face the class and puts the cap on the green marker. “What can you tell me about linear functions, people?”

  I suck in a loud breath.

  “You okay?” asks Hunter.

  “Just bracing myself.”

  “For maths or Atto?”

  “Both.”

  His smile makes my skin tingle. And that makes me panic.

  Atto sighs when the bell rings for the end of class. “Already?” He looks genuinely disappointed.

  I’m relieved.

  Hunter scoops up his books and pencil case. “How did the bracing work out for you?”

  “What?”

  “You said you were bracing yourself.”

  “Yeah, that.” I need to move away from him.

  “So, did it work?” He’s standing in front of the desk, books in his left hand by his hip.

  “Well, my head didn’t explode.” But it will if I don’t escape.

  There’s that laugh again.

  “Gotta go,” he says, and strolls to the door.

  I hate the flood of disappointment that rushes through me.

  Fourteen

  My mascara is bone dry. There’s not even enough left to leave streaks when I wipe the wand on the back of my hand. It’s dead. Which raises a serious problem.

  If I need stuff at home, I either:

  Nagged Mum for cash.

  Used Morgan’s until said nagging works.

  If above options failed, sucked up to Morgan so she’d buy me a new one.

  But I’m not at home, I have no money and Rose isn’t the sort to cave in to nagging. I have a faint memory of a money conversation during the first meal I ate in Legoland, but I’d tuned out. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t going to be here long enough to need money. Yet, I’m still here, and I do need money.

  I roll the black cylinder on my palm. Desperate times call for desperate actions. I toss the tube onto the bed, take a deep breath and walk to Livia’s room.

  It would be so much easier to approach Nate, even though I can’t figure out if he’s just persistent or plain old thick. He’s constantly in my face. “Pan, wanna play Monopoly?” “Hey, Pan, come watch Shrek with me.” “Pan check out my Lego spaceship.” If I thought he’d know anything about needing mascara, I’d ask him.

  Livia’s door is open. Her doona and cushions are pink and lacy. Her walls are covered in posters of that Twilight vampire and Lady Gaga. She also has heaps of pictures from stage plays and musicals like The Lion King, Cats, Les Miserables and Wicked. There are framed certificates from some drama academy.

  Livia is stretching in front of the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door. If I didn’t need her help, I’d laugh.

  She jumps when she sees my reflection. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. Just saying hi.”

  Livia’s eyes narrow. “Yeah right.” We stand glaring at each other for a few seconds.

  “Have you always liked drama and singing?” I ask, looking at those certificates.

  She sucks on her lip. “Yeah, but it was Rose who encouraged me. She enrolled me in the drama academy when I first arrived. It changed everything.” Livia frowns. “What’s this about, Pan?”

  I raise my hands in surrender. “Okay, you got me. I need to ask you something.”

  “So now you want me to introduce you to my friends, right? Sorry. Too late.” She turns back to the mirror, dismissing me.

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about living here.”

  She’s facing me again, hands on her hips. More silence.

  “What do you do when you need stuff? You know, essentials?”

  A thin smile crawls across Livia’s face. “Are you trying to tell me you need tampons?”

  She sounds so superior it takes every piece of my willpower not to storm off. Mascara versus putting Livia in her place. I swallow. “Something like that.”

  “Ian explained when you arrived around the table at dinner. Remember?” she scoffs. “I knew you weren’t listening.”

  “I did listen. It’s just with all the other information I had to take in – you know, school, house rules – I’ve forgotten what he said.”

  Livia does a “I’m so much better than you” sigh. “Ian and Rose buy the essentials – shampoo, deodorants, razors. Tampons.” She emphasises the word like she is goading me for a reaction. “We just have to ask.”

  “What about other stuff, like … make-up?”

  “We buy that ourselves with the pocket money Rose and Ian pay us for jobs we do. I clean the bathroom and toilet and fold the washing. Nate has to empty the recycling, feed the worms and empty the dishwasher. If we need more cash, for movies or something, we do extra jobs.”

  “So it’d be okay if I asked Rose about jobs?”

  Livia rolls her eyes. “Yes. Shut the door as you go.”

  In the kitchen Rose is bent over an open recipe book on the bench.

  I pour a glass of water, trying to act casual. “Whatchya looking for?”

  “Inspiration. Do you feel like Moroccan chicken, beef stir-fry or tuna pasta?” she asks, flicking through pages.

  “What’s easiest?”

  Her lips twist. “Tuna pasta, probably.”

  “Then tuna pasta it is.” I place the glass on the counter. “Can I help?”

  Rose can’t mask her surprise. It doesn’t work. “That would be good, Pan. How about chopping the onions?”

  I fight the groan building in my throat. I hate doing onions. “Sure.”

  While I chop, Rose lines up a bottle of pasta sauce, olive oil and a container of dry pasta shells on the bench.

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. The onion fumes are burning my mouth too.

  Rose places a huge saucepan on the stove and drizzles olive oil into it. “Did you cook at home?” Her voice is light, casual, but I know she’s digging. Still, I need mascara.

  “Yeah. Mum didn’t cook much.”

  Rose takes the chopped onion and dumps it in the saucepan. The sizzling is loud and the rich smell reminds me of Grandy’s home.

  “Did Morgan do most of the cooking?”

  My chest tightens. She did before she started work full-time. Once that happened I became the main cook, and I loved it. The slicing and stirring are soothing. But I don’t want to get into that. “I guess. She paid me to help her, so I had money for, you know, stuff.”

  “What sort of ‘stuff’?”

  “Deodorant, shampoo. You know, that sort of thing.”

  Rose pours the pasta sauce into the pan. The sizzling and the exhaust fan drown out her next words.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, how come Morgan had money?”

  “She worked … works … at this Chinese restaurant and at the dry cleaners.” My eyes burn – had to be the lingering effects of the onion. I wipe the bench, scrubbing at marks on the laminex.

  Rose rests her hand on my wrist. “You know, if you want to see Morgan, I’d be happy to drive you–”

  “No.”

  She turns back to the pasta sauce.

  I’m so desperate to avoid any more discussion about Morgan, I blurt out, “So, if I needed mascara, and I don’t have cash, what do I do?”

  “You take on jobs around here, and I’ll pay you.” She jerks her head at the fridge. “There’s the list.”

  Hadn’t noticed that before. The list of jobs and pay rates is stuck to the door with a plumber’s magnet. Vacuuming, mowing the lawn, hanging out washing, ironing, cooking. There’s nothing here that I didn’t do at home, at Morgan’s insistence. “How about I vacuum the house, hang out the washing and cook a meal sometimes.”

  “Sounds good.” Rose smiles and steps back from the stove. “Be a love and stir this for a tick, please.”

  When she returns to the kitchen, she’s holding a black tube. “Try this one.”

  It’s the waterproof mascara I saw a
dvertised in a glossy magazine in the hospital waiting room. “You sure? I mean it’s expensive.”

  Rose curls my fingers around the mascara. “I’m sure.”

  Fifteen

  Lunchtime again, and I’m back outside the cafeteria sipping orange juice, watching groups of people wander past laughing, bitching and bracing against the cold.

  An empty chip packet skids along the concrete in the eddying wind outside the cafeteria. The foil packet flips over my feet, around the empty chairs and into the school fence. I watch it flail against the cyclone wire.

  I sense the wave of heat approaching, shifting the wind, before I see the group of boys. Peals of deep laughter swirl in the air as they taunt each other. I can make out a few words. Guitar. Broken string. Twang! That one causes raucous laughter. I envy them.

  They draw closer. Head down, I watch them jostle and wrestle along like labrador puppies. I recognise one guy from history, another two from English. Then I see those distinctive blond tips – Hunter. I gulp juice, splutter and burst into a hacking cough.

  The boys roll past into the cafeteria. I catch my breath and wipe my eyes, glad I’m invisible, that Hunter hasn’t recognised me, but angry I even care what he did or didn’t see.

  The sound of plastic chair legs scraping on concrete makes me look up. Hunter sits at the table, which sparks a fresh spurt of coughing.

  “You right or should I dial triple zero?” he asks.

  I wave my hand in front of me. “Think. I’ll. Make. It.” I splutter between each word, my voice cracked and caught in my throat.

  Hunter grins and leans back. “Fair enough”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him without an earbud tucked in his ear.

  “So where are your mates?” I ask when my throat feels normal again.

  He jerks his head towards the caf. “Fueling up. Where are yours?”