by Sue Lawson
“Thank you, but this is about way more than the money,” continues Rose. “Did you notice the police officer when you came back? There was police looking for you in all the towns you used to live. Hunter and his father searched the whole of Cranbrooke, and Ian and I took it in turns driving around with Gemma.”
I glance at Ian. His face reminds me of the concrete verandah at home – cracked and hard. My mind starts to drift away, out the window to somewhere sunny.
“Pan?” snaps Rose.
I’m ripped back into this Legoland room.
Rose glares at me. “We understand you thought we were going to kick you out, but you should have done the mature thing – talked to us. Running away doesn’t solve anything.”
“Hey, at least now you have the perfect reason to kick me out.”
Ian laughs one of those scary laughs people do when something really isn’t funny. “Pan, you can run, drop glasses, lock yourself in your room, act like a three-year-old, but we’re not kicking you out. If you want to go, cut the drama and come out and tell us. We’ll arrange something with Gemma, but this childish attention seeking is over. Understand?”
I stare at the knots in the wooden coffee table.
“I want an answer, Pandora.”
“Yeah.”
“We can’t begin to imagine what it’s been like for you, Pan. We knew coming here would be tough,” says Rose, going all good cop after Ian’s bad cop. “We were ready for trouble – arguments, parties, drinking –”
“I stopped all that before …”
“Smashing stuff.” She raises an eyebrow. “We knew you mightn’t fit in, but we were willing to try. It’s time you met us half way.”
My heart beats quicker. “And if I don’t?”
Rose sighs.
Ian’s breath in is loud. “We’re saying we’re happy with how things are going, Pan, and despite yesterday and this morning, we’d like you to stay.”
“What about Miss Perfect? She wants me gone.”
“Miss Perfect? Livia?” Ian shakes his head. “You should have seen her when she arrived. Before she started with the drama group, she was drinking, smoking, chasing boys. Made you look like a goodie-goodie.”
“Ian,” warns Rose.
“Just saying.” He scrunches up his face at Rose before turning back to me. “We want you to stay, but there has to be consequences for what you’ve done.”
“So what do you want to do, Pan?” asks Rose.
The sentence hangs in the room between us.
What do I want? What?
The words collide and explode like fireworks into a new one.
STAY.
Why can’t I just come right out and say it?
“Where’s my stuff?”
Ian looks at Rose confused.
“Your bags are on the line drying in the sunshine with most of your clothes, except for your jeans and a couple of T-shirts, which I washed,” says Rose. “You were asleep when I came in. And I didn’t touch the things by the window.”
Guilt washes over me. I try to force my lips and tongue to say that one simple word – stay – but can’t. “Ari’s expecting me to help him finish the sets.” I peek at Ian and Rose. Their faces tell me nothing. “So I guess I owe it to him to hang around. Until after production.” I fold my arms.
“Right, decided then.” Ian stands and stretches. “Go have a shower and meet me out the back.”
I pull a face.
“Consequences start now, Pan.”
Turns out “consequences” involves sorting the stuff in the garage into piles – chuck out, store, keep. Strange thing is, I don’t mind being busy. Ian and I cart plastic storage boxes from the spare room to the garage. Rose directs. Ian whinges about her being a hoarder.
I’m ready for lectures about maturity and running away, or a sneak attack to trick me into talking about everything. But it doesn’t come.
By the end of the day, when the spare room walls have been washed, the floor vacuumed and bed made up, I’m almost relaxed.
Rose leaves to collect Livia from her friend’s house and dump a load at the welfare bin. Ian and I head to the tip – car and trailer crammed with bags and boxes. On the way there, Ian chats about his brother’s farm and how their father was a stock agent. Ian’s the first member of his family to move to the city.
Since I’ve been with Rose and Ian, a question has been circling me like a shark. Maybe it’s because I’m more relaxed that it escapes from me on the way back to Arnica Drive.
“Ian, how come you and Rose take in kids like me?” It’s out, trapped by the car’s closed windows.
Ian blows out a breath and straightens his elbows.
“Don’t answer that. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s rude and …” I pick at the hole in my tracksuit pants.
“This is between us, okay? Rose doesn’t … she finds it hard to talk about.”
“Ian, it’s–”
“Rose wanted a tribe of kids; two would have done me. Anyway, we …” The pain in his voice fills the car. “Rose became pregnant. Twice she nearly made it to term. But she lost both babies, at around thirty-three weeks.”
“They died before they were born?”
Ian nods. “We couldn’t face trying again.”
We stop at traffic lights.
“We were too old to adopt, so we signed up as foster parents.” Ian pushes lightness into his voice. “And that’s the story.”
“Sorry.” It’s pathetic, but it’s all I can manage.
When we return, the house is filled with the smell of spices and the sound of sizzling. Livia folds clothes in the family room. Rose stirs a large saucepan on the backburner.
“Yum,” says Ian, sniffing. “Indian.”
“Korma chicken, a vegetable curry, basmati rice, cucumber raita, mango chutney and roti,” she says.
“Samosas?” asks Ian.
“Don’t push your luck, mate.” Rose twists around, her face red and shiny. “Could do with a hand, Pan.”
“You’ll have to tell me what to do,” I say. “I haven’t cooked Indian before.”
“Go wash your hands and I’ll teach you.”
I’m grating cucumber for the riata when Nate bursts into the room after a day at his friend’s place. He waves a DVD in the air. “Pan, look. Hugo said we can borrow Toy Story 2. Want to watch it tonight?”
“Nate, Pan might have–”
“It’s okay, Rose, I’d like to watch it, Nate.”
“Cool!” He keeps going to his bedroom.
This huge smile crawls across my face.
After eating until my mouth burned and my stomach ached and watching Buzz, Woody and the gang with Nate, I pack everything back inside Smocker – letters, shell, the black feather, the white stone I found on the gravel path and the photos. I pick up the last photo sitting on the window ledge.
It’s Morgan and me sitting on Santa’s knee. To be accurate, Morgan is perched on Santa’s knee and I’m huddled on her lap. Morgan’s stern face is close to mine and her arms are wrapped around me. There’s a red mark on Morgan’s cheek.
A thought, maybe a memory, flitters at the back of my mind. Like a butterfly, it won’t stay still long enough for me to capture it.
I turn the photo over. Morgan, 12, Pan, 6 is scrawled across the back in black pen. Is it Mum’s writing? Or Grandy’s?
A memory flashes through my head so fast it’s gone before I realise it’s even there.
A shopping centre, tinsel and red balls hanging from the ceiling.
Noise – tinny Christmas songs, voices on speakers, kids crying.
Knees, bags, elbows jab into me. It hurts.
Tears – mine.
Yelling – Mum’s.
A raised hand above my head.
Morgan steps in front of me. Mum slaps her cheek instead.
I shudder, shove the photo into Smocker, and zip him up.
Thirty-Eight
“So you stayed.”
I look up fr
om my open folder to find Hunter standing beside me, holding his stuff against his hip.
“Looks like it.”
“How come we’re in the library for English?” He pulls the chair out from the desk beside me.
“Grint has given us time to finish our essays.”
Hunter drops his folder on the table. “Bet she has flipped us off to correct exams.” He flicks through his folder and stops at a blank page. “Coming over after school to watch that DVD? I have to take it back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Cool. You can call Rose on my phone.”
“Okay.” That’s it? I disappear, he and his dad help search for me, and he acts as if nothing happened. I shake my head and go back to my essay.
An intermission sign fills the TV screen. What kind of movie has an intermission complete with music? I toss the cushion off my lap and stretch.
Hunter presses the remote and the music stops. “So what do you think?”
“It’s old.” One look at his face and I know it’s not the answer he’s looking for. “Honestly, at the start, I thought I was going to hate it. That clicking thing they did drove me nuts. But next thing, I was into it. The dancing is – wow. Can you believe those guys? I mean, the film was made in the sixties, and the play written in the fif–” Hunter’s smile stops me. “What?”
“Nothing, I’m just glad you like it. Want a drink?” he asks, heading to the fridge. His steps are long and easy.
“Yeah.” I watch him fill two glasses and place them on the coffee table.
“So what did Rose and Ian say?”
I stick my nail into the fleshy part of my hand. “What about?”
He rolls his eyes. “What do you reckon?”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I hope I’m not as red as I feel. “Yeah, well, they were okay, considering. I have to do stuff as a ‘consequence’ and to pay back the money.”
Hunter sucks in air through his teeth, making a whistling sound. “Did you st–.”
I don’t want him to say it. “Yeah – but I gave most of it back. I only used it for the train and bus fares and a drink.”
His eyebrows disappear under his fringe.
“I was upset, okay. I just …”
“Hey, I’m not judging.” He raises his hands in the air. “I’ve done some pretty strange stuff too.”
I take a deep breath and dive in. “After your mum died?”
He takes a slow sip of his drink.
I start babbling. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Want to turn th–”
“Just before she died I was feral.” He twirls the glass in his hand as he speaks. “A prick to everyone. Except her. I just stopped talking to her and only sat with her when she was asleep. It was easier that way.” He purses his lips. “And after she died I moved out.”
“Yeah?” It’s a squeak.
He nods. “Moved in with Luke’s family. It was either that or Dad and I kill each other.”
“But you two seem good.” I put my drink on the coffee table.
“We are now, but after Mum …”
I don’t know what to say, so I sit there, dumb.
“I blamed myself for everything. If she was mad – it was my fault. In pain, tired, teary – all my fault. I tried harder, but it didn’t stop her from becoming sicker, so I gave up. And I hated myself for that too. It’s a bitch, eh?”
I don’t mean to and it takes me a while to realise I am, but I’m crying. Not full-on making noises and stuff, just tears running down my face. Hunter’s telling me about his mum and instead of being a friend and supporting him, I’m crying. What a loser.
“I wish I had pretended it wasn’t happening, you know, acted like everything was normal.”
“No you don’t,” I say, wiping the tears. “Trust me, that doesn’t work.”
“You know what?” Hunter rests his head on the back of the sofa. “Life’s like being on one of those rides at Luna Park or something. You just have to hold on tight and go with it.”
He moves forwards, places his drink on the table then hugs me. It’s a short, gentle hug. At first I’m like a rock, then I relax.
After he lets go, he picks up the remote. “Let’s finish this, eh?”
Dear Morgs,
Seems to me, we all have these places, like rooms, deep inside us where we lock away everything we can’t or don’t want to face. Some of us have something so big, so terrifying inside us that it takes up a whole room. I reckon ignoring that thing only feeds it, making it grow so huge that it spills out of the room to search us out, sucking up all our light and joy as it goes.
Maybe if we opened the door, even the tiniest bit, and let the light in, the thing’s power over us would dry up.
But we don’t. We keep the door locked tight, and pretend the thing, the room even, doesn’t exist. How stupid is that?
Morgs, remember how you told me, yelled at me, if you want to be technical about it, that I hadn’t noticed because I didn’t want to. And how after that I went psycho at you? Well, I’m sorry.
Love Panda
Morgan rested her palm on Pan’s closed door for a moment, then pushed it open. Pan sat cross-legged on the bed, folder open on her lap.
“What are you up to?” Morgan asked.
“Homework. Romeo and Juliet stuff.”
Morgan nodded. “Panda, about last night, how I yelled at you. I’m sorry.”
Pan shrugged.
“I kind of lost it.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m just … Pan, you’re off the rails.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, Grandma. Just because you don’t have a life, a boyfriend. I’m having fun – okay?”
Morgan traced a crease on her jeans with a finger. “Pan–”
“I got the message, but I’m not like Mum. I won’t end up pregnant. Thanks for pointing out how we’ve ruined her life by the way.”
“That’s not what I said.” Morgan straightened her back. “Look Pan, we need to talk about Kylie. Mum.”
Pan’s head snapped up. “Again? I heard you last night.”
“No, you didn’t. You won’t see.”
“Yeah, but I do see. You’re old and boring. You don’t get that I’m just having fun, and so is Mum. End of discussion.” She flipped the page in her folder.
“Pan, you must have noticed something isn’t right – for starters we never stay in one place more than eight months. Sometimes Mum doesn’t make it out of bed for days, other times she can’t sleep. And she goes from happy to psycho in two seconds flat. Pan, it’s time you accepted it. Mum is sick.”
“Shut up, Morgan. Just shut up.” Pan leaped to her feet and shoved Morgan. “Get out of my room.”
Thirty-Nine
On Thursday night we sit around the kitchen table eating lasagne. Livia is full of production gossip: Zander keeps forgetting his lines, Beccy is a legend and Marcella, the director, is soooo talented.
That lunchtime at school Ari, Hunter, Luke and the backstage crew hung the backdrops and practised taking the sets on and off the stage. I was there, but I can’t say I helped. I held stuff, pushed bits of wood where I was told and stood up the back of the auditorium assessing how it was coming together, but the others did the hard work. After school the cast had a run-through of the first three scenes of Act I, complete with full lighting, music and costumes. Ari and I sat in the middle of the auditorium and watched. Best detention ever.
The biggest surprise was Livia – not that I’ll ever tell her, but she’s good.
“So it’s all set?” asks Ian.
Livia, her mouth full, nods.
“Hey, speaking of sets, what do you think of Ari’s backdrops and sets, Livia?”
“Amazing.” And she’s off again – but about how good it was finally to have the stage right.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” says Ian, when Livia takes a breath. “Zara arrives tomorrow.” He looks at each of us when he says tomorrow.
“We’d
like the three of you to be here after school to meet her and make her welcome,” adds Rose.
“But Rose, Teagan and I are going shopping. It’s all arranged.” Livia’s smile makes me want to puke.
“After you’ve met Zara, okay?” I can tell by Ian’s eyes that she doesn’t have a choice.
“Fine. But I’m leaving here at four-thirty to meet Teagan at Knox.”
“Thanks, Livia,” says Rose. “Nate, I’ll meet you at the car park after school.”
“She’s not in my grade, is she?”
“No Nate. Zara will be in year three.”
He shrugs and pulls his whatever face.
Just as I think I don’t count, Rose turns to me. “Pan, do you have plans?”
“Not for tomorrow.”
“Good, all set then,” says Ian. “I’ll make muffins.”
I wonder if that’s how the conversation went before I arrived – a statement of fact, no details – or was there more to it than that.
“Who’s on dishes?” asks Rose.
“Me and Liv,” says Nate.
“I’m on the computer,” I say, taking Nate and Rose’s plate to the bench.
As I open my Romeo and Juliet essay, I wonder if this is how it works. If this is how life is for most people. And if it is, why have Morgan and I laughed at it?
Forty
Ever since I arrived in Cranbrooke, Livia and I don’t walk to or from the bus stop together. Today, I’m ahead of her, listening to a song on my iPod that Hunter told me to check out.
“Hey.” Livia taps my arm.
I turn off my iPod. “Yeah.”
“You and Hunter?”
“What about it?”
“What’s going on there?”
My first reaction is to launch into her, to tell her to mind to her own business. I go with the second option. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Just wondering. Beccy reckons you two have hooked up.”
“Yeah right. A guy like Hunter would hook up with me. He’s my …” I swallow. “Friend.” The word tastes strange.
“Yeah, that’s what I told Beccy. You’re so not Hunter’s type.” She picks up speed and turns into the McMinn’s drive.