Tell the truth. My conscience nags at me, as if it’s the only choice. If only it was that easy.
‘Wait a second,’ Bree says.
In the silence, my thoughts return.
I tap my foot. Stand. Wander across to my cupboard on silent feet. Inside is my guitar, but although I skim my hand across the strings, I don’t get it out. Not even music can distract me tonight. Slumping on my bed again, I bring my knees up to my chin. I play imaginary chords in my head while Bree talks to someone at the hospital. A woman’s high-pitched voice is laced with panic. Hayden’s mother, Mrs Chapman.
I grip the phone a little harder.
I imagine her terror as she sits in the hospital waiting room hoping for her son to wake up. The truth will only hurt her more. To discover that her son assaulted a girl and started the fight …
I press my forehead hard into my kneecaps until my eyes water. I imagine the doctors trying to save Hayden’s life. That was my plan—a scholarship, then studying medicine. I planned to be a doctor, to help ill and injured people and their loved ones. To make things better, not worse. I can’t believe I risked everything just because Jonny was a few hours late. If I hadn’t got drunk I would have been safely inside or, better yet, on my way home when the fight happened.
But Hayden would still be in a coma.
‘Callie? Callie?’ Bree’s voice interrupts my self-recriminations.
‘I’m here. Sorry.’
‘I have to go,’ she says, as though the hospital will stop working if she stays on the phone to me for a minute longer.
I banish the bitchy thought. She really likes Hayden, misplaced as that seems to be after what I saw tonight. I try to be sympathetic. ‘Let me know if there’s any change.’
She hangs up and I’m alone with my thoughts again. The rest of the house is silent, except for Lion sniffing at the back door, wanting to come in. He knows better than to bark.
I’m out of my room and moving down the hallway before I realise I’ve made a decision. I need Lion’s wriggly warmth on the end of my bed tonight. I don’t care about the lecture I’ll get if Mum catches him inside. It’s not that she dislikes animals, but he’s kind of funny looking and smelly, and the deposits he leaves on our lawn aren’t in keeping with her efforts at achieving a prize-winning garden.
I hesitate at the top of the stairs.
Even with the alcohol mostly cleared from my brain, it’s a long way down to the empty hallway below. Light seeps in through the glass inserts in the front door and winds around the waist-high vase-and-stick arrangement Mum insists is on trend. The shadow it casts looks like a skeletal hand reaching up from a vase-shaped grave.
I sway, take a deep breath, and force my feet to move. One step at a time. I’ve played this game with myself a million times. Nearly halfway. Logically, even if I fell from here, the thick carpet means at worst, I’d bruise my pride. I take the last few steps in a hurry.
Dad offered me the spare room near the kitchen after what happened to Roxy, but I insisted I didn’t mind the stairs. He didn’t question me. I thought facing my fears was the least I could do.
I unlock the back door, all the while listening for movement from Mum and Dad’s room, but there’s only the hum of the television showing a late-night talk show.
Lion’s black nose pushes at the door and he wriggles into my arms. The slop of his tongue against my cheek is almost enough to make me smile.
I stare into his deep brown eyes. ‘Quiet.’
I swear he nods.
I lock the door again and creep back up the stairs with his red furry body burrowed against me. Back in my room, I deposit him on the end of my bed. When he was a puppy he could leap up himself, but since he damaged his knee he needs help.
Dad threatened to tie him to a doggy wagon when his second knee ligament went, but despite Mum’s mutterings about mongrel dogs, my parents paid for the reconstruction.
Lion turns once, twice and then nuzzles the quilt free of imaginary lumps before settling with a canine sigh of happiness. I pat his ears and slip beneath the quilt. My feet search for his warmth and snuggle underneath his little body but sleep still doesn’t come.
I didn’t really expect it to.
All of the busy work I’ve done to keep my mind distracted comes to nothing now I’m lying here with nothing to do but think.
About the queasy feeling deep in my belly and the foggy processes of my brain.
About being stood up.
About the moment when I should have stepped forward.
I didn’t tell.
I nearly did. I could have spoken to Mr Anderson. It would have only taken three wobbly paces on the high heels I might never wear again. But then I looked past Rhett, all anger and defiance, blazing eyes and lifted chin, and caught a glimpse of a single tear on the familiar face of the boy who threw the punch.
The one who I know wouldn’t have meant to cause pain. Who was just drunk and going along with his older football friends so they’d think he was cool. Who wants nothing more than to be a part of the team that, in our school, means you’ve made it.
The boy I imagine is lying awake just like I am, only a few feet down the hallway.
My brother.
* * *
The buttery smell of pancakes sizzling in the pan wakes me from a nightmare of high places and swinging fists. I breathe in, savouring the odour.
But only for a moment. Memories I fought through the night steal my hunger. Sean hitting Hayden. Sean blaming Rhett. The expression on Rhett’s face when he realised Mr Anderson wouldn’t believe him.
It was worse than anger, or rage. So much worse. It was Rhett’s expression that kept me awake most of all. The blankness. The lack of surprise. Maybe even a hint of hurt.
Resignation.
I remember the words I’d spoken to him earlier. No-one will believe you anyway.
I shake my head and think instead of my little brother. He’s a football genius with an incredible future, and despite the fights we’ve had, I know he’s good at heart. He’d be there for me if I needed him. I don’t know anything about Rhett Barker and I have no reason to be loyal to him. There’s nothing between us to make me speak up and get my brother into trouble.
Except that Rhett didn’t do it.
I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. If only I could lie here until Tuesday, after Mr Anderson’s deadline. By then maybe it would all have gone away and I could pretend I didn’t see what happened. Only Rhett knows I was outside and he can’t be sure I stayed.
But hiding out in here isn’t an option. Mum said we’d share breakfast this morning. That means if I’m not at the table with a smile on my face, she’ll come looking for me. With questions. Questions I still don’t have answers to.
I sit up quickly, then lay back just as fast, pushed down by a wave of nausea and a hammering in my skull.
I’m never drinking again.
I move more slowly the second time. I slide my feet from beneath my quilt and ease my way to the bathroom. My dress is where I left it in a pile in the corner. I nudge it with my toe, but I can’t face dealing with it. It probably needs to be dry-cleaned. I avoid my undoubtedly green reflection and have the fastest shower on record.
Sometime before dawn I decided that talking to Sean has to be my first step. I need to catch him before he goes down for breakfast or heads out on one of his training runs. After a night to sleep on it, he’s probably feeling pretty bad about blaming Rhett. If he comes clean and explains that the whole thing was an accident, I won’t have to get involved at all.
I drag on jeans and my favourite blue stripey top. With fresh resolve, I march to his door. It’s closed, as usual. I knock, but there’s no answer. Nor is there the usual whine of electric guitars from his latest death metal CD.
Voices drift up the stairs on a pancake breeze. I hear the deeper notes of my brother’s grunts. He must have beaten me to the table.
Only Dad looks up from his pile of pancakes when I e
nter the kitchen. Sunlight streams in through the windows that overlook the back garden and shines off the glass table top. Lion is peering in through the window from his usual spot by the back door and he wags his tail when he sees me. I snuck him back outside to his kennel before sunrise and his puppy smile tells me he’s kept our secret.
Mum is at the frying pan wearing a bright, brittle smile and Sean is shovelling syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth while consuming the sports section.
‘Morning, Princess.’ Dad’s voice is extra chirpy.
I try for a smile but suspect it comes out more like a grimace. I sink onto my usual seat opposite my brother. He doesn’t look up but manages a grunt in my direction.
I stare at his bent head, trying to match the blonde-tipped scruffy hair and fluff of stubble on his chin with the wild-eyed boy who hit Hayden. In the bright, morning light of the kitchen it’s hard to believe they’re the same person.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought he’d look darker, shadowed, torn by his conscience. But he’s just his normal overgrown self.
Mum appears at my elbow. ‘Pancakes?’
My stomach rolls, but refusing will just make her hurt, and Mum when she’s hurt is even worse than Mum when she’s annoyed. I used to fear she was crazy but now I know better. She’s sensitive, and easily stressed. Sometimes she needs some help keeping it together. I nod. ‘Just one please.’
She gives me two and I consider my options. Syrup is out—just the sight of its sticky sweetness makes me wince. Cream is equally offensive. I settle on a little butter, lemon and sugar, but can’t bring myself to actually take a bite.
‘Not hungry this morning?’ Dad peers over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
I scoop some onto my fork. ‘Just tired.’ He’s still watching me so I take a bite.
And nearly gag.
The light, fluffy texture of Mum’s signature breakfast dish melts in my mouth and coats the back of my tongue. It takes all my willpower to swallow, but Dad’s still watching.
I choke it down and make my lips curve upwards. ‘Delicious,’ I mumble.
Dad goes back to the business section of the paper and Mum shoots me a smile from over by the stove, where she’s starting on another batch of pancakes.
Sean’s still wrapped up in his overnight sports results. The ones he would have already checked on his tablet while lying in bed this morning.
Silence oozes over the dining table and it’s way more sickly than the syrup.
‘I have to go in to work in an hour,’ Mum announces as she sits at the table a few minutes later, carefully placing her plate containing a single pancake.
Dad’s head snaps up. ‘It’s Saturday.’
Her eyes narrow a fraction. ‘Mr and Mrs Chapman are still at the hospital. Someone responsible needs to be at the office to take deliveries ready for Monday.’
Mum works at the Chapmans’ construction company part time. Hayden’s parents are among the cream of Valley Beach society, such that it is, and Mum’s obviously thrilled to be trusted.
Dad’s grunt reminds me of Sean. ‘It’s Saturday,’ he repeats.
Mum tosses her head. ‘It’s overtime.’
Dad huffs and sips his coffee.
‘So you’ve spoken to Mrs Chapman? There’s still no change with Hayden?’ I interrupt their unspoken argument. Undercurrents are pretty normal around here lately. Usually I’d escape to my bedroom with the excuse of study, but since I have to get through breakfast I might as well try to get whatever information I can.
I don’t know if it’s my imagination but I think Sean freezes while we wait for Mum to answer. His gaze doesn’t lift from the paper, but neither does he turn the page. His knuckles turn white where they grip the edge of the table, except for the bruising on his right hand.
‘Mrs Chapman told me in confidence, but—’ Mum sighs and leans across the table before lowering her voice, ‘—he’s in an induced coma and they have no timeline to wake him up. The doctors think there might be bleeding on the brain.’
I gasp.
A glass falls. Smashes on the terracotta tiles. The blue-tinted glass that a moment ago was sitting near Sean’s elbow now lies in pieces on the floor.
‘Shit.’ He gulps as the magnitude of swearing in front of Mum and Dad seems to sink in. ‘Sorry.’ He points to his foot. Blood is pouring from a gash across his toe.
Mum’s hand flies to her mouth.
Dad stands. ‘Sean Alexander Jones, that language will not be tolerated in my house.’
Sean’s jaw works over but he bites back whatever he’s thinking of saying and instead bows his head. ‘Sorry.’
Dad sits again and Mum takes this as her cue to rush around the table, grabbing a clean hand towel on her way. She kneels at Sean’s side, carefully balancing between shards of glass, and wraps his foot up fast, but the blood soaks through within seconds.
Her gaze meets Dad’s. ‘I can’t be late to work. You’ll need to take him to the doctor.’
Dad nods, and before I know it they’re all bustling out the door, leaving me with a sink full of dishes and a pile of broken glass to clean up.
And any hope I had of talking to Sean goes with them.
After dealing with the mess, I head back to my room. Unlike the view from the top of the stairs, looking out the high window doesn’t bother me. The branches of the big old oak rustle and move despite the minimal breeze. Sometimes I wonder if my parents chose our house because it had the only old tree on the new estate. When you round the corner at the bottom of the hill, the huge tree draws your eye away from the other almost identical houses in the cul-de-sac.
Seeing that tree means I’m nearly home.
But today I wish I was anywhere else. My phone rings.
‘Hi Dad,’ I say, perching on the edge of the bed.
‘Callie, love, we’ll be a while, Sean needs stitches. It shouldn’t affect his football, though.’
I roll my eyes, glad he can’t see me. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘I don’t need the smart mouth.’ He sounds tired and I almost feel bad. Then Dad adds, ‘Your mother said to remind you to study, not waste time with that guitar.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
I can’t help but sigh. Study and football, my future and Sean’s, mapped out for as long as I can remember. The looks we shared as he headed out for another weight session and I went off to hit the books, focused on what once were our dreams to the exclusion of all else. I remember the day Mum sat me down gently and explained that my talent was for academic study, and that it should be my focus.
‘You’ll be glad you dedicated yourself one day,’ Dad reminds me for the millionth time.
‘Yes, Dad.’
When I end the call I pick up my guitar anyway, but I can’t find any peace. All I can think about is the fight. If I told, all that dedication would be for nothing. I’d have to explain what I’d been doing out there, throwing up in the bushes, and that would destroy both my reputation and my scholarship chances.
If the scholarship was awarded based on grades alone it wouldn’t matter, but it’s about representing the school. There are interviews with local papers and invitations to old scholar meetings with past alumni. The scholarship winner is the face of the school, and getting drunk at the dance and vomiting in the garden doesn’t match with the profile.
Nor does being related to someone who’s under investigation for assault. Appearances matter.
I rest my head against the cool of the window.
How would the truth about last night affect Sean’s football career? Even if Hayden ends up okay, Sean would be kicked off the team for fighting. And if Hayden’s not okay … Could he go to jail?
The tightening in my belly is answer enough. The longer it takes for Hayden to wake up, the less it will matter that the blow was an accident. Or that it wasn’t intended for his friend and team captain.
What was he doing there anyway? The brother I thought I knew wouldn’t have had an
ything to do with the games Hayden was playing with Scarlett. Sean’s one of the good guys. I’m sure of it.
He’s my brother.
A movement down on the street slams me back to the present. At the mouth of the laneway that we use as a shortcut to walk to school, a tall figure in a leather jacket and a girl who looks like she could blow away with the leaves at her feet are talking and gesturing wildly at each other.
I press forward, squishing my nose against the glass. There’s no mistake. I grip the wooden sill to keep steady on my feet.
What are Rhett and Scarlett doing on my corner?
CHAPTER
4
Rhett
‘Wait.’ Scarlett’s hand grips my sleeve.
I turn back to face her and fold my arms. ‘What?’
She glances over my shoulder at the row of mansions. Any one of them could probably fit our entire dump of a house in its garage. ‘You can’t just walk up to Callie Jones’s front door and make demands.’ There’s a hint of awe in her voice.
‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ She shrugs. ‘They …’ She waves at the houses as though it should be obvious.
And it is. I know what she’s getting at but I don’t care. ‘Having a big house doesn’t make her any better than us. She was there. She has to tell them what really happened.’
‘Why would she do that?’
I baulk. This is the question I wrestled with half the night. I tell Scarlett the same thing I told myself. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Since when did anyone give a crap about doing the right thing?’
I hate the sadness in her voice. We might only be separated by seventeen minutes in age but I’ve always thought of her as my little sister. Dad always drilled it into me that I had to look after her. Ma certainly isn’t interested in the job.
‘I spoke to her last night,’ I admit. When Scarlett frowns I add her name. ‘Callie.’
I try to say it casually but fail. The word is like music or something. It rolls off my tongue, all odd-sounding.
Thankfully Scarlett doesn’t seem to notice. ‘When?’
‘Before I saw you, outside the dance.’
What I Saw Page 4