Cassie

by Barry Jonsberg

  Barry Jonsberg

  First published in 2008

  Copyright © Barry Jonsberg, 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia

  Phone (612) 8425 0100

  Fax (612) 9906 2218

  Email info@allenandunwin.com

  Web www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Jonsberg, Barry,

  Cassie

  For secondary school age.

  ISBN: 978 1 74175 347 9 (pbk)

  Series: Girlfriend fiction; 8

  A823.4

  Cover photo: Katja Zimmermann/Taxi/Getty Images

  Cover brush credit: Stephanie Shimerdla, www.brushes.obsidiandawn.com

  Cover design by Tabitha King and Bruno Herfst

  Text design by Bruno Herfst

  Set in 12.5/15 pt Fournier by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.allenandunwin.com/girlfriendfiction

  For Cece Adams

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  About the Author

  1

  Holly

  My name is Holly Holley and this is my morning routine.

  Six-thirty: fumble for snooze button on alarm clock, curse mother before slipping back into coma.

  Six-forty: fumble for snooze button on alarm clock.

  Six-fifty: fumble …

  Seven o’clock: mother screams into ear. I curse her [silently], sit on edge of bed, wait for brain to make an appearance. Stumble into bathroom, stand on scales, get depressed.

  Seven-oh-five: have shower [you weigh more after a shower because of water droplets caught in hair], stand in front of mirror and check for signs of change in manner of ugly duckling-to-swan [magazines say it often happens at fifteen]. Get more depressed because freckles still scattered randomly, snub nose still unchanged, small wart on corner of eyelid still witch-like, dumpy legs still dumpy. Curse mother. Think of Demi Larson, wart-less, freckle-less, snub nose-less and with perfect legs up to her armpits. Try to hate her, but can’t. Curse mother instead.

  Seven-twenty-five: back to bedroom, extract school uniform from floor wardrobe, drag on over head. Examine self in wardrobe mirror. Pygmy in a sack stares back. Try to imagine sack-draped pygmy on arm of Raphael McDonald, but fail. Take deep breath, curse mother.

  Who would ever, ever, ever, think it was a good idea to call your child Holly when your last name’s Holley? Who would still think it was funny fifteen years later? Who would be so cruel that she wouldn’t even give you a middle name – something like Demi – as a get-out?

  I curse my mother as I go downstairs and pray she hasn’t cooked me any breakfast.

  Holly

  ‘Please don’t do it, Mum. Please.’

  Holly fixed her gaze on the windscreen. She knew she would stand more chance if she met her mother’s eyes, but she couldn’t do it. Somehow, it felt safer not to look.

  ‘You don’t have a sense of humour, chicken,’ said her mum, swerving into the outside lane and nearly knocking an old bloke off his bike. ‘That’s your problem.’

  No, thought, Holly. That’s NOT my problem. Not directly. How can anyone keep a sense of humour when your mother always embarrasses you in public? How can you laugh when your stomach is rebelling against breakfast? How can you giggle at someone who calls you ‘chicken’? If I haven’t got a sense of humour, she thought, it’s the fault of the REAL middle-aged problem sitting next to me with a blue flash in her hair, numerous body-piercings and one visible tattoo.

  ‘Just don’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not. It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘You’re embarrassed by your mother saying she loves you? How sad is that?’

  ‘Mum, you yell it out the window after you’ve dropped me at the bus stop. All the kids from school hear you.’ Raph McDonald hears you, she thought. ‘You must really hate me to embarrass me like that.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ said her mum, switching lanes again to a blare of horns. ‘You should never be embarrassed by love. There’s not enough of it in the world. But …’ she glanced in the mirror, indicated and pulled in to the kerb, ‘never let it be said I am insensitive to my daughter’s feelings. Though it hurts me, I will not tell you I love you while you are at the bus stop.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  Holly opened the car door. Her mum leaned across the passenger seat and offered her cheek. Holly glanced around. No one seemed to be watching. She gave her mother a quick peck, gathered up her schoolbag and ducked outside. Mrs Holley wound down the window.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  Holly hung her head to hide a smile. Her mum eased the car into gear and pulled out in front of a motorbike which swerved alarmingly.

  ‘You’re one gorgeous chicken, Holly Holley,’ her mum yelled as she went past the queue at the bus stop, one hand waving from the driver’s window.

  Cassie

  Moving through air is like moving through warm, thick water. Sweat beads my neck. The sun makes knives of light that flash and cut from every surface. Mum lifts me into the front seat, straps me in. Dad stands at the door and I try to fix him there. But my head moves and he flicks in and out of being. The aircon takes the heat away. Sweat crinkles, shrinks against skin. And the world moves past. Dad is a final frame at the door, his hand raised. Then he’s gone. Sounds bubble in my throat.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ says Mum. Her eyes are wet and I know she is lying.

  We move towards somewhere else and my words won’t do as they’re told. When I wake, Mum is wiping tissues down my chin. My head jerks.

  ‘Time to eat, Cassie,’ she says.

  She folds me into my chair. We are at a petrol station, but all around is nothing. A tree scratches the sky. Pictures flip through my head. I choose the one of Dad with his hand raised and keep it before my eyes.

  We are moving towards something, but this isn’t it.

  Holly

  Raph McDonald moved through the school yard like he owned it. He had the easy grace of an athlete, all loose limbs with the potential of explosive energy. Sun-streaked hair hung to just above his shoulders. His skin was olive, eyes brown and smiling. Surrounded by an almost visible aura of confidence, he strolled secure in his own perfection and the knowledge others recognised it. Girls melted a little as he passed. Knees wobbled, shoulders straightened, eyes swivelled and the air hummed with the accumulated rush of small sighs.

  Holly Holley sat on a bench next to the basketball court, added her own sigh and pressed her peanut butter sandwich to her lips.

  ‘He is sooo gorgeous,’ she said, though her words were muffled slightly by low-GI wholemeal bread and therefore lost something of the dreamy tone she was aiming for.

  ‘He’s got the brains of an amoeba,’
said Amy. Her tone could not, under any circumstances, be described as dreamy.

  ‘Brains aren’t everything.’

  ‘And looks are?’

  Holly hated these conversations. She nearly always lost with Amy who had the annoying habit of neither drooping, melting nor sighing whenever Raph walked by. In fact, she normally snorted.

  ‘No,’ said Holly. ‘Of course not. But if I was attracted just by brains, I’d be madly in love with Mr Tillyard.’ Mr Tillyard taught maths. It was generally recognised that he had a brain the size of a melon. Unfortunately, his head was completely misshapen as a result of carrying this huge organ. Bald and lumpy, he caused small children to cry and hide behind the skirts of their mothers. Both girls shuddered.

  ‘I’m not saying looks aren’t important,’ said Amy after a lengthy pause. ‘But Raph McDonald has only one topic of conversation. Raph McDonald.’

  ‘That’s the only topic of conversation I’m interested in,’ replied Holly.

  ‘Then you’re a sad loser.’

  ‘True. So true. Mind you, Amy, I’m not convinced that a science nerd like yourself is best qualified to offer advice on romance. Quantum theory, maybe. Affairs of the heart, definitely not.’

  ‘Your obsession with Raph has nothing to do with the heart.’ Amy replied.

  Holly finished her sandwich and rummaged around in her bag for an apple. Amy watched Raph sway into the distance and snorted.

  ‘Why not get a life-sized photograph of him and prop it in the corner of your bedroom?’ she said. ‘That way you could admire his looks without actually having to talk to him. Sounds like the perfect solution to me.’

  ‘I hate you, Amy. I think you should know.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve got brains and no looks.’

  ‘And I haven’t got either.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve got the hots for the dim-witted McDonald, then I won’t argue with you about the brains.’

  Holly crunched into her apple and looked around the yard. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Oh. My. God. He’s coming back,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever shall we do?’ said Amy, throwing up her arms in horror.

  Holly sighed.

  ‘He is sooo gorgeous,’ she breathed.

  Amy snorted.

  ‘He’s got the brains of a brick,’ she said.

  They sat in silence while he sauntered past.

  ‘So,’ said Holly. ‘How do you reckon I can get a life-sized photo of him then?’

  Fern

  The food in the roadhouse was bound to be disgusting, but it would have to do. After all, Fern Marshall thought, when you are surrounded by a three-hundred-kilometre radius of red dirt, scrubby bush and impossible sky, your options are limited.

  They would have to stay here tonight as well.

  She wheeled Cassie into a corner of the canteen and put the lock on the wheelchair. Without consciously thinking about it, she checked the immediate area for anything Cassie might knock into.

  ‘Doesn’t look promising, Cass,’ she said. ‘Probably pie and chips, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’

  Cassie twisted in her chair and smiled. She gave a high keening sound. Her left arm flung itself out to the side, fingers twisted and gnarled. Her head thrashed to the side and back again. The wail grew louder.

  ‘I won’t forget, sweetheart,’ said Fern. ‘Full cream milk. I’d bet it’s gonna be the most nutritious thing you’ll have today.’ She stroked Cass’s arm, shifted her bag on her shoulder and headed towards the counter. Fern examined the contents of the trays in the glass-fronted bain-marie. Nothing filled her with confidence. There was something that looked like it might be lasagne, but the dry, scaly edges of the dish suggested it had been sitting there for hours. Maybe days. Safer to choose something in a wrapper.

  ‘What can I get you?’ said the woman behind the counter, wiping her hands on a dirty tea towel.

  ‘Two sausage rolls and a couple of portions of chips, please,’ said Fern. ‘And a cappuccino and a glass of milk, full cream, thanks.’ While waiting for the food, she glanced around the canteen. She imagined it would be a place popular with drivers of road trains. Then again, it would be popular with whoever was passing through this lonely stretch of Australia’s red centre. Only one other table was occupied. A family of four. A woman, her husband who mopped sweat from his face continually, and two kids of about ten or eleven. Tourists, probably. The woman was staring at Cassie.

  Fern carried the food back to her table. The sausage rolls had been microwaved, so when she unwrapped them the pastry was soggy. Even the sausage meat looked pale and unappetising. She sighed and cut one roll into bite-sized pieces. Thank heavens for tomato sauce.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, Cass,’ she said quietly, ‘but I reckon some dog’s had his business wrapped up in pastry.’

  Cassie howled with laughter. Fern frowned.

  ‘I told you not to say anything. Now you’ve done it. The secret’s out. Better get rid of the evidence. Open up.’

  Fern spooned a portion of sausage roll into Cassie’s mouth.

  ‘Let me know if it tastes like dog poo, as well.’

  Cassie’s laugh caused the contents of her mouth to spill onto her lap. Fern laughed as well.

  ‘That’ll teach me,’ she said. ‘Me and my big gob. Okay, kiddo. My fault. Now let’s try again. Spoonful for you, spoonful for me.’

  By the time Cassie finished her meal, Fern’s coffee was lukewarm and had lost its froth. It tasted worse than the sausage roll. She sipped it cautiously in between bringing the milk to Cassie’s mouth.

  Fern looked up, startled, when a woman coughed beside her. The whole family from the other table was standing there, fidgeting. The two kids half hid behind their father, who was pale, hairless and wearing too-short shorts, pulled up high.

  ‘Hello,’ said Fern.

  ‘Hello,’ said the woman. She had a curious smile fixed to her face, as if it had been put on slightly off centre. ‘We just wanted to say … Well, that is, I wanted to say … Just that we wanted you to know how sorry we are. You know.’

  Fern’s own smile slipped.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. What are you sorry about?’

  The woman shifted her weight from one leg to another. She glanced briefly at her husband.

  ‘Well …’ Her eyes flicked to Cassie, whose right arm was thrashing across the armrest of her wheelchair. ‘You know …’ Her tone implied Fern was rude and ungrateful in forcing her to explain. ‘Your daughter,’ she added.

  ‘Why on earth would you be sorry about my daughter?’ asked Fern.

  The woman obviously regretted coming over. She glanced at the exit, as if checking for an escape route.

  ‘I’m sorry for her disability,’ she said in a too firm voice. ‘I’m sorry for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fern. ‘I understand. Well, there’s no reason to feel sorry for her disability. In fact, it’s impossible to feel sorry for a disability. Disabilities don’t have feelings. And as for me, I can assure you I have no need for your sorrow, or your pity. But maybe you should feel sorry about talking as if Cassie isn’t here. That really annoys her. And, frankly, it makes me feel like killing someone. It would probably annoy you too, wouldn’t it? If someone was talking about you to your husband, as if you didn’t have a mind of your own, as if you didn’t really exist?’

  The woman pressed her lips together in a thin line.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she said.

  ‘You feel sorry about lots of things, don’t you?’ said Fern. ‘Well, I’m certainly not sorry for feeling this way.’ She turned to the pale-skinned man. ‘I hope your wife has a nice day.’

  The woman bristled as she bundled her family together and hurried them to the exit. Through the plate glass window Fern saw them talking furiously as they climbed into their four wheel drive. She turned back to Cassie.

  ‘I tell you what, Cass,’ she said. ‘The doggy do isn’t restricted t
o the food in this place.’

  Cassie howled and shrieked. Her legs and arms scissored.

  Holly

  My name is Holly Holley and this is my evening routine.

  Four o’clock: think about completing homework.

  Four o’clock and one second: stop thinking about homework.

  Four o’clock and two seconds: re-read and brainstorm further my Goal-Setting and Action Plan documentation. This needs explanation …

  Last term I did a course in Careers. I failed it. How can I hope to have a successful career after failing a course in Careers? This strikes me as less than motivational. However, one thing from the course stayed with me. Only one thing. This was Goal-Setting and Action Plans.

  I suppose that’s two things.

  My maths isn’t great either.

  Put briefly, it is a strategy for identifying and recording what you want to achieve in life. You identify a Goal, and Set it down for the record. Let’s say your Goal is to become a brain surgeon. The idea is to work out what you need to do in order to achieve your Goal. This is the Action Plan. In the case of being a brain surgeon, it’s blitzing every subject at school by completing your homework every single night including the extra homework you request in the science stream, and then doing the same at University for a hundred years. As I have no idea what I want to be, I couldn’t even set the Goal. So the Action Plan was dead in the water. However, it occurred to me that this process, useless as far as careers was concerned, could be extended to my private life with much better results.

  So what do I want now and how can I get it?

  I draw up my three Goals.

  Goal 1: Get a date with Raph McDonald.

  Goal 2: Join Demi Larson's inner cicrle.

  Goal 3: Become beautiful.

  And that’s when it hits me. A light bulb pings on above my head: I cannot achieve the first two, without achieving the third Goal first. What are the chances of Raph McDonald asking out a girl who looks like one of the lesser dwarves in Snow White? The answer’s obvious. And what characterises the Demi Larson set? Beauty, that’s what. Demi has flawless skin, a slim physique, immaculate make-up, gorgeous hair and perfect dress sense. And the rest of her clique are similarly gifted. So what are the chances of them welcoming dumpy, drab-haired Holly Holley who wears clothes sporting the Salvos designer-label?