Cracked

by Clare Strahan

  ‘I’m never invited.’ He grabs the remote and the sound blares back on. He turns it down and stares at the screen.

  ‘Do you ever wish you were still with Cho?’

  Keek flops back and smacks his head on the wall. ‘Ow,’ he says. ‘No. But I miss riding with her – them. It kinda weirded it all up.’

  ‘You’re still friends with the others, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorta. It’s awkward now.’

  All the unsaid stuff is a fog, cutting us off from each other.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Clove. Come here.’

  I use Keek as a pillow and he puts his arm around me. The fog thins and disappears. I want to say, ‘Are you my boyfriend?’ But it’s so perfect just as it is. Friends who start going out, break up.

  ‘I reckon I could make a fair bomb out of egg cartons and an old phone charger,’ he says.

  The next afternoon, Keek rolls up to my place with plastic bags full of ‘costumes’. He holds his own oversized pants on with a belt and rolls up the legs, but his dad’s ‘commando’ pants are way too big for me.

  I stick with Mum’s cargo pants, generally relegated to gardening. It’s truly embarrassing. We both wear ski masks, but push them up like beanies.

  ‘That’s the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever put on,’ I say.

  ‘We only need it for effect when we arrive,’ Keek says, strapping my ‘bomb’ to me with black gaffer tape.

  ‘Do I have to wear this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A puffy sleeveless jacket, fingerless gloves, Mum’s old walking boots and a double row of little cardboard tubes threaded on string and painted gold complete my ensemble. ‘Ammo,’ says Keek. He wears the same, but with his dad’s old motorcycle boots.

  ‘Clunking around in those great clod-hoppers,’ says my mother. ‘The whole idea is ridiculous.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ I worry.

  Mum taps on my fake bomb. ‘Are you going to be all right? I’m deeply dubious about the ethics of these outfits.’

  ‘It’s a bad-taste party,’ says Keek. ‘It’s meant to be dubious.’

  ‘I still think you could’ve borrowed a pair of matching tracksuits from Mrs T.’ Mum kisses my cheek. ‘Sleeping bags? Pillows? Toothbrush?’

  ‘All sorted.’

  ‘Well, have fun, but not too much fun.’

  ‘It’s alcohol-free, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the invitation. The Larders are so full-on. Apparently the only ones who are going to survive the apocalypse are the congregation of Fernwood Evangelist Church and those they save. But they’re very nice.’ Mum laughs aloud.

  Mr McKenzie arrives to give us a lift to the party. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says when he sees us. ‘There’s something very disturbing about you two being dressed up like that.’

  Keek presses buttons on the dead mobile phone he has attached to his bomb and says, ‘Boom!’

  His father shakes his head.

  ‘I hope the Larders aren’t offended,’ says Mum. ‘Not to mention the racist overtones.’

  ‘How, racist? We could be from anywhere,’ says Keek.

  ‘How not racist?’ Mum adjusts my ammo.

  Keek frowns. ‘It’s meant to be ironic, not racist. I mean, isn’t the racism in the assumptions?’

  ‘Well, perhaps.’ Mum seems swayed by this argument. ‘But such acts are about desperation, not bad taste.’

  Keek shakes his curls. ‘The whole shebang is bad taste.’

  ‘Then go as soldiers,’ Mum says. ‘It’s not funny, is it, Dave?’

  Mr McKenzie says, ‘Leave me out of it. How’s the patient?’

  Lucille remains Lucille, long-suffering eyes, cold ears and warm bones. Keek and I have to negotiate our bombs to lay on the floor and pat her while Mum and Keek’s dad disappear into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  ‘It will be a week, tomorrow,’ I say.

  ‘Mrs T talking to your mum yet?’

  ‘Yeah, but she won’t come around. Says she can’t bear to see “what’s going on”. She thinks we’re cruel.’

  I run my finger over Lucille’s bony skull. Is it cruel? The Dalai Lama says it’s the right thing to do. And Mum’s not pretending she’s going to get better or anything.

  ‘Mum says looking after Lucille while she dies, after all these years of Lucille looking after us, is the least we can do.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ His hand brushes mine as we stroke the dog.

  I kiss Lucille’s nose. ‘I reckon I love you,’ I say.

  Lucille licks dry lips that stick to her gums, revealing her teeth and letting out a stinky plume of serious dog-breath. We roll away with moans of disgust. When we recover from the smell, I give Lucille teaspoons of water and Keek rustles up his father.

  ‘Behave yourself, kids,’ says Mr McKenzie, lumping our sleeping gear out of the boot. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr McKenzie.’

  Keek says, ‘See ya, Dad.’

  I like seeing them give each other a hug.

  It’s a strange feeling, rocking up to the Larders’ front door. It must’ve been hard for Alison, I realise, coming back and finding everything the same, but completely different. Especially me.

  Keek shoves me. ‘Cheer up, CB.’

  I don’t think Mr Larder has a clue, but Mrs Larder remembers me. ‘Hello there, Clover,’ she says. She peers out the front door. ‘Has your mother gone without saying hello?’

  ‘No, my friend Keek’s dad dropped us off, Mrs Larder,’ I say. ‘Mum asked me to send her love.’

  ‘Gosh, how formal,’ she laughs. ‘All the kids call me Margaret. Well, tell your mother that we send our love and remember her in our prayers. And this must be Keek, then.’ She holds out her hand and he shakes it.

  There’s plastic matting protecting the carpet and we follow it as she ushers us downstairs to the rumpus room. They don’t seem to register our bombs. ‘Uncle Sam needs You,’ jokes Mr Larder. ‘Boys sleep to the left, girls to the right.’ In between is a large square of carpet, a trestle table of food, balloons, streamers and Alison dressed entirely in red – red shoes, red tights, red skirt, red jumper, red ribbon in her hair. Red earrings.

  ‘What are you?’ says Keek.

  ‘A period.’

  Keek is confused, but I laugh. Then his mouth falls open, shuts and he turns red too.

  ‘I was gonna wear tampon earrings, but Mum wouldn’t let me,’ says Alison. She seems proud.

  ‘Well, happy birthday,’ says Keek, handing over the chocolates and our homemade birthday card.

  ‘What are you?’ Alison asks. ‘German backpackers?’ ‘Suicide bombers,’ says Keek.

  ‘You don’t look Japanese.’

  ‘No, modern ones,’ I explain, but she is confused. ‘Anyway . . .’ I shake off the idea that Alison knows nothing about anything except abstract mathematics. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Trung and Mark are coming at half-past from Trung’s basketball final and Youth Group finishes then too.’ Great. It said seven p.m. on the invitation. Me, Keek and Alison Larder – maybe I should’ve let Keek make a real bomb after all.

  ‘Do you want to play darts?’ says Alison.

  Alison is a fiend at darts and so is Keek. I’ve been the early victim in two games of Killer by the time the kids from Youth Group arrive. There are about twelve of them and they all seem to have gone for emo or hip-hop as their version of bad taste – fascinating. But none of them have pulled it off. Their ‘essence of dag’ makes their outfits not so much amusingly bad, as just bad. But then again, I’m hardly in a position to judge.

  Trung fairly bounces into the room wearing pale orange velour. ‘We won!’ He and Alison do a victory dance.

  ‘Is that your mother’s tracksuit?’ I ask, laughing.

  Trung takes a bow. ‘Grandmother’s.’

  Mark hasn’t dressed up. ‘I’m wearing a fat suit,’ he says.

  Alison chews loudly on a celery stick that she waves
at me and Keek. ‘So are you two going out or what?’

  Keek’s face is as red as Alison’s menstrual jumper. I look at my shoes and remember how stupid they are.

  Mrs Larder calls, ‘Come on!’

  Rescued, we follow her outside to whizz sparklers around in the dark. Keek and I stay out there to have a smoke and Mark loiters and smokes with us. I have a glimmer of how my mother must feel about me smoking. ‘Should you be doing that?’ I say.

  Mark looks at me in his steady way. ‘Should you?’

  Keek looks at me. I look at Mark. We all shrug.

  When Mrs Larder calls us for cake, Keek practically skips in.

  ‘Maybe we’ll be seeing you in church?’ she says to him, smiling.

  He smiles back. ‘Maybe, Margaret.’

  ‘Does she even know what he’s wearing?’ says Mark under his breath.

  At ten-thirty p.m., Mr and Mrs Larder set up beds and Mr Larder rattles off a prayer. The youth group kids bow their heads and close their eyes. It goes on and on. Keek, Mark, Trung and I enter into the frozen jiggling hysterics of suppressed laughter; it’s like being in a bubble and absolutely, collectively getting it. I steal a look over at Alison and as soon as our eyes meet, it’s as if we’ve reached over and held hands. She lowers her eyes, conquering herself, and I can only hope I don’t snort. A warmth rolls over me and I hope she feels it too.

  I let out a big shuddery sigh of relief when Mr Larder finishes, thanks us for coming and wishes us a good night. I’m not the only one who has to laugh out loud before I can recover.

  ‘How are we going to get these things off?’ I complain, tugging at my costume. Keek has wrapped so many tape layers, my ‘bomb’ is immovable.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I may have gone a little nuts. We’ll have to get scissors.’

  ‘You ask, seeing Margaret is your new best friend.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘It was your bright idea.’

  Mark calls out, ‘Alison, got any scissors?’

  Alison calls, ‘Mum, can you get scissors?’

  ‘Yes, scissors, of course. Hang on.’ Mrs Larder kisses Alison and a few kids on the top of the head. She hovers for a moment and I wonder if she’s going to kiss me too, but she pats me instead. I don’t know if I’m disappointed, or relieved.

  ‘Lights out,’ she calls from the top of the stairs. I guess there aren’t going to be any scissors.

  There’s shuffling, laughing and calling of good night and then, nothing. I wait for something to happen. Something does. Alison wriggles herself, sleeping bag and all, to where Trung is.

  ‘Pass the lollies,’ someone says, amid private giggles and shuffling about.

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Alison tells the room. ‘I promised Mum we wouldn’t, and tomorrow we’re going bowling, remember, and I don’t want to mess that up. Besides, I’ll die if she comes down here.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Trung and there’s a general laugh.

  The room settles into quiet. Keek and Mark and I are the only ones left sitting up. It’s almost psychic, our collective decision, and we move as one to creep back outside.

  ‘Is this it, do you reckon?’ Keek says.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mark lights another cigarette. ‘I think this is it.’

  We sit there for a while. The upstairs lights flick off.

  ‘I think I’m gonna go home,’ Keek says.

  I want to, but feel bad. ‘What about Alison?’

  ‘Says you who wasn’t even going to come.’

  ‘Shh. Yeah, I know. But it’s been . . . you know.’

  ‘Say you’re worried about your mum and Lucille and I’m going to walk you. Alison won’t mind.’

  ‘I am worried about my mum and Lucille.’

  ‘Then it’s sorted.’

  Alison doesn’t mind. ‘I’ll say a prayer for Lucille,’ she whispers, and kisses my cheek.

  I hug her, tight. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow and go bowling. What time are we going?’

  ‘Leaving here at ten-thirty. You’ll miss out on breakfast. Pancakes. You sure you don’t want my dad to drive you?’

  We’re sure.

  Alison sits up. ‘Don’t get into trouble,’ she says.

  It doesn’t take long to walk home. Before we turn into my street, I pull up on a brick fence. ‘Let’s have a smoke.’

  Keek sits next to me, his arm against my arm, his leg against mine. ‘Sure.’ But we don’t get out our cigarettes, we just sit there. My heart is beating fast, as if I were about to step up to a patch of beautiful bare concrete.

  Keek says, ‘I’m sorry, you know, about Cho—’ ‘No, me. I’m sorry any of that—’ We lunge, we bump, we go on the wrong side of each other, we laugh and then we get serious and everything is still and dark and Philip McKenzie kisses me. Then we rest our foreheads together and breathe, and smile, and kiss some more.

  After a while, he says, ‘Let’s go see Lucille.’

  Turning the corner, we see Keek’s car parked in my driveway. The butterflies in my stomach plunge into an abyss. The fracture stirs.

  ‘Lucille,’ I say, and we run past the cars, through the side gate and in the unlocked back door.

  It’s candlelit, the scene. Lucille wrapped in a soft blanket, sprinkled with flowers, surrounded by tea-light candles and incense, only her face showing, eyes unseeing; the futon mattress pulled up at her altar; Mum and Keek’s dad rising, untangling; wine glasses and screwed-up tissues, a saucer with butts – smoking? And that smell? Mum and Mr McKenzie smoking weed? Lucille dead? Mum pulls her top up over her bare shoulder.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Mum says.

  The fracture roars. This isn’t real. It isn’t what I’m seeing, hearing; the slur in Mum’s voice, her unfocused eyes. ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘A little. I wasn’t—’

  Lucille gone. I don’t want to look at her. Don’t want it to be true. Don’t want Mr McKenzie to be standing there like a big embarrassed lump, the T-shirt under his open shirt tucked up, showing his hairy stomach. I see his feet. Bare feet. The rumpled mattress.

  ‘You didn’t stay for the sleepover, then,’ he says.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ says Keek.

  ‘Being a friend.’

  I run. I hear Keek shout, ‘No! Stay away from us!’ Then he’s with me, past me, running down the footpath, away.

  At his house we stop, panting. Everything between us feels wrong. Stained. If I could, I’d run home. It’s like we’re – related – and we’ve kissed. My mum has wrecked his family.

  ‘I’m telling Mum,’ Keek says. Even his voice sounds different now, hard.

  ‘Do you hate me?’

  Keek swings around saying, ‘I fucken hate everybody,’ and kicks at their letterbox until it shifts on its pole and leans over the drive. He rubs at his forehead. ‘Not you, Clover. No.’

  He runs up the front porch steps two at a time and I follow.

  The TV is on in the lounge room; its glow, and what seeps through from the kitchen, the only light. Mrs McKenzie is asleep on the couch; a couple of boxes of pills and a half-empty vodka bottle sit on the coffee table. Candace glares from the shadows.

  Keek sits and mutes the TV. He shakes his mum’s shoulder. ‘Mum?’

  She groans and rolls over. ‘Yes, sure,’ she says. ‘In the fridge.’ The room darkens, then flares with blue brightness.

  ‘Mum, I need you.’

  ‘She hasn’t taken an overdose, has she?’ I ask, my voice a squeak.

  Keek checks the packets. ‘No. There’s only a few missing.’ His hand closes over the box.

  Headlights flash into the room, and there’s a nasty scraping of wood and metal. Mr McKenzie slams out of the car to swear at the letterbox. Keek grabs the vodka, says, ‘Get those smokes,’ and stuffs the box of pills into his pocket. At the last second, he grabs the other packet too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  ‘Hurry up.’

  We make it out before the back porch light comes
on and stop dead in the shadows. Mr McKenzie shines a feeble torch. ‘Keek?’ The dog at his thigh barks and I jump. ‘Settle old girl,’ he says and goes inside.

  ‘My paint’s in your shed,’ I whisper. ‘I need it.’

  ‘I gotta get my bike anyway.’

  We fumble into the shed using Keek’s phone as a light. My backpack is safe where we’d hidden it, but no bike.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Keek. ‘My bike’s on Dad’s car.’

  Mr McKenzie comes into the shed calling, ‘Phil, is that you?’

  But ‘Phil’ is already on the footpath. I have to scurry to keep up with him. ‘Where are we going?’ I say.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Where nowhere?’

  ‘Train.’

  ‘We haven’t got any money.’

  ‘We’ve got bowling money, remember?’

  It’s a graveyard at Fernwood station. A bored security guy flashes his torch at us before heading off to patrol the carpark. It isn’t until we’re safely on the last train to the city that I remember our outfits. Keek echoes my thoughts.

  ‘Either these costumes are the shittiest job ever,’ he says, ‘or that guy just made a breach of national security.’

  Night-black train windows reflect us back into ourselves. The whole world is this ugly, empty carriage; the grey, the fluorescent lights, the muted clank and rumble. I spray FUCK THIS on the wall and window, as big as I can.

  We change carriages. An old drunk sleeps across three seats, still and silent as if he were dead. Keek unscrews the bottle and takes a slug. With a face like he’s sucked on a sour lolly and stubbed his toe at the same time, he hands me the bottle.

  Straight vodka is about as far from a vodka Cruiser as you can get. I manage a couple of swallows. ‘That’s foul,’ I say when I get my voice back.

  He takes another drink. ‘It’s not as bad the second time.’

  We pull up at a station. Keek hides the bottle, but no one gets on. When the train lurches off, he pulls out the pills.

  Where the vodka had burned, I suddenly feel cold, down to my stomach. ‘What are they?’