by Claire Zorn
‘Katie in her room?’ Mum asked.
‘With a live band from the sound of it,’ Dad said.
‘She’s supposed to be working on a history assignment.’
‘If she hasn’t bled to death from the ears. Check that, will you, Spanner?’
Mum asked brightly if Charlotte wanted to come over. ‘You could get pizza!’ she said. I told her Charlotte was busy. My Saturday night would be the same as it was every week: dinner then a mind-numbing detective show on the ABC. My lifestyle really was as predictable as an eighty-year-old’s. I wondered what Charlotte was doing. Probably at a party somewhere, a bonfire at a lookout, that was the usual thing, wasn’t it? Liam Hemsworth was probably there. In fact, she was probably losing her virginity to Liam Hemsworth right at that moment.
They said goodbye to Katie and left. I opened the freezer to take out a frozen pizza, thought again and went down the hall to Katie’s room.
‘Katie, you want pizza?’ I shouted through the door. No reply. I shouted again, knocked, opened the door a little. She was in front of her mirror in a tiny strapless cotton dress, both arms behind her back struggling with the zip like a contortionist.
‘You frightened me!’
‘Sorry, do you want pizza?’
‘No! I thought they would never leave! I’m so friggin’ late!’
‘You want help with that?’
She dropped her arms, exasperated, and turned away from me again. I slid the zip up her spine. Her shoulder blades jutted from her skin like they might grow into wings.
‘Where are my friggin’ shoes? God. I haven’t even done my hair yet.’ She got on her knees and started rummaging under the bed. One arm re-emerged, pointed at me.
‘You! You have to go and listen for the door,’ she stuck her head up, masses of curls falling over her face. ‘You have to stall him till I’m ready.’
‘Who? Where are you going?’
‘Jensen!’ she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘He’s going to be here any minute. Aghhh! I’m so not ready.’ She froze, stared at me. ‘Shit, they are gone, aren’t they? Tell me they’re gone.’
‘They’re gone.’
‘Was that the front door?’ She jabbed in the direction of the hallway. ‘Go answer it! What are you doing? Friggin’ go!’
It was horrible. He smiled when I opened the door. He was about six foot, with choppy shoulder-length hair. Not in a bogan way, more in a ‘when I’m not reading Hemingway I sometimes do a bit of modelling’ sort of way.
‘Hey! You must be Hannah? I’m Jensen.’ He held out his hand. He was wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I took his hand and shook it. His fingernails were very neat. He had useful-looking shoulders, like he could throw a damsel over them if it was required. I just kind of stood there thinking about that until he asked if ‘Kate was around’.
‘Oh. Yeah. She’s just … She’s just running a bit late. Which is funny because I’m usually the one that’s running late, but Mum and Dad took ages to go and, I mean, she won’t be long, or anything. She just can’t find her shoes, I think …’ I was torn between wanting Katie to show up so I would stop talking, and hoping that she had somehow bumped her head and had knocked herself unconscious and therefore would never come out of her room. Leaving me to make more witty conversation with Jensen. I wondered if he was a painter. Decided he probably was. Or a musician. Maybe both.
‘What are you up to tonight?’ Jensen asked. Still smiling. He had very white teeth. Very straight.
‘Me? Oh. Um. Yeah, I’m going to some party … somewhere.’
‘Do you need a ride?’
‘What? No! No, um, Charlotte’s picking me up. My friend, Charlotte.’
‘No worries. We’re heading up to The Gearin. There’s a gig on. A mate’s band.’
I nodded like I knew what The Gearin was.
‘Don’t know if they’re any good,’ he laughed. ‘Have to pretend they are either way.’
‘Yeah, ha! Awkward.’
‘Okay, you can stop talking now, Hannah.’ Katie. Smelling of lilac and jasmine. Her hair pulled up in a loose knot. Earrings I had never seen before.
‘Well, hello,’ Jensen said.
‘Hello.’
Katie looked at me with an expression that said ‘your job here is done, why are you still standing there?’
‘Okay. Well, see you, guys,’ I managed. ‘Nice to meet you, Jensen.’ I sounded like our mother, or more accurately, grandmother.
‘You too, Hannah.’
Katie took his hand, led him off down the path. I closed the door. Remembered an hour later that I hadn’t eaten anything and the pizza was still in the freezer.
***
I dream that Katie and I are in the car, our old car that got smashed up in the accident. I am driving and Katie is in the passenger seat. We move through a barren paddock with lions roaming around in it. The car looks like it did after the accident, crushed on the passenger side. I am afraid to stop driving, in case the lions get in. Katie is talking to me about a quiz show she is going on, she wants me to ask her practice questions, but I can’t concentrate because I’m too worried about the lions. I glance over my shoulder and see another Katie, dead in the back seat. Her face all made up the way it was at the funeral parlour.
When I wake up my arms and legs are slippery with sweat. Sleep tries to creep back over me and I know that if I fall back again the dream will continue. I pinch the skin of my inner forearm. Harder, harder. I twist the lip of flesh until my eyes are wide. It’s very early morning, an occasional bird call sounds. Outside my window the morning light is warm and milky. I get out of bed, go out into the kitchen and fill a glass with tepid tap water. There is a coughing sound in the lounge room, which is when I first discover that my dad has been sleeping on the couch. He must sense me enter the room because he opens his eyes, stretches, frowns at me.
‘Jeez, you’re up early, Han,’ he says, rubbing his face.
‘Why are you sleeping out here?’
‘What? Oh, ah, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to keep your mum awake tossing and turning all night.’
‘I was just going to watch some TV. But if you want, I’ll just go back to bed.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘No, no, you’re right. Go ahead. I’m gonna take a shower.’ He gets up slowly, using his arm to brace himself against the back of the lounge. It’s the moment any normal person would offer help, take his arm while he steadies himself. I don’t. I can’t. I pretend I don’t even notice the obvious pain he is in. I think both of us prefer it that way.
FIVE
Names the Clones called me:
*Pig dog
*Lesbian
*Lesbefriends
*Han the man
*Smart-arse bitch
PE. My own personal hell. My reasons for hating PE are far too many to list here, but you can probably guess the basics: the uniform, the change rooms, the fact that on dry land I have the coordination of a brain-damaged, three-legged baby cow.
I’ve hated PE since kindergarten, when we had to do a ridiculous exercise called The Barrel. The teacher would stand this big plastic barrel up and the kids would gather around it, holding it to keep it steady. Then each kid, one at a time, would be put in the barrel. The idea was you had to try to get back out by somehow climbing up the sides and hoisting yourself out of the top. You did this while the others laughed and occasionally pinched the backs of your hands while the teacher wasn’t looking. The whole thing seemed designed to torment students, rather than actually teach them anything. Like, at least if you don’t learn anything else at school, if you ever get trapped in a barrel, you’ll know how to get out. I understand that it was supposed to be fun and character building or something, but when I was five the whole barrel exercise was scary to the point I never wanted to go to scho
ol on PE day.
Ten years later I still get the same twist in my stomach at the start of every PE lesson, when we all have to sit on the basketball courts while the teacher reveals what variety of humiliation we are about to be subjected to. Going from the darkly familiar shape of the equipment bags that lie before us, it seems today’s special treat is cricket. I pray my team will be fielding.
‘Listen up, guys!’ Ms Thorne bellows. ‘There’s some information you need to hear about next week’s program.’
Further along from me sit Tara Metcalf and Amy Brooks. They both wear tiny shorts that blur the line between underwear and outerwear and sit with their legs outstretched so the guys can get a really clear view. They are discussing how pale they are, despite both of them having smooth golden skin.
Ms Thorne stops talking and looks at them pointedly. They are oblivious.
‘Amy, Tara, is there something you’d like to share?’
Ms Thorne is about five foot tall and the colour of a nicely roasted chicken. She used to be a sprinter and was headed for the Olympics until an injury forced her to retire to teaching. That’s how the story goes anyway. Tara especially likes to ask her lots of questions about her sprinting career, punctuated loudly with comments like, ‘Wow, miss, you must have been really fit before you were a teacher. Like, you must have been heaps skinny before.’
Now, Tara smiles and says, ‘Sorry, miss!’ in a sing-song voice.
Ms Thorne narrows her eyes but continues. ‘The swimming carnival is coming up in six weeks’ time,’ she says.
No, no, no, no.
‘You will all be swimming. Starting next week we will be heading to the pool to train. I’ll have the sheet then, so you can sign up for your events.’
I will not be heading to the pool to train. They can expel me, they can do what they like. But I will not be heading to the pool.
And here I was thinking I’d never have to get out of that barrel again.
***
We grouped up at the end of the lane, caps and goggles off, hair slick from the water, steam playing on the pool surface. Our coach called out the names of people who’d improved their PB times at that morning’s training session. For the first time in six months my name was on the list. Katie wrapped her slippery fish arms around my neck and jumped on my back. ‘Span-nah! Smashing it.’
Later in the change rooms she was as effortless as usual getting ready for school. She stood in her bra and undies, talking to the other girls by the fogged-up mirror. Her long hair hung over one shoulder and she untangled it with her fingers. I retreated to a toilet cubicle – towel wrapped around me – to change into my school uniform.
I don’t know how we could have come from the same parents. Katie never appeared to try. She could wear a garbage bag and it would look like a well-executed fashion statement. I, on the other hand, was usually running late because I had spent fifteen minutes trying to get my hair right, as if going to school with a different hairstyle would change everything. Like they would turn their heads and stare at me as I walked down the corridor. My God, Tara Metcalf would think. How could I have not noticed how unbelievably cool Hannah McCann is? Look at her incredibly awesome hair!
Once dressed I ventured out of the toilet cubicle and started to sort out my hair. I was almost satisfied with it and halfway believing I might just make it through the day without an ‘incident’ when Katie stopped her conversation and sighed in a way that was more performative than it needed to be.
‘Step away from the hairbrush, Hannah. Am I going to have to confiscate it?’
She strode over to me, wrestled the brush from my hand and threw it – a bit melodramatically in my opinion – over her shoulder. She pushed my head forwards and proceeded to violently mess up my hair.
‘Got to admit,’ she said, ‘I can understand why you struggle with this.’ She pulled my head back again, took an elastic from her wrist and performed a quick, complex movement which resulted in my hair being anchored in a messy knot on the top of my head.
‘There.’
‘Now I just look like everyone else.’
She patted me like you would an obedient dog. ‘Exactly.’
The others trickled out of the change rooms until it was just Katie and me. She leant over the basin, mouth slightly open and applied mascara to her long eyelashes.
‘How’s Jensen?’ I asked her in my most carefully casual voice.
‘You tell Mum and Dad about him and I will kill you. I will. In your sleep probably.’
‘Obviously … he’s not at school, is he?’
‘No Hannah, he’s not at school. He’s nineteen.’
‘Nineteen?’
‘Shhh!’
‘He’s nineteen?’
‘Yeah. He’s nineteen.’
‘What? Is he at uni?’
‘Yes. Modern American literature. Or something.’
I knew it. I laughed. ‘What do you talk about?’
She gave me a look. ‘Some of us don’t have to spend all our time talking.’
***
The short walk home from the bus stop feels like a marathon in the oven-dry air. There is the distant sound of sirens on the highway. I let my shoes scuff on the asphalt and watch the little grey pebbles scatter. A car turns onto our street, I feel it approach and slow down, the pulse of music thudding from the stereo. I look over expecting it to be a P-plater. But it is my grandmother’s pink hatchback. She stops next to me, lowers the window. The throaty wail of Dolly Parton floats from her car: ‘Jolene! Jolene!’
‘Hannah!’ As if she should be the one to be surprised to see me. ‘In you hop.’ It is literally fifty metres to my house. ‘Come on!’
I walk to the passenger door and get in.
She reaches over and turns down the stereo. ‘How about this dreadful heat! It’s a disgrace,’ she says, as if there is someone to be blamed. I notice the back seat laden with grocery bags.
‘Thought I would drop some things over. Help your mum out. Was going to come Saturday, but your dad said …’ She waved her hand instead of using words to finish.
Over the past few months Nanna has made a habit of randomly turning up with groceries and doing things around the house like cleaning the toilet and vacuuming. At first she was nothing but warm and supportive toward my mother. But at some point the expiry date for accepted grief passed and Mum’s behaviour has slipped from natural to indulgent in Nanna’s eyes. She’s troubled that our house hasn’t returned to its former Vogue Living standard. My mother has lost her passion for finding the perfect throw cushion and to Nanna this is equivalent to losing the will to live. Her remedy is frozen meals and Mr Sheen.
In case it isn’t obvious, Nanna is my mother’s mother. I have no idea how old she is as her appearance hasn’t changed in my lifetime. I have never seen a grey hair on her head or her fingernails unlacquered. She is the sort of person who takes other people’s lack of grooming as a personal affront. There is nothing that can’t be achieved, in her opinion, with the right hairstyle and a well-ironed pants suit.
She turns into our driveway and parks the car. She looks over at me, lips pursed.
‘Well, how is she?’ Meaning my mother.
‘The same.’
Nanna sighs and opens her door. ‘Have you had your colours done yet?’ she asks, referring to the gift voucher she got me for a session with a colour consultant whose job is to tell you what season your complexion is and how to dress accordingly. Nanna is evangelical in her attitude toward the practice.
‘No.’
‘You should, it will make the world of difference.’
Inside, the house is as quiet as if it were empty. Nanna bustles past me and down the hallway.
‘Yoo-hoo! Paula!’
‘She might be asleep, Nan,’ I say. But then this possibility is the very reason Nanna is here. She
lets herself into Mum’s bedroom and I hear Mum raising her voice. I start unpacking the groceries. A few minutes later Nanna re-emerges.
‘She’s not doing anyone any favours carrying on like this,’ she mutters. She pulls a bottle of disinfectant from the cupboard and heads for the bathroom.
I should point out that Nanna isn’t intentionally callous. It’s not that she doesn’t mourn for her eldest granddaughter. Nanna adored Katie. She loved her sharp remarks and her attitude and the fact that she carefully plucked her eyebrows. But she believes in proactivity as if it were a religion. It’s like she has decided that crying is a waste of time because it won’t achieve anything. Or maybe her grief is an energy that she just doesn’t know how to deal with, so she has channelled everything into getting Mum back on track.
When the bathroom is presumably back to hospital standards of cleanliness, Nanna raps sharply on my bedroom door and lets herself in. She finds me sitting on the floor, reading.
‘That a schoolbook?’ she asks, suspicion in her voice.
‘Um. No.’
She raises her left eyebrow. ‘Do you have homework?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re not a very good liar, Hannah.’
‘Sorry.’
She throws a small pink box onto my bed. ‘I got you those. Wax strips. For your legs, you’ll find it better than shaving.’
It’s that – not Katie’s photos or her empty bedroom or the spare seat at the dinner table – it’s that small moment that pulls a lump into my throat.
SIX
Items I needed to replace after high school started:
*School shirts (x 4)
*Backpack (stolen)
*Pencil case (vandalised)
*Phone (screen smashed)
The fruit is bullet hard and bursts in a cold fright between my shoulders. It is recess, I am on my way to my spot when it hits me, the shock of it halts me there in the middle of the yard. I turn around in time to see Josh’s face freeze when he realises he’s hit the wrong target. There are a few laughs and then silence. Tara and Charlotte are standing not far away talking to a year twelve guy. Tara’s mouth drops open and she tries to stop herself from laughing. Charlotte just looks worried. I stand there stunned for a few seconds, I feel my stomach turn and my pulse starts to thud in my temples. I turn and walk quickly to the toilet block. Everyone’s eyes are on me but no one says a word. I rush into a cubicle and lock the door behind me as all my breath escapes from my lungs. I close my eyes and crouch down low to the ground. Soon the bell sounds, signalling the end of recess and I hear the rabble of voices and feet scuffs as everyone else moves on the current to third period. But I am stuck, caught there, crouched low with my knees to my chin as I feel the juice seep through my white shirt. Eventually I reach around and touch the goo on my back. It is plum, I’m pretty sure. My history class is probably starting a discussion on the downfall of the Russian Empire. But I can’t move.