Living With Leanne

by Margaret Clark

  About the book

  Sam Studley’s a bit older and wiser than when you met him in ‘Hold My Hand - Or Else!’ but it’s a pity he can’t say the same for his fifteen year old sister Leanne.

  No one seems to know where she is. Some kids are saying she’s got AIDS and some are saying she’s been abducted. Some are saying she’s on the run to Kings Cross, some are saying she’s a speed freak and gone into a drug rehab centre, and some that she’s hiding out at home with chickenpox.

  But if living with Leanne sounds full on, you should hear about living without her!

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  SAM

  LEANNE

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARGARET CLARK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  SAM

  *

  Living with Leanne is like living on the edge of a dormant volcano. It’s dead dangerous. She’s a walking trouble capsule with a capital T. Sometimes I wish she’d disappear off the planet and stop making life hard for me, but she never does. I wish I could divorce her.

  There’s a law for divorcing your parents but as far as I know there isn’t one for divorcing your sister. I’m tempted to start a petition and get the kids at school to sign it. There’s a whole heap of my mates with weird sisters but they’re mostly younger, and nothing like Leanne. Some, like Cooja, have got horrible big brothers, too. But no one’s got a Leanne. I’d swap her tomorrow but no one’d take her on. Still, the law-makers’d have to do something if they got a petition signed by, say, a million kids, wouldn’t they? Someone has to do something. It might as well be me. Divorcing a sister. YEEESSSS.

  I’m really calm and cool when Leanne’s not dragging me into trouble.

  The bizarre thing is that lots of people (okay, mainly older guys) think my sister’s fantastic. Right now she’s got three of them spinning out of their skulls, losing their brains if she even just smiles at them, and she’s only fifteen. But they don’t live with her.

  It’s halfway into the school year and I’ve finally settled into Bennett High. I can find my way round without getting lost. I can read the timetable which means I must have the brain of a nuclear physicist, and I’ve got Belinda Blue-Eyes (this girl who had the hots for me but I was only lukewarm) sorted out.

  I’d better explain about Belinda. (Her nickname’s Bin.) I thought I was in love with her. First girlfriend and all that. But I’d just managed to get away from Mum trying to hold my hand all the time and run my life, by going to high school. Freedom. Then things started getting heavy with Bin. She wanted to hold my hand, run my life. I couldn’t hack it. So now we’re just friends.

  So. My life is EXCELLENT. Except for Leanne.

  It’s late, nearly lights-out time at the Studley House of Horrors (our house). I’m sitting watching this cool sci-fi video while Mum’s at bingo when Leanne slopes in with a bottle of Coke, two glasses, a packet of French-onion chips, and a plate of chocolate marshmallow biscuits all set out attractively on a tray.

  ‘Thought you might like a snack, little bro.’

  Let me tell you, Leanne never does anything nice for me (or Mum) without an ulterior motive. My brain cells go immediately to suss mode.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a chat. No need to get edgy.’

  She flops down beside me. Mum’s best Giorgio perfume that she won at a Myer promotion has been sprayed on with a fireman’s hose and the smell chokes me, bringing tears to my eyes. How any female can think powerful perfume’s sexy is beyond me. It smells like cat’s pee on Leanne but that’s probably because it’s competing with Hold Set hair spray, Floralette deodorant, and Sweetest Breath mouthwash.

  Chatting with Leanne is dangerous. I grab two biscuits and cram them into my mouth before she says something gross to put me off the food.

  ‘Sam-boy,’ she says.

  Here it comes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing drastic. A little favour?’

  She leans across to pour me a Coke and her black mini rides up even higher. She’s got these platform shoes on that make her legs go up to her ribs and this tight jumper, white, that makes her chest look like twin Mac truck headlamps. Her hair’s wound round in this coil at the back with a dangling strand hanging down on one cheek. Jet black this week. She looks sideways at me with these black-rimmed eyes and lashes thick and spiky with black goop, and I choke on my chocolate biscuit. Leanne in conning mode is awesome.

  ‘All I want you to do,’ she says, ‘is cover for me. I’ve got a hot date.’

  ‘What? Now? It’s nearly ten! We’re supposed to be in bed by half past.’

  ‘Get real,’ says Leanne, taking a sip of Coke and leaving a thick red smear on the glass, ‘Rockin’ Newmonia doesn’t stoke up till ten thirty.’

  ‘You can’t get in there! You’re underage.’

  ‘Grow up, Sam. I can do anything!’

  Yeah. And drag me under at the same time.

  ‘Look. Leanne,’ I go, ‘Mum’s gonna freak if you get sprung in ‘Rockin’ Newmonia.’ For a start it’s sleaze city, and for another the cops are right onto underage kids, and you’re supposed to roll up to school tomorrow and …’

  ‘Aw, lighten up. Are ya gonna cover or not?’

  ‘Is there a choice?’

  She grabs my arm and does this incredibly painful Chinese burn that screams right through the top of my head.

  No choice.

  ‘All right. All right.’

  ‘If Mum asks, I went to bed early. And when she’s gone to bed, sneak down and take the key out of the lock, will ya?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I can’t put my key in, can I, dork brain, if hers is already in there.’

  She waves a key under my nose. A spare. Now where did she …

  ‘Don’t bother askin’. Stay cool, little bro. See ya.’

  She’s gone in a wiggle and a waft of perfume. Phew. Mum’s going to smell a rat (a perfumed rat) if I don’t do something, so I gulp the rest of the biscuits and chips and take the evidence to the kitchen. A car pulls up out the front then roars away with a blast of sound to rival the Concorde: the Leanne Mobile! I get rid of the empty packets, rinse out the glasses and wipe them, and head back to the lounge room with the double-strength Mortein. I can say there was a cockroach. Now the whole room smells like Giorgio-scented fly spray, but too bad. A minute later Mum’s car chugs into the driveway. Talk about cutting it fine. I escape down the passage and dive into bed. I hear Mum open the back door and start messing round in the kitchen. Then I hear her go down the passage to the lounge room. Footsteps come back briskly. Next thing my light snaps on and she’s silhouetted against it.

  ‘Sam!’

  I pretend to be asleep.

  ‘I know you’re awake. The TV’s still warm. Have you been smoking?’

  ‘Huh?’

  I sit bolt upright.

  ‘Someone’s sprayed the lounge room with fly spray.’

  Whew. She hasn’t sussed out the Giorgio.

  ‘I saw a cockroach.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’re trying to cover up the smell of something. I used to spray fly killer all over my mum’s house when I’d been smoking.’

  ‘You used to smoke? You never told us that. So how come you won’t let Leanne smoke, then?’

  ‘Ah. Leanne,’ says Mum, narrowing her eyes. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In bed, I s’pose.’

  I burrow down under the blankets and
hope Mum’ll decide not to investigate. But hope’s not an option in this house.

  ‘Sam!’

  ‘What?’

  How am I supposed to sleep? I’ll look like a wrinkly tomorrow morning at this rate.

  ‘Come here.’

  I drag out of bed and stagger down the passage. She’s in Leanne’s room, light blazing, pointing at the bed. Okay, so I know Leanne’s not going to be in it, but I fake full-on surprise when I’m shown two pillows wearing Leanne’s nightie.

  ‘Where is she, Sam?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I mumble, eyes down.

  Mum can tell if I’m lying just by glancing at my eyeballs. Anyway, I don’t exactly know where she is right at this minute, do I? She could be at Rockin’ Newmonia. She could be in some dude’s car gazing at the full moon. She could be lying under a bridge murdered.

  ‘She’s probably lying under a bridge murdered,’ says Mum. ‘That girl will come to a sticky end, I just know it. She’ll be the death of me one day. Sam, get dressed.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You heard me. We’re going to look for Leanne.’

  Great. Just what I need, a late-night cruise through the city searching for my sister.

  ‘But Mum …’

  Great. Just what I need, a late-night cruise through the city searching for my sister.

  ‘But Mum …’

  ‘Dress. Now.’

  I go to my room and drag on jeans and a windcheater. By the time I reach the back door Mum’s got the engine running and gives it a few revs so’s it won’t conk out, but she’s out of luck. It splutters and dies. She fiddles round with the ignition then looks at me. I sigh, go round to the passenger side, open the door, get the special banging spanner from the glovebox, sleepwalk to the front of the Falcon, raise the bonnet and give the terminals a bash. The motor groans and coughs, but at least it’s going. I slam the bonnet and go back to the passenger side.

  ‘Lock the screen door, Sam.’

  Well, that solves one problem. With luck Leanne’ll be able to work her key really well in the empty lock if she gets home before us ‘cause I’ve got the key in my hand. I pile in the front of the Falcon next to Mum and we’re away on our mission from God … to save Leanne.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mum grinds the gears, ‘I’ve brought that girl up decently, given her all the love and attention a single parent can, tried to discipline her, and what thanks do I get? If the police find her roaming round the streets they’ll say I can’t control her. They’ll take her away and make her a ward of the state.’

  I bite my tongue from asking if we’ll have to make compulsory visits to Wardsville and pretend to look out the window as we’re searching. We cruise up and down the city streets for a while till we come to this long, curling queue of night people going somewhere.

  ‘This could be it,’ says Mum, double parking.

  She winds down the window and I cringe under the dashboard.

  ‘Where’s this line going, sonny?’

  ‘Heaven and back, man,’ says this guy sprayed with black leather.

  ‘That sounds like Leanne,’ says Mum grimly, jumping out of the car, ‘come on, Sam.’

  She street-sweeps right to the front of the queue, surveys the blazing, pulsating lights of Rockin’ Newmonia and presses her lips together in a thin line. She looks straight at me.

  ‘She’s in here, isn’t she?’

  I nod. Okay, so I’m a moderate dobber, but it’s a bit late for heroics. We’re here, aren’t we? And Mum’s hell bent on finding Leanne and hauling her home by the scruff of the neck, so I might as well hurry up the process.

  ‘Hey, Fat Stuff, back of the queue.’

  ‘Go drown in a puddle,’ says Mum, and shoves her aside. She’s up to the red carpet now, and the bouncers blink in surprise, their faces pale under the pulsating ‘Rockin’ Newmonia’ sign.

  ‘You’re too old, love,’ says one, grinning at Mum. ‘You can get a toy boy down at the Sophisticats. I suggest …’

  But Mum doesn’t back down. She stands, hands on hips, and glares at the guy. He’s built like a pharaoh’s tomb, all body and small, pointed head which probably houses a small, pointed brain.

  ‘Aren’t you Ronnie Pyke?’

  ‘So? What’s it to ya, Granny?’

  ‘I used to mind you every Thursday and Friday when you were four,’ she says.

  ‘So?’

  He couldn’t care less. And that gets right up Mum’s nose. She probably nurtured that kid with Vegemite sandwiches and orange juice and I can read her mind like an open book. Why did she bother if this was the result?

  Mum faces the crowd triumphantly.

  ‘He used to poo his pants every day at preschool,’ she shouts, and the crowd cracks up laughing. While he’s cringing and his mate’s gaping like a lost hippopotamus with toothache Mum’s yanked me inside.

  ‘Ten bucks each,’ says this bored looking female with long blonde hair which she keeps swishing back with one hand like a robotic Barbie doll.

  ‘Forget it,’ says Mum. ‘We’re not staying.’

  ‘We’re on a mission,’ I mumble as I follow Mum into the gloom.

  ‘Hey!’

  It’s more security in the form of the Incredible Hulk.

  He grabs Mum by the arm.

  ‘Where do you think you’re goin’, missus?’

  ‘Straight to the cops if you don’t let go,’ says Mum. ‘There’s a fifteen-year-old kid in here, possibly more.’

  He pales. This place has already been in mega trouble for letting in underaged kids. The guy backs off and Mum elbows her way through the crowd. I wish I could fade into the wallpaper.

  ‘I’m goin’ to the dunny,’ I rasp and make a dive sideways, but Mum’s too quick.

  ‘You can hang on,’ she hisses.

  Ronnie Pyke mightn’t be the only punter that ever pooed his pants in public, I’m thinking, as we push and shove through the pulsating bodies. Someone slops beer all over my windcheater and someone else nearly pokes my eye out with a strange smelling cigarette.

  ‘Marijuana,’ says Mum, frowning and scanning the crowd. How does she know all this stuff?

  But she doesn’t know Rockin’ Newmonia. It’s this humungous place which used to be St Giles Church, a grim bluestone building built in the eighteen hundreds, but this mob bought it up when it was for sale, put in two storeys, chucked out the pews and made double dance floors. It’s cool. Strobe lighting, laser shows, soft porn movies, pulse music, give-aways, grog promos, wet t-shirt competitions, full-on sleaze. I can’t wait to be eighteen and legal. Neither can anyone else in this city who’s underage. It’s like a giant magnet. Twice a year, just as a teaser, they hold an alcohol-free underage twilight disco from six till ten, and everyone who’s anyone motors on in. Last time there were fourteen hundred kids in here, and another five hundred pounding on the doors to get in because they had Scott Michaelson from Neighbours and Surf Mania give-aways. It was great. Belinda and Cathy queued overnight and saved us places otherwise we’d never’ve got inside the doors. (Mum doesn’t know that I was here with Belinda, Cooja, Cathy and the gang from school; she thought we went to Bambi III. She thinks the underage stuff in this place’s just hooking us into ‘decadent behaviour’ and ‘the pub scene’ when we’re eighteen.)

  But that teeny-bopper stuff’s tame compared to the proper nightclub scenario. It’s every kid’s dream to get into the Rockin’ Newmonia adult nightclub on a fake ID. A game to beat the authorities. But it’s not every kid’s dream to get in here with their mother! That’s every kid’s nightmare, including mine, and it’s just come true. Not my scene. And definitely not Leanne’s. If she finds out that Mum’s in here looking for her amongst the sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll she’ll curl up and hit the turf.

  I know this place. I bet Leanne’s in the middle of the floor getting on with some dude, or up near the cocktail lounge conning some guy into buying her slammers. Mum’s peering about, trying to stand on tiptoe.

  The
major problem is that Mum’s short and chunky and I haven’t finished growing yet. The average height of the Newmonias is about six feet in their socks. Plus the air is so thick with smoke that you can hardly see a thing except a mass of moving shapes swaying to the thump of the music. Mum grabs this girl with a shaved head.

  ‘Is Leanne Studley in here?’

  ‘Who?’

  What cave did she crawl out of? Everyone knows Leanne. Well, anyone who’s anyone in this hole of a city. Mum asks another dozen funsters.

  ‘Yeah,’ says this dude with “Psycho” shaved into his head,’ she’s ‘ere somewhere, man.’

  Mum frowns and looks at me through the gloom.

  ‘Why does everyone call me “M’am”?’

  This isn’t the time to set her straight. Her eyes are darting all over the place. I get into the beat. It’s kind of hypnotic.

  ‘Up there,’ she says, pointing.

  I can just about see the deejay in a separate booth built out over the crowd, with the upstairs section thick with dancing bodies.

  ‘Wow, that booth wasn’t …’

  Whoops. Big mistake. But she doesn’t hear me, she’s too keen on getting up the stairs. Mum steamrollers her way against the down-coming tide and I follow in her wake. We reach the top level and Mum heads straight for the deejay’s booth. This is serious. I’m going to die of embarrassment in front of a million people any minute.

  ‘Mum! You can’t …’

  But she’s in there, leaning in close to the deejay. His mouth’s hanging open as Mum flaps her gums in his ear-hole. Next thing the music’s cut and he makes an announcement.

  ‘Could Leanne Studley please report to the front desk immediately? There’s an emergency situation …’

  ‘And I’m the emergency, Leanne,’ bellows Mum, grabbing the microphone, ‘so move it! Now.’

  A buzz. Heads turning. Eyes looking. I’m burning up with embarrassment, wishing the top storey would fold up round me like a magic carpet and whip me back home to the safety on my nice, warm bed.

  We push and shove our way back down the stairs to the front desk and wait. I’m trying not to notice the curious stares, the nudges, the giggles. Mum’s still in her bingo gear, a lavender and pink parachute suit that makes her look like a lump of fairy floss. Definitely not disco material.