Living With Leanne

by Margaret Clark

  ‘Oh.’

  I sit up and rub my eyes.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Other side of Sydney.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wanna bail?’

  I think quickly. If I bail I’ve got to go back, find King’s Cross, get somewhere to sleep, find a job … it all seems too hard right now. Plus if Mum and Steve the super cop (she came in at eleven last night, can you believe, and what was she doing all that time, eating?) if they put the screws on Fern she’ll spill that I was going to the Cross. It might be better to keep going.

  ‘Well?’ says Mattie, pulling onto the side of the road.

  I panic, thinking they’re going to chuck me out.

  ‘I’ll stay. I’ll stay.’

  But he’s just going into a service road. Another pit stop to refuel the car and get some more burgers. I decide on a pie, chips and a Big M. I’m going to get major zits if I keep with the greasies but there’s not a great choice in these places. The chicken looks dried out and the fish is swimming in oil. Once I hit Noosa it’s full-on pineapples, mangoes and coconuts for a week! I’m starting to feel stiff and sore from sitting so long. These guys aren’t messing round. No sleepovers. This time Nathan’s driving. I’m allowed in the front, and the other two are asleep in the back. Beats the bus any time, I’m thinking, as the Holden chews up the k’s. Nathan turns on the radio, and it’s the Gunners, not too loud, and I wonder with a pang how my lupins are doing. Before I know it a big tear rolls down my cheek. I can’t believe it. I’m feeling homesick. What a weakling.

  Nathan reaches over and pats my hand.

  ‘Wanna talk?’ he says.

  Next thing I’m spilling my guts like there’s no tomorrow. He doesn’t say anything, just nods occasionally and keeps his eyes on the road. I steal a look at him. He’s kinda cute, blond dreadlocks, tanned face, the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. He looks kind of … secure. And sexy. I lean across and snuggle up to him. He gives me a gentle nudge back to my side.

  ‘I don’t need complications,’ he goes.

  ‘Well, excuse me.’

  I shrink back against my side of the car and stare angrily out the window.

  ‘Chris, you’ve gotta do this on your own, not rely on someone else. We’ll be in Noosa soon. Are you going to bail there? Remember that’s the first place your mum’ll look. Or do you want to get yourself together first before you front your dad?’

  I think about this. He’s right. I want to be cool when I lob into Dad’s place, not a blubbering heap on the doorstep. And Nathan’s right about the boy-girl stuff, too. Three mates. They don’t need one of them with a girlfriend mucking them up. They’ve got their own agenda … top surf.

  ‘Where are you heading?’ I go.

  ‘Maroochydore.’

  Further south than Noosa. But not much.

  ‘You can hang around with us for a while,’ he says, ‘but no coming on to us, okay? Just get yourself together for a few days, then go do what you’ve gotta do.’

  Sounds good. I need to lax out and get my thoughts in order. And while I’ve got this burning anger in me I’m likely to do something dumb.

  ‘I’ll stay.’

  He squeezes my hand. It’s kind of comforting to have a boyfriend who’s not a boyfriend. I’ve never had one before. Most guys I know are not wanting friendship if you know what I mean. We finally arrive at Maroochydore in the early hours of the morning. Nathan drives to this caravan park.

  ‘Hey, wake up, Rick. Which one?’

  It turns out that Rick’s rellies have an on-site van. We find it and pile out of the Holden. Every muscle in my body’s aching. There’s this tent thing attached to the van.

  ‘You’re in the annexe,’ says Nathan, unzipping it.

  I go in. There’s a bed, no blankets or sheets, and I fall onto it exhausted, in my clothes, and sleep and sleep.

  When I finally wake it’s two in the afternoon. Warm and sunny. I stink. Someone’s shoved my bag into the annexe so I drag out a change of clothing, my toilet bag and towel, and set off to the shower block. It’s the best shower. I stand under it till I go wrinkly all over. Then I put on clean underwear, t-shirt and a pair of jeans. There’s a laundry next door so I soap up my dirty clothes with the cake of Palmolive (Mum’d have a fit but there isn’t any laundry detergent round) then lug it all back to the van. I hang everything over the annexe ropes and try the van door. Open. I go in and rat round for something to eat but the place is foodless. The car’s gone. All the surfing gear’s gone. But the guys’ bags and things are scattered about, so I know they’ll be back.

  Food. My stomach’s grumbling. This’s the first time in my life I’ve ever been really hungry with no food close by. At home I just troll over to the fridge and choose something.

  Well, I’m not home now.

  I get my money and walk through the caravan park to the store. The stuff is so expensive, but I buy a salad roll, a banana and a carton of caramel-flavoured milk from the grey-haired guy who looks at me suspiciously. Or maybe that’s my imagination. I sit in the sunshine outside and just gorge it down. Then I feel better and my stomach stops rumbling.

  Time for action. I walk down the road and there’s a bunch of shops with a fairly big supermarket. Just what I need, because these guys are going to come back starving hungry and it’d be nice if I had some decent food ready for them, seeing as I’ve got free accommodation and they still haven’t hit me for the fifty.

  Check the fruit! All this tropical stuff—pawpaws, mangoes, pineapples. Lady Finger bananas in tight bunches. Guys usually like steaks. I buy four chunky pieces, lettuce, tomatoes, a cucumber, a green and a red pepper, Italian dressing, and twelve bread rolls. I need margarine and cheese, too. And a loaf of bread for toast. And corn flakes. And milk. Some coffee and sugar. That takes care of dinner and breakfast. And sixty dollars. Stuff’s far more expensive than I thought. How does Mum do it? Still, we hardly ever have steak. Maybe I should change it for ground beef and make a meat loaf? But is there an oven in the van? What the hell, we’ll eat up big tonight and worry about tomorrow then.

  I stroll back to the van. It turns out there’s an oven, and a griller so I can do the steak. There’s pots and pans, and in a box I discover stuff like tomato sauce, pepper, salt, jam, peanut butter and some herbs in little jars. I tidy up the van, check my washing which isn’t dry, then take a walk across the caravan park to the sand dunes. Over the dunes is the sea. I breathe salty air and walk along the shore. The tide’s way out and there’s pretty shells and a piece of pink coral, still damp from the sea. I know enough about surfing to realise the waves aren’t very good here so the guys have probably gone further along the coast. I sit relaxing and feeling calm. At some stage I’ll have to call home. Not for a while yet. The gulls wheel and cry overhead and I watch them for a long time, so liberated, no hassles except for catching the occasional fish. It must be wonderful to fly free like that. The sun begins to sink into the sea and I decide I’d better get back and start preparing our meal. I’m starving hungry again; it must be the fresh air.

  I make a tossed salad with the lettuce, tomatoes, peppers and cucumber. I heat the griller like I’ve seen Mum do, and cut up the fruit for a fruit salad. I should’ve bought cream or ice-cream, I’m thinking, as I put the rolls and margarine onto the table. I hear a car coming and then the motor cuts out. Doors slam as I put the steaks under the griller. Voices. The thump of surfboards against the van. The door opens and Nathan pokes his head in and sniffs.

  ‘Yum.’

  Rick and Mattie follow. They’ve had a rad day, great surf, and they’re starving hungry. They start on the bread rolls while I turn the steaks over. Then they’re ready and we eat. The dozen rolls and steaks and salad disappear fast. So does the fruit salad. And they’re still hungry so I bring out the loaf of bread and the cheese and they get stuck into that. They talk about tubes and tunnels and funnelling out and drops and filthy surf until my head spins. It’s worse than being with Sam.r />
  I must be looking bored.

  ‘Want to come with us tomorrow?’ Nathan says.

  Mattie looks annoyed. His red hair’s all spiky with salt and his nose is already peeling; he looks like an angry tomato. Rick doesn’t look too thrilled either. He sweeps his dark hair out of his eyes and looks edgy. For them it’s okay if I stay at the van and clean and cook but those two don’t want me tagging along spoiling their fun.

  ‘I’d rather stay here,’ I say quickly, and they look relieved.

  ‘In that case, you’re ringing your family,’ says Nathan.

  ‘I will soon.’

  ‘Now. I’ll drive you to the phone box.’

  ‘No. I’m not … ready.’

  ‘You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You phone now or you’re outa here.’

  I’m stunned. I face him angrily, hands on hips. He looks grim. I glance at the others. Mattie looks down, picks up a scrap of bread and wipes his plate. Rick looks scornful.

  ‘Selfish little creep aren’t you?’ Rick says. ‘Couldn’t give a dog’s breath whether your family’s worried sick about you.’

  ‘You don’t understand …’

  ‘No. You don’t understand. The worst thing in the world is not knowing if someone’s alive or dead. It’s a living hell.’

  He gets up from the table and storms off outside.

  ‘His girlfriend disappeared three years ago without a trace,’ says Nathan quietly.

  ‘Yeah? Well, that’s his problem, not mine.’

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ says Nathan, turning away from me. Mattie makes this snorting noise.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I feel awful. ‘I’ll ring.’

  But it’s too late to take the words back; Nathan walks me to the phone box and although I try to make conversation he won’t answer. He just keeps plodding along beside me like he wishes I’d vaporise off the planet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I grab at his sleeve. ‘If I could take that back I would. I didn’t mean it.’

  Nathan stops.

  ‘You need to start thinking before you put that snappy tongue of yours into first gear,’ he says. ‘Here’s the phone.’

  ‘I haven’t got any change.’

  ‘Call reverse charges then.’

  ‘How … ?’

  ‘Oh, get real, Christine. Phone the operator and tell her it’s a collect call.’

  He’s furious. But how’s a fifteen-year-old kid supposed to know about long-distance reverse charges? Then I remember he thinks I’m eighteen (or a bit less). He walks off and leans against the nearest tree.

  I phone the operator and go through the process.

  ‘Leanne Studley,’ I go when she asks who’s making the call.

  Next thing Mum’s on the line.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Leanne. Where are you?’

  ‘Never mind. I just want to let you know I’m okay, perfectly safe and …’

  ‘Why, Leanne? Why?’

  She sounds as angry as AC/DC in a power strike.

  ‘I need space.’

  ‘Space? Space? That’s what you’ve got between the ears! One great empty vacuum. You act like you’re five instead of fifteen. Now, listen, this is what I want you to do. Go to the nearest police station. Tell them there’s a Missing Persons out on you, and … what’s that, Steve … ? Oh, okay, and tell them …’

  I crash down the phone so hard that the booth shakes.

  He’s there, Steve the super snoop cop! Well, they can all drop dead! I crash out of the phone box and there’s Nathan looking livid.

  ‘Now what?’ I snap.

  The conversation with Mum’s shaken me up. A Missing Persons? Great!

  ‘So. You lied.’

  ‘Huh? What are you on about? You heard me. I did it. I phoned home.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about that, Christine. Or should I say Leanne Studley!’

  He’s overheard me!

  ‘Okay, so I gave you a false name. I had to know if I could trust you.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I told you. Eighteen.’

  ‘You’re lying, Leanne.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Sixteen. Well, nearly.’

  ‘What? Fifteen?’

  He’s totally shocked. He grabs me by the arm and hauls me back along the street to the van. He pushes me inside.

  ‘Meet Leanne Studley, age fifteen.’

  ‘I knew it. Jail bait. Betcha there’s a Missing Persons out on her, too.’

  ‘That’s it. She’s outa here.’

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  ‘Go,’ says Nathan. ‘Now.’

  ‘But …’

  He drags me out to the annexe, gets my bag, shoves my stuff off the annexe ropes into it and tosses it at me.

  ‘You’re trouble, Leanne. And we don’t need it. Goodbye.’

  ‘But … it’s dark. I’ve got nowhere to go.’

  I start to cry. I’m standing there clutching the bag and he goes back inside the van and shuts the door. I stand there sobbing quietly. Then the door opens. They’ve changed their minds! I know Nathan really likes me. He can’t let me go off on my own in the dark.

  ‘Here.’

  A wad of money lands at my feet.

  And the door slams shut in my face.

  SAM

  *

  Living without Leanne is fantastic. She’s been gone a week now and I’ve got two bedrooms to myself. Apart from Mum stressing out that Leanne’s met with foul play and been murdered under a bridge (what’s new?) everything’s lovely and quiet. I’ve taken over looking after her lupins and they’re still listening seriously to the Gunners every day for ten minutes and growing like Jack’s beanstalk. Tomorrow I’ll measure them for Miss Rosewall. Mum’s spread the word that Leanne’s got a highly infectious disease and can’t go to school and can’t have visitors but some kid from Year 9 went to the cop shop and saw her photo on the Most Recently Missing Persons’ wall and the rumours are flying. Lucky for me the photo was taken two years ago and it doesn’t even look like Leanne because I went and had a look. I mean, who needs a missing sister? It’s embarrassing. I’ve spread a rumour that it’s another Leanne Studley.

  Then all these other weird stories are flying round the school! Some kids are saying she’s got AIDS and some are saying she’s been abducted by a rich Iranian prince and some are saying she’s on the run to King’s Cross and some are saying she’s a speed freak and gone into a drug rehab centre and some are saying she’s home in bed with the chickenpox. I think the two Year 12 dudes, Cameron and Drenton, are spreading all the bad goss.

  I’m in our home room at Bennett High and it’s the start of a new day.

  ‘That sister of yours is a living legend.’

  Cooja’s my best mate.

  He’s got a certain gleam in his eye.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘You’re s’posed to be on with Cathy, aren’t ya?’

  ‘It’s becoming seriously boring.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. One thing Leanne is not and that’s boring. But she likes older men.’

  ‘How does she know whether she likes younger guys if she hasn’t tried any?’

  ‘Well, it’s all hypothetical, isn’t it, seeing as she’s living in a phone box somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘That’s her last known address.’

  ‘Cool it. Here comes Randy Andy.’

  He’s our home group teacher. For the first term he kept sporting these massive hickeys on his neck. Now he’s hick-eyless and probably single again because his temper’s absolutely foul. Or it could be his hair transplant that’s making him edgy. He was wearing a hairpiece but suddenly he’s got these neat rows of hair like wheat in a paddock sprouting from his head. He gets real aggro when Belinda hums the jingle from Hair Fusion.

  The thing about teachers with problems is that they give us kids a hard time. He calls the roll. Boring. He reads out the Daily
Bulletin and it’s the usual drivel about netball try-outs and late library books and changed canteen prices. The bell goes for first period and we troll off to a double period of English.

  We’ve had a teacher change because one got pregnant and left.

  ‘Must’ve been one of those immaculate conceptions,’ said Cooja when we were told the news. ‘She was just so posh ya can’t imagine …’

  The great news is we’ve got Miss Heatherton.

  Miss Heatherton is a babe. She’s got long blonde hair which she sometimes wears hanging down and sometimes piled up on her head. Either way is excellent. She’s got bright blue eyes, a different shade from my ex-girlfriend Belinda’s (hers are contacts), a wide smiley mouth, nice skin … I’m not good on descriptions. She’s slim without being skinny. And she’s super intelligent. She does PE sometimes and runs the surfing elective with Mr Borganio who’s also a top guy. They’re going together.

  The thing about Miss Heatherton is she tries to make stuff interesting.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘English is not just spelling and punctuation and reading good literature. English is the language of our culture, and with that come social issues, the way of life we enjoy, values, rules, manners and courtesies.’

  ‘Der,’ says Boxie (alias Francis Boxenhead but no one ever calls him that or he loses it and punches out pain like it’s the end of the world).

  ‘Exactly,’ says Miss Heatherton. ‘Sounds dead boring, doesn’t it? But it needn’t be like that.’

  She bends down and picks up this bunch of boxes.

  ‘Hey. Board games,’ says Cathy, looking round to see if Cooja’s watching her. He isn’t. He’s writing BS on his arm with biro. BS. Barry Solomon? Brittany Salmon? Belinda Strachan? My Belinda? I mean, my ex-Belinda? and Cooja? Whoa! Not suited at all!

  Anyway the guts of all this is we’re going to play this game called ‘Manners’ which sounds like a total yawn but it’s actually better than anything we’ve done before in the history of my whole school life, English-wise.

  We play in groups of four and we’re allowed to choose our groups: I’m with Belinda, Cathy and Cooja. Then Boxie’s an odd number (in more ways than one but never mind, he’s okay on his medication) so he ends up with us.