‘Two weeks ago.’ I find an apple in my satchel. ‘After the farm went bust, my dad and my older brother came down to organise a rental place and find work, and then we all just … pulled up stumps.’
‘That blows.’
‘Yeah. Can’t say I’m in love with the city experience so far.’ The bench seat we’re on is underneath a big scribbly gum. Leaf litter is scattered around us and the tree’s roots have buckled the concrete, as if trying to escape. Even the trees want out.
‘Melbourne can be fun,’ Mai says. ‘The little cobbled alleyways, the secret cafes … You’ll get the hang of it.’ She scans the area and the roofline beyond, unfazed. This is all normal for her. ‘You just need to find your tribe. The people around you can make a big difference.’
‘You have a tribe?’
‘A sort-of tribe. A small one. A tribelet.’ Sunlight glints off her purple bangles. ‘I get on okay with a lot of people, but my friend Dani moved to Sydney last year, so now I’m mainly tight with Mycroft. He’s the investigative scientist, I’m the punk geek girl — we both speak fluent snark.’
Her black T-shirt has line drawings of a variety of objects — a toaster, a phone, a banana, a llama — with the slogan Not the droids you’re looking for. I grin, pull the knot out of my hair to tidy it. ‘You keep the geek-girl shtick. I’ll be the country bumpkin.’
‘You’re on.’ Her smile transforms into a gasp. ‘Shit, your hair is long. Ever thought about some streaks? There’s this great burnt-orange colour that’d be perfect with your shade of deep blonde —’ Her gaze strays behind me. ‘All right, finally. My tribe approaches.’
I turn my head in time to see a … whoa. Okay, so he’s tall. Lanky, with dark curly hair. No backpack in evidence. Tight, slightly stained black jeans with a white T-shirt and a red trackie jacket, unzipped in front. This guy doesn’t look like the scientist type — more like the dictionary illustration of Urban Boho Chill. This is Mai’s tribe?
I haven’t retied my hair yet, and I probably have apple bits between my teeth. I may not be ready to cope with this guy on my first day. I try to imagine him walking down the street in Five Mile, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, and … nope. Not possible. I take a breath as he swaggers in our direction, and —
There’s a yelp, and a spectacular windmill of flailing limbs, as Mr Urban Boho trips on the stairs and face-plants on the concrete.
‘Oh, crap,’ Mai says.
‘Oh, crap. It’s okay,’ I say, as we both rush over. ‘I have some first-aid training.’
‘Awesome,’ Mai says, ‘because blood makes me sick. Mycroft? Are you still alive?’
A groan — he’s still alive. I kneel on the hard ground at the guy’s shoulder, turn him over. In spite of the gushing red cut on his forehead, his eyes are open. They’re as blue as a Mallee sky.
Mai gags a little at the blood. ‘God, Mycroft, are you okay?’
‘It’s all right. I was saved from an undignified brain injury by my face.’ He’s talking to Mai but looking straight at me. ‘Wow. Hello.’
‘Hi.’ I check the rest of him, but the cut seems to be the biggest issue. ‘You might be concussed, you should stay still.’
‘I’m staying still,’ he points out. ‘I’m lying flat on my back, that’s about as still as it’s possible to be.’
Shit — the fruity accent. This is the bozo from my biology class, the one who set his notes on fire.
My hair falls heavily in front of my eyes and I shove it back. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Perfectly fine. Brilliant.’ He grins through the mask of blood on his face. ‘Mai, would you do the honours?’
‘Oh, God,’ Mai says, tilting her chin up. ‘Mycroft, this is Rachel Watts. Rachel, Mycroft, and Jesus, I think I’m gonna spew.’
‘Don’t spew,’ Mycroft and I say together.
We look at each other for a moment before I yank off my flannie. ‘Better put pressure on that head wound.’
‘My head wound is fine,’ Mycroft says, extending a hand. ‘Let me up.’
‘I don’t think you should —’
‘I’m all good. Let me up.’
I blink at him. ‘Okay.’ This should be entertaining.
I take his hand — large, over-warm — and ease him into a sitting position. He’s heavy, and his face goes predictably white within two seconds of being upright.
‘Ah, no,’ he says. ‘Let me down. Let me down again —’
‘She did warn you,’ Mai says.
‘Shouldn’t we get a teacher?’ I settle her friend back on the concrete, shove at my hair again. ‘Or maybe an ambulance? He’s bleeding a lot.’
Mai rolls her eyes. ‘He always bleeds a lot. Stay here, I’ll go find Mrs Ramen.’
‘Oh no, Mai, come on,’ Mycroft starts. ‘Ramen’s hopeless —’
‘Are you guys okay? Mycroft, what have you done now?’ Gus, of the incredible shoulders, has walked over. His backpack is slung on one strap, and he’s still carrying the soccer ball.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Mycroft says. ‘I was walking along, minding my own business, and the ground jumped up and assaulted me. I’m offended that you think I did this to myself.’
I see Mai straighten her tartan flip skirt as she stands. ‘Oh, hey. Just a bit of an accident.’
‘Accident?’ Mycroft whines from ground level. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’
‘You’re not bleeding to death.’ I look up at Gus. ‘Hi, I’m Rachel.’
‘Hi,’ Gus says. He turns to Mai. ‘Yeah, maybe you should get Mrs Ramen. I can walk up with you, if you like?’ The way he says it, just a little too casually, makes me think she might be in with a shot.
‘Um, lemme check with Rachel.’ I nod, and Mai’s expression glows. She turns back to Gus. ‘That would be great, thank you.’ She glances at Mycroft over her shoulder. ‘We’ll be back in a sec. Hold tight, okay?’
‘Mai —’ he starts again.
Ignoring him, Mai strides away. Gus is sticking to her like glue.
Mycroft groans. ‘Ramen won’t help! She never helps! She has haemophobia!’ But they’re already too elsewhere to hear.
I shift on my knees. ‘What is that, fear of blood?’ I’m surprised this guy’s still accessing higher brain functions, let alone spouting words like ‘haemophobia’.
He sighs. ‘Yes. Although Mrs Ramen’s fear is more to do with getting blood on her clothes, which is different and slightly more misanthropic.’
‘Well, I don’t really give a rat’s about my clothes, and I don’t have haemophobia.’
‘Clearly.’ His eyes, that surreal shade of blue, gaze up at me, and I suddenly feel weird kneeling here — Mycroft must be getting a great view of the underside of my chin.
‘Okay.’ I huff out a laugh. ‘This is kind of an unusual way to meet someone on my first day of high school.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Those eyes again. ‘You’ve already told me you’re not a misanthropist before we’ve even gotten to know each other.’
Mycroft’s breath is soft on my inner arm as I hold my shirt in place. I wet my lips and glance away.
‘Wait, did you say this is your first day of high school?’ When I look back, Mycroft is still pale, but his expression is animated enough. ‘Mai said something about it, but I didn’t think she meant your first actual day of high school ever —’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s my first actual day of high school ever. I moved from the country. I was home-schooled via distance ed before now.’
‘Incredible.’ He shakes my free hand, while lying in that peculiar position. ‘You’ve managed to evade formal education for a significant period of your life. Congratulations and well done.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Good God, no.’
A breeze stirs the leaves of the bench-seat tree, and a couple of other students wander by. I can’t imagine what on earth we look like, with Mycroft lying on the concrete and me sitting next to him, pressing my shirt to his forehe
ad.
‘Are you sure your head’s okay?’
He gazes off somewhere above my shoulder, considering. ‘Well, obviously it hurts.’
‘You could have concussion.’ I frown at him. ‘Recite the alphabet or something so I know you’re still functioning.’
‘Hydrogen. Helium. Carbon …’
‘You’re reciting the periodic table?’
‘It soothes me.’
‘Are you nauseous?’
‘No.’ He tilts his chin a little. ‘Are you always this capable?’
Are you always this odd? I want to ask. But unlike Mycroft, I have a brake pedal attached to my mouth. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, too, ’cause he’s just fallen down and clonked himself, and it’s possible he needs stitches.
‘Was your previous place of residence a total backwater?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you shifted to Melbourne?’
Screw ‘benefit of the doubt’. I glare at him, and wait for Mai to get back.
The upsides of going home are that first, I get to go home. Second, I get to ride the tram. The city looks different out the tram window; more contained, almost manageable. Third, it’s Mai’s tram, too, so we ride together, although she goes a number of stops further on than me.
The downside, I discover, is that Mycroft lives along the same route. He has three butterfly closures over the now blackened gash on his forehead, but he bounded onto the tram along with every other student travelling north along Sydney Road.
‘Okay, what offensive thing did he say to you?’ Mai asks, from the seat opposite mine. ‘Actually, wait, don’t tell me, it doesn’t matter. Mycroft manages to offend everybody at least a few times a day. He’s unbelievably bright, but he has no “off” switch whatsoever. Don’t take it personally.’ She looks sideways just as the tram slows and Mycroft galumphs down the aisle towards the doors. ‘Um, isn’t this your stop?’
Jesus. This just gets better and better.
Mai snags me as I rise. ‘You should come over. Not today, but, y’know, once you’re settled in.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say, smiling back. ‘Oops, gotta go.’
I tumble out of the tram doors and cross the busy road to Summoner Street. Mai said it makes a difference, the people you have around you in the city. I think I’d like to be in Mai’s orbit. I have Carly and the others from distance ed on email, but I’m in the Big Smoke now.
That thought flattens me out a bit.
I sigh when I realise who else is now in my orbit. Mycroft lopes just a little ahead, arms swinging like he hasn’t suffered a recent head trauma. My steps slow; maybe he doesn’t know I’m following. With a bit of luck, we won’t have to converse at all. I said I was easygoing, but the backwater comment still stings.
We pass the electricity pole near the corner, then the scraggy yards in front of various houses. A few metres further on, Mycroft pulls a squashed pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket, pauses to light one. His pause is just long enough for me to catch up. When he spins around, I realise he knew I was following all along.
‘Hello again. Are you stalking me?’
‘What? No.’
‘Really? I was hoping you were stalking me. I’ve never had a stalker before.’
What is it with this guy? ‘I live here.’
‘In this house?’
‘On this street.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Mycroft’s eyes narrow. ‘What number are you?’
My back stiffens. ‘I don’t think I want to tell you.’
He grins. ‘It’s fine, y’know. I’m harmless. Mostly harmless. I mean, I talk a lot. Are you the blue house?’
‘The white one,’ I admit.
‘Excellent! So we’re street-mates.’
I gape for two whole seconds. ‘I think the word you’re looking for is “neighbours”.’
‘Yes, neighbours. Wonderful.’ He sighs happily, waves his cigarette around at the street. The houses are cheap, mostly rentals, and there’s a skip spewing garbage down on the corner. ‘So, you’re poor, then.’
I bite my lip, but there’s no disguising it: this street is a dump. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Excellent,’ Mycroft repeats. ‘We’re neighbours in penury. Here, let me give you the tour.’ He points out houses with his cigarette. ‘Mr and Mrs Ahmuddin — they’re always working, kids in child care down the block. Mrs Gantinas — retiree, grows lovely tomatoes. Those people I don’t know. Mr Sutton — unemployed, sits on the front step a lot in summer, you’ve gotta watch out for his dog. The rest are mostly a revolving door of short-term leases I can never keep up with, including the lovely couple in number twenty-six, who seem to do nothing but argue at high volume …’
He stops at the expression on my face.
‘Oh, hey now.’ He steps closer. ‘C’mon, Watts, it’s not that awful.’
What’s awful is that I’m standing here, close to tears, in front of a guy I’ve just met who doesn’t seem to understand that this is not a game. This is my life now. I’ve exchanged pink dirt and leaf litter and swollen blue skies for this.
‘Thanks for the tour,’ I get out, bolting for my house.
‘Sorry about yesterday,’ Mycroft says, on the tram to school the next day. ‘Didn’t mean to put you off. I was about to invite you to come over and watch YouTube videos with me, but you ran away …’
‘Yeah, sorry, I was a bit tired from school.’ I look at the world outside the tram. Is there a word that’s the opposite of agoraphobic? Like, if you can have a fear of wide-open spaces and huge skies, what’s the name for the fear of busy streets and encroaching buildings? What’s the fear of cities?
‘I have something better, anyway,’ Mycroft says, grinning. ‘I’ve made some sodium acetate, and you should definitely come over and see that. Magic.’
The air here feels canned. I suppose it has something to do with the level of pollution. It’s like you’re breathing in something that’s been recycled a thousand times over, even outside, even when you’re — ‘What?’
‘This afternoon,’ he says conspiratorially. ‘It’s one of my favourite experiments, ’cause the results are so reliably spectacular. You mix it up and pour it out onto a solid surface at room temperature —’
‘This is a science experiment.’ I wriggle up in my seat. ‘You’re talking about a science experiment.’
‘Yes. So the saturated liquid —’
‘You do science experiments in your room?’
‘Regularly. But on this very special occasion, to cheer you up.’ Mycroft gazes out the window. ‘And me. Most days need a bit of cheering up, I reckon. Sodium acetate is highly cheering, because —’
‘Where did you get the British accent?’ I ask suddenly.
‘From the British People factory,’ he shoots back.
I squint at him. ‘You’re a very peculiar person.’
‘And you’re a mystery.’ Mycroft’s eyes aren’t chasing the scenery anymore. They’re bathing me in blue. ‘I quite like mysteries.’
I have to turn my head away. ‘I’m still getting used to being here. In Melbourne, I mean.’
‘Mycroft, did you do the English homework?’ Mai asks, disentangling from her headphones.
‘Yes.’ He twists in the seat to face her. ‘And I’ll look over your maths questions if you’ll correct my spelling.’
Mai pulls a notebook out of her backpack. ‘His spelling is atrocious.’
‘I’d argue that point, but I can’t spell “atrocious”,’ Mycroft says. ‘You’ll get used to it. Melbourne, I mean.’
I realise he’s looking at me again. ‘Everyone keeps saying that.’
‘Everyone is right. I only arrived seven years ago, and look at me now — thriving!’
He throws out his arms in a parody of a city-wide embrace.
We get into the habit of doing homework right after school, while it’s still fresh. If I was doing this as usual, with distance ed, I’d have it staggered at different times
of the day, to suit around home stuff, like lambing days, and sheep inoculations, and checking the perimeters in the morning. But I’m not, so I’d better not think about it.
Mycroft hums while we work, and finishes faster than me. He gets up and pokes around in the fridge, like it’s his own house.
‘What’s for tea, then?’
‘Sausages and chips.’ My head is still down, my right hand scrawling. ‘Salad, too.’
‘You’ve got to get some greens in there somewhere, don’t you.’ He sighs.
I sit up and stretch my back, then hear the banging of Mum coming through from the front. She makes straight for the kitchen after she dumps her cleaning gear in the living room. It’s funny how we all head straight for the kitchen, still, even though it’s not as central as it used to be in our old house.
‘Thank God I’m home,’ she says, sounding like she really means it. ‘I thought that last place would never end — three toilets. Hello, Mycroft. What are you doing in our fridge?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ he says.
‘Hello, sweet pea.’ Mum kisses the top of my head, which makes me feel like I’m about five years old.
I turn in my seat so I can side-hug her. ‘I was just about to start the dinner.’
‘Make your old mother a cup of tea first?’
I give Mum my chair, fill the kettle and light the gas on the stove. Mycroft has closed the fridge and, in a burst of helpfulness, popped a teabag into a mug.
He sits back down at the table and starts packing up his books. ‘All right day, then, Mrs Watts?’
‘Oh, you know, dear. So-so.’ Mum looks tired, and smells strongly of Pine O Cleen, where before she used to smell of lanolin and baking bread.
‘D’you want chips and salad, Mum?’ I start defrosting the sausages in a sinkful of water. I try to lift my tone: I sound almost as tired as she does, and I’ve only been at school.
‘Yes, love, that’d be great.’ She stands slowly, like someone who’s spent all day kneeling and bending over. ‘Okay, I’m going for the shower. By the time I get out I might feel human again. Where’s your father?’
‘Outside. He’s digging around the Hills Hoist again.’
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYa Anthology Page 14