‘Oh, I know that,’ says Pip, his voice skipping as lightly as a pebble across water. He smiles. He actually smiles. ‘He’s just jealous. I told him I might dress like a girl because girls are cool, but sometimes I dress like a boy because boys are cool, and then sometimes I’m a shark because they’re cool too.’
It’s a total cliché, but my heart actually melts. A really gooey kind of melting, like marshmallows at a campfire. I squeeze Pip’s shoulder. ‘How could anyone not be jealous of you?’
He grins and it’s infectious.
________
When Pip and I wander into Blissfully Aware, no one’s around. Not even Vivienne. I call out and Mum pokes her head around the office door with the phone pressed to her ear.
‘Is the shop closed?’ I ask.
With maximum arm waving, Mum explains that Vivienne got held back at uni and that she is on hold waiting to speak to our local member of parliament about the Butcher Issue and it’s been a total rush all afternoon and she snagged her pants on an errant nail and now the only thing holding them together are four strategically placed bulldog clips.
‘Can you fill in while I . . .’ She waves her hand at the counter, at the phone and at her pants, but before I can answer she shouts into the phone, ‘Yes? Yes, I’m still holding!’ and I don’t know what else she says because she slams the office door shut with her behind it and it’s just me and Pip and silence.
Pip grabs his pile of cardboard and aluminium and glitter from underneath the front counter and rushes down one of the aisles to god knows where. I dump my school bag and slump over the counter like a broken puppet.
I’ve checked and Armando still hasn’t responded. Is there a statute of limitations of responding to a Facebook comment? I mean, at what point can I be suitably offended that he hasn’t written back? At what point does it tick over from ‘Hasn’t read my comment yet’ to ‘He is actively ignoring me’? I don’t know what changed between last year and now but something did.
Carmen, on the other hand . . .
I wonder what she’d think of my plan to buy Luis a star? Or the tattoo? Would she think that was a good way to say thank you? Maybe she’d prefer a rocket.
My head jerks up as the office door bangs open and Mum barges out. ‘Unacceptable,’ she says as she flits by me in a tsunami of scarves and bracelets. She doesn’t tell me what is unacceptable and I don’t ask. Maybe she can read minds and she’s telling me I can’t get a tattoo. She has a dolphin on her ankle so I won’t listen. The dolphin’s eye is wonky and its snout is too short and it’s more purple than blue. Mum says that’s what you get when you’re drunk and seventeen and in Broadmeadows.
‘Why are you slumped against the counter?’ she asks with a familiar edge in her voice.
‘It’s hot,’ I say, ‘and I had double Maths and I don’t get algebra and those broccoli tarts you packed for lunch did not travel well so I just really, really, really think we need to have pizza for dinner.’
Mum laughs, a single dismissive, ‘Ha!’
We used to have pizza night once a month – Wheat-cheat Wednesday. We’d use pita for the base and put whatever we wanted on top and have a whole pizza each. My favourite combo was tomato, vegan cheese, pineapple and olives. We haven’t done Wheat-cheat Wednesday in ages, not since Mum put wheat on the ‘no, nope, no way, not ever’ list.
‘I guess we could use cauliflower for the base,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a recipe for that.’
Ugh.
‘Pass.’
Mum runs her fingers through my hair until I head-butt her hand away like a disgruntled cat.
‘Can you stay behind the counter while I refill stock?’ She walks away, sandals click-clacking against the wooden floor.
‘And can you tell my pants are ripped?’
I nod and let my head slide back onto the counter.
‘Was that a yes?’ Mum calls. ‘To filling in, I mean? And maybe the pants. Shit, I’ll have to get a new pair.’ By the sounds of it she’s lifting something because her voice is strained.
‘Yes,’ I say, but with my lips pressed against the counter it’s not especially loud or clear. ‘To both questions.’
‘What happened to Pip?’
I throw out an arm and point. I’m not sure where, but she can’t see me and I don’t really know where Pip is. ‘Working on his masterpiece.’
‘Pip? You alive?’ Mum calls and there’s a pause before Pip answers.
‘Mostly,’ he says, and as Pip has been let loose with scissors and glue and glitter that’s a good answer.
‘You’re not using a glue gun unsupervised, are you?’ she says.
Pause. ‘No.’
I rest my chin on my forearm and pull out my phone. I feel a bit like a creep but I scroll through Carmen’s Instagram feed again. I go straight for the picture with her and maybe-Luis.
I get the same shiver of fear and delight as before.
It almost looks as if Carmen is reaching out to Luis. It’s just perspective, I guess, because she’s reaching out to brush her hands through the low-hanging branches, but it looks like the tips of her fingers brush Luis too. Like those pictures people take where it looks like they’re pushing over the Eiffel Tower. And even though my finger brushes over that little smudge of boy there’s a screen and a phone camera and a whole reality separating us. Carmen knew what it was like to reach out and actually touch that little blur, to hold his hand, brush back the hair from his face, squeeze his shoulder. She knew what he loved, what he hated, what made him laugh and what made him cry.
And she’s so close by.
Ten minutes.
I get this idea in my head. It plops in there and suddenly all I’m thinking is, Hey, I’d really like to see Carmen. She’s ten minutes away and all I’d do is look through the Cheeky Chicken window and, yeah, that sounds creepy but I don’t mean it like that. I just mean to see what she looks like in real life and to make sure she’s still smiling, you know? It wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?
Just to see if she’s still melting the world with that electric smile.
Because maybe that’d be a way to say thank you to Luis. To check on the sister that loved him so much and make sure she’s still smiling. That’s a pretty good way to say thank you, isn’t it?
I sit up and watch my mum humming to herself as she refills the nut bar. Somewhere in the distance I hear Pip ripping masking tape. If I hadn’t made it, if I’d been the one who had died, then that’s what I’d want. I’d want Luis to walk into Blissfully Aware and hear Mum humming to herself and see Pip poking out his tongue in concentration as he glues and rips and pastes and sews his latest glittery masterpiece. I’d want him to check that they were okay. That they’d moved on. That they were happy again.
My shoulders relax and all the tension and the brain fuzz evaporates because I know what I have to do.
I hover outside Be-Spoke Bikes, staring at the window display like I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. But what I’m really looking at is the chicken-shaped sign dangling from the awning of the next shop along. A macho chicken jabbing a thumb at its chest like ‘Come inside and eat me, I don’t mind!’
Do chickens have thumbs?
I’ve got a piece of paper with the shop’s address written on it. I grip it with both hands. It feels like a permission note but like one I forged, a really obvious forgery that the teacher will never believe and will earn me a month’s worth of detention. I’m certain that if I take three steps sideways Carmen Castillejo will see me peering into the shop and drop whatever she’s holding – someone’s serve of chicken and chips probably – and yell, ‘That girl took my brother’s heart!’ and everyone in the shop will start screaming and pointing and I’ll have to get plastic surgery and move to Antarctica.
I glance at the chicken sign – it creaks as it sways in the breeze.
I breathe deeply and remind myself of The Plan. In ten seconds I’ll take three steps sideways. I’ll look in the window like I’m
looking for a menu because, man, I can’t get enough chicken. And then I’ll spy her: Carmen. She’ll be smiling. Laughing. Throwing her head back and gripping her stomach and crossing her legs because she’s trying not to pee herself with laughter. Because she’s happy. She’s okay. And then I’ll feel okay. I’ll feel like I’ve done a grand gesture for Luis and I’ll move on.
Happily ever after.
I try one of my therapist’s calming exercises. I close my eyes, visualise a body part, say the name and then move on to the next one. I start with the little finger on my left hand and work my way around the body from there. Hand. Arm. Shoulder. Chest.
Heart.
Okay.
I can do this.
It’s been way more than ten seconds but that’s okay. I’ve got time.
I stare at the bike in the window. It’s plain white and has a bell. I try to imagine riding it. I’d kick out my legs and scream as I raced down death-defying hills. I bet Zan has a black BMX; we could ride together. If Mum let me. Which she totally wouldn’t. Would I even want to do it? Death-defying isn’t really my aesthetic. I mean it is, but not of my choosing, you know?
Focus.
I can do this.
I step once, twice, three times to the right and . . . there’s a giant semi-opaque chicken covering the entire front window. All I see is a blur of green and orange and plastic chairs and fridges and vague people shapes.
I can’t see her.
Damn it. I’ll have to go in.
I can do this.
Breathe. In. Out.
Three more sidesteps to the right. I push open the door, taking small, tentative steps inside.
The door jangles shut behind me.
I look around: lime-green laminate, orange plastic chairs and egg-shaped napkin canisters. A tall guy staring at the menu. A mural covers an entire wall – a chicken riding a Harley Davidson: leather jacket, sunglasses, more thumbs. The fluorescent lights zip and hum, and behind the counter chicken carcasses rotate on a spit.
The air is thick with grease – it’s like swimming in chicken fat. There’s a terrible smell.
‘This is hell,’ I say. ‘This is Satan’s workshop.’
‘Excuse me?’ says a voice beside me.
I spin around and come face to face with the owner of the voice, but all I can do is take in small details, one at a time: black wavy hair. White dixie hat. Ponytail. Nose ring. Brown eyes. No, hazel? A little white scar between thick eyebrows. A tray in her arms. Used napkins. A chicken on her t-shirt. Thumbs.
It’s her.
It’s Carmen Castillejo.
My heart does a triple aerial somersault and faceplants – splat – on the floor.
Carmen smiles at me, but it’s a retail smile. Fake. ‘Welcome to Cheeky Chicken. Do you want –’
‘Chicken!’
Did I just shout ‘chicken’ at Carmen Castillejo?
Carmen blinks at me. ‘Lucky you,’ she says. ‘We sell plenty of that here.’ She nods at the counter and walks away. ‘Just line up and order. Menu’s on the wall.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Cool.’
There is a grin plastered all over my face – stupid and wide and lopsided and totally ridiculous – but I can’t wipe it. It’s there to stay.
Carmen Castillejo.
Luis’ sister. Maybe.
I stare at her.
She’s short.
She slouches. Every so often she jerks her shoulders back before slowly, slowly, they curve downward again.
She has a long neck. Very long. Swan-like.
She blinks often.
She drums her fingers while she’s waiting.
And on her right wrist is a small tattoo – loopy handwriting, a single word, Luis.
I spin and face the mural and do the calming exercise again. The biker chicken watches me.
I can do this. It’s really her – Luis’ sister. I can so do this. All I have to do is see her smile, really smile, and then I’ll leave. I don’t even have to talk to her. Again.
I glance back: she’s taking the tall guy’s order, scooping chips into a cardboard container and asking if he wants cheeky or regular salt.
‘Cheeky?’
‘Chicken salt,’ she says.
The guy takes forever to answer. Carmen flicks her fingers over the shakers.
‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘I’m feeling a bit cheeky.’ I imagine he winks as he says it, but I can only see his back and Carmen probably missed it because she’s only got eyes for her hand as she shakes cheeky salt on his chicken and chips.
She has rings on every finger. Not flashy ones though, thin silver rings with stars and moons and one with a little red stone. Did Luis give her one of those?
The guy takes his dinner and leaves. And, suddenly, the shop is empty. Apart from me. Apart from Carmen.
So Carmen looks at me.
I flick my gaze to the menu above her head. I squint like I’m reading. But every word I see up there reads: She’s going to know you’re an imposter! Abort! Get out of here!
Oh god, I’m going to throw up. This has gone way too far.
‘A Cheeky Chatterbox is good,’ she says, resting on her forearms. ‘You get two drumsticks, chips and a potato and gravy. Free drink too.’
I nod and continue to stare at the menu.
Yep. I’m definitely going to be sick. Right here. I’ll probably projectile vomit all over Carmen. Because that’s going to make her smile.
I hold a hand to my stomach.
The door opens and laughter floats in ahead of two uni-aged guys. I flinch at their entrance because they’re so loud – everything about them demands to be looked at. Even Carmen looks.
The guys slip between me and the counter. I step back – I don’t need to move because there’s plenty of room, but it’s like they take up more space than their bodies. Some people are like that.
They’re still talking and laughing but one of them drops a twenty on the counter and asks for two Quarter Chicken dinners.
I should go. It’s the perfect moment. They’re blocking Carmen’s view of me. I could sneak out and she wouldn’t see me.
‘You’re cutting in,’ says Carmen. I spy a sliver of her face between the guys’ shoulders. She points behind them. At me. ‘You’re cutting in. She’s first.’
Both guys turn and look at me.
You know when someone’s like, ‘Oh my god, there’s this massive tarantula in my room’ and you go to look, expecting something as big as your head, but what you find is a teeny tiny daddy-long-legs no bigger than a five-cent piece? Well, that’s how the guys look at me.
‘Yeah, but she’s obvs not ready yet,’ says the shorter one with the biggest I’m-so-unimpressed-by-what-I’m-looking-at-and-I-can’t-believe-I’m-being-made-to-wait-for-anyone-let-alone-her look. ‘We are.’
But Carmen doesn’t care. ‘She was first.’
‘You’re not serious?’
Carmen just folds her arms in answer and then smiles at me. ‘So what do you want?’ she asks. She asks me.
What do I want?
Let’s see . . .
I want to know if Luis Castillejo was really my donor.
I want to know if he was a good person.
I want to know what he liked, who he loved, what he did for fun, what made him cry and how often he laughed.
I want to feel like I’m complete and not like a jigsaw puzzle I can’t figure out.
I want to stop feeling like I’m taking up space meant for someone else.
I want Carmen Castillejo to like me.
I want to figure out who I am now.
But none of that is on the menu.
The guy snatches up his twenty. ‘Must be on her period,’ he says, and his mate laughs.
Carmen sucks in an angry breath.
My heart beats hard and fast. Anger surges through me. These waves of heat and zinging energy are more familiar now.
‘Well, if we bled every time you behaved like a jerk we’d be
anaemic,’ I say.
In the stunned silence that follows I wait for regret to overwhelm me.
Except it doesn’t.
Because Carmen Castillejo laughs. She covers her mouth and bends over, laughing. ‘Oh my god,’ she says. ‘That’s too funny.’
There’s a quiet, seething moment of both guys staring daggers at me before the taller one grabs his mate and tells him, ‘The dykes aren’t worth it.’ He drags his mate to the door. They knock every egg-shaped canister off every table on the way past, calling us every insult they can think of. Which isn’t that many.
The last egg canister rolls on the floor, slowly coming to a stand-still.
‘Shit,’ says Carmen and then she bursts into more laughter.
But it doesn’t feel funny to me. For a girl who doesn’t ‘do’ confrontation I’m firing off an awful lot of smart-arsed comebacks.
‘Oh my god,’ she keeps saying. She rubs her face, squishing her features. ‘Thanks for jumping in and rescuing me. Jerks like that are always coming here. Does my head in.’
I can’t take my eyes off her wrist: instead of a dot over the ‘i’ in ‘Luis’, it’s a heart.
It’s perfect.
‘What’s your name?’ she says and smiles. It’s not a retail smile any more. It’s real. It’s the electric smile. It sends shivers up and down my spine. It’s what I came here for. I can leave now. Say nothing. Just smile back, excuse myself and leave.
But she’s looking at me, waiting. Waiting for my name. Marlowe Jensen. Eighteen. Heart transplant recipient.
My eyes flick back to the ‘i’ on her wrist. That little unbroken heart. So perfectly formed. I don’t know how you’d ever write ‘Luis’ without it. And, suddenly, the only thing I can think about is how ‘Marlowe’ doesn’t have an ‘i’ in it. What kind of name is it anyway? A name my runaway dad gave me, the name of a fictional detective. And now it’s the name of a girl who wanders randomly into people’s lives she has no business being near. The name of a girl who could easily be connected to a certain Facebook post revealing she is the maybe recipient of a maybe donor.
Tin Heart Page 7