Tin Heart

by Shivaun Plozza

  ‘Ray,’ I say. ‘My name is Ray.’

  I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth and try to shut out the voice in my head that’s screaming, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Short for Rachel?’ she asks, and I nod.

  ‘I’m Carmen,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron.

  I know, I want to say. I know.

  Her smile is an easy smile – genuine, dazzling, alive. Just like the photos. ‘Well, Ray, you can have whatever you want.’ She waves at the menu behind us. ‘On the house.’

  Whatever I want?

  I want a rewrite.

  Luis Castillejo, when you smile, the world stops spinning. Your smile’s a little bit wonky and your teeth are slightly crooked but it’s so bright, so genuine, just like your sister’s smile . . . You wear skinny jeans and a buttoned-up shirt, faded blue paisley. Your hair is short at the back and sides but long and wavy on top, held in place with too much gel. You wear spotty socks and tan loafers. You own a straw boater but don’t wear it – it sits on the head of a porcelain lion in your room, something you picked up in the Salvos for fifty cents because you thought it would be cool to hang scarves over. You listen to bands I’ve never heard of – that no one has heard of. They will be big in two years’ time, only by then you’ll have moved on to something less ‘mainstream’. You busk, sometimes with a beat-up acoustic, other times with a ukulele . . .

  I’m in the shop on my own – Mum’s got an Amnesty meeting, Pip’s gone with her (Princess Leia hair, Jedi robes, Godzilla feet) and Vivienne is making an emergency vegan pizza run for her girlfriend’s student film crew. I’m slouched over the front counter, trying to do my Biology homework but really I’m staring at the anti-fur poster Mum pinned on the far wall. It’s Twiggy, this iconic supermodel and animal rights activist from the sixties. She’s got this gorgeous short haircut and I try to imagine myself wearing her colourful shift dresses and painting my eyes in eyeliner and mascara but I can’t. Even in my imagination I don’t have the guts.

  A woman in purple dungarees is pulling out the tea packets one by one. She’s reading the label, sighing loudly, before replacing it and reaching for another. In her defence there are a hundred different kinds, including more than twenty different rooibos, but, seriously, pick one and move on, lady.

  I haven’t been called on to answer questions about genetically modified soy beans or animal rennet or salt content or gluten contamination or even herbal tea. Lucky it’s a slow Wednesday afternoon. Lucky, because I have much to obsess over.

  Like sharing a bucket of chips and talking for thirty-seven minutes with Luis’ sister.

  ‘I like your tattoo,’ I told her. She turned over her wrist and smiled at the loopy scrawl.

  ‘I want another one,’ she said. ‘Maybe a shooting star. Just have to wait until I find the right design.’

  I wanted to ask about the name, pretend I didn’t already know, so she would tell me everything about Luis Castillejo.

  But I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  And even though I tell myself I can never see Carmen Castillejo again, I can’t stop thinking about her. And I can’t stop thinking about Luis and what he might have been like and how Carmen might have all the answers I crave.

  Dungaree lady holds up a packet of liquorice tea, wiggling it around as she calls out, ‘Can you drink this if you’re pregnant?’ She’s half bent over, still peering at the other teas on display.

  I tap my pen against my teeth. ‘What does it say on the packet?’

  She wiggles it again like she expects me to walk over there and read it myself. ‘Maybe look it up on your phone,’ I say.

  ‘It says not to.’

  ‘Not to look it up?’

  She tilts her head my way. ‘On the packet. It says, Not recommended for pregnant women.’

  I count deep, calming breaths. I even take a moment to close my eyes and repeat some of Mum’s positive affirmations: I think only positive thoughts and I am full of happiness and joyous goodwill! Being happy comes easily to me! It’s my second nature!

  ‘Then maybe you should avoid it,’ I say, opening my eyes again. ‘Peppermint is good for settling stomachs if that’s what you’re after. For morning sickness.’

  The lady frowns at me. ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  I grip my pen tightly. Being happy comes easily to me! I love other people and other people love me!

  I watch her replace the liquorice root tea and plop a St John’s wort pack in her basket instead. She ambles down the aisle, checking out the shelves as she passes.

  I wish Zan had been at school today – I didn’t get to tell her about Carmen.

  And god I need to talk to someone about that. I want to be able to lay it all out, every excruciating detail, and have that magical someone laugh and say, ‘Oh, Marlowe. Don’t be silly! I’m sure Carmen would want to be your very best friend, even if she knew the truth.’

  Yeah. Because that sounds exactly like Zan.

  Anyway, it’s fine because I’m not going to see Carmen again and even if I did – which I’m not going to – I don’t need to tell her who I am. Because who am I anyway? Luis might not even be my donor. I could just be some random girl who happened to walk into her shop.

  Really.

  The bell tones – an electronic warble – and I look up to make sure the woman hasn’t run off without paying for her tea. But, no, she’s in the nut section and walking through the front door is someone else.

  Leo.

  The butcher boy.

  I knock my Biology book to the floor as I sit ramrod straight. Being happy is an illusion! My life is so messed up!

  Leo waltzes up the centre aisle, grinning, hands in his back pockets. ‘Hey, Ray,’ he says. ‘What’s happening?’

  He’s wearing a striped tee, ripped blue jeans and scruffy Vans. The strap of a red-and-white messenger bag crosses his chest.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He bends to pick up my book, turning it over. ‘Don’t be modest. You’re studying. How dedicated of you.’

  I grab it out of his hands. ‘It’s just homework.’

  For a second the grin slips into something closer to a grimace before he looks down at the counter where Mum has stuck a flyer for an upcoming refugee protest. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ he says. ‘I left school at fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen?’

  ‘Can’t be an apprentice murderer and go to school.’

  I stare at the crown of his head as he reads the flyer – sandy-brown hair all messed up and smelling freshly washed. Lemongrass shampoo. I jerk back the second I realise I’ve just smelt a boy’s hair. The butcher boy’s hair.

  I resolve never to breathe again.

  He straightens, looking around like he’s thinking about buying the place. ‘Love what you’ve done. Very hippie-chic. But seriously.’ He props an elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his palm. ‘I didn’t come here to trade insults with you, Ray.’

  I roll my eyes. He continues to grin at me in a way I bet he thinks is completely adorable.

  I mean it is. But I can never let him know that.

  ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious about why I’m here, Ray?’

  I show him just how curious I am by picking up my pen and getting on with my homework.

  ‘Ah,’ says Leo. ‘Back on your speaking strike.’ I glare at him.

  ‘That’s good. It means you can listen as I sincerely apologise to you.’

  Huh?

  He grins. ‘I know, I know. But hear me out.’ He glances over his shoulder as the woman appears at the top of the aisle, getting ready to angst over which lentil chip brand to buy. Leo leans forward, lowering his voice. ‘We got off on the wrong foot. How could we not? Me, the son of a butcher and you, the daughter of all this?’ He waves a hand around at the shop. ‘We’re like the Jets and the Sharks. The Montagues and the Capulets.’

  Up close I realise he’s got a dusting of brown freckles over his cheeks and nose
. His nose is a tiny bit crooked, actually.

  ‘I think,’ says Leo, ‘that we should both admit we acted poorly and, instead of things escalating, we can shake hands, say sorry and move on.’ He holds out his hand – steady, straight, firm. And probably covered in meat bacteria. And blood residue. Like on those crime shows. You think you’ve cleaned away all the evidence that you stabbed your wife, but then they squirt the fancy spray all over the place and run a black light over the walls and bam! Blood splatter everywhere.

  ‘I washed my hands ten times before I came here. Hospital grade disinfectant. Plus, I wasn’t even working today.’

  Holy crap, can he read my mind?

  ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Live and let live and all that hippie shit.’

  Leo smiles again and I relent. I do feel bad about what I did to his shop. He shouldn’t have been rude to me like that, but two wrongs don’t make a right. So I reach out, my hand sliding into his grip.

  ‘No hard feelings?’ he says.

  His hands are soft but also strong and firm. You can’t tell that they’ve been carving up defenceless animals. You know how sometimes you can pick what someone does for a living just by their hands? Well, Leo should be a pianist. Or a writer. Or an artist. Someone who creates rather than destroys.

  And while I’m thinking all of this I’m looking at his long, smooth fingers and noticing how small my hand is in his and how his hand is kind of like a cocoon for mine and how pale my skin is against his and, finally, I notice the most important thing of all.

  I’m still shaking his hand.

  I quickly pull away, hugging both arms tight across my chest. ‘No hard feelings. Okay.’

  ‘Excellent!’ he says. I’d say his eyes were ‘twinkling’ but that would be lame (except, of course, they’re totally twinkling). Behind him, the woman sighs as she reads the back of the hummus chips.

  ‘Oh,’ Leo says, bumping his head with the heel of his palm. ‘I almost forgot. I got you a peace offering.’ He swings the messenger bag around, reaching inside to slowly, gently, pull out a shoebox.

  ‘You got me shoes?’

  He lays the box on the counter, pushing it across to me. Okay, now his eyes are seriously twinkling. Santa Claus level twinkling. ‘Open it,’ he says.

  I reach out to flip open the lid. ‘I feel bad about the graffiti.’

  ‘Don’t,’ says Leo.

  Then he takes a giant step backwards.

  I register the step the same time I open the lid.

  I think, That’s a weird thing to do. To step way back like that. And a warning bell dings madly in my head but it doesn’t reach my hand in time because my hand is still opening the lid and I’m still leaning forward to look inside the box and before I can react to the warning bell I’m staring face to face with a pair of black, beady eyes.

  It’s a rat.

  It’s a giant, hairy rat.

  I scream and jump back, legs tangling in my chair, arms flailing, and I knock the box to the ground. The rat scampers under the counter and I scream even louder. I crash back into the wall behind. I’m still pointing and I think I’m saying ‘rat’ over and over.

  Leo, the bastard, is laughing.

  He backs towards the door. ‘I wanted to give you a present and since you’re so into animals I figured I’d get you a pet.’

  I press hard against the wall, eyes flicking between Leo and the shadows under the counter. What if it rushes out and bites my ankles? Will I get tetanus? The plague?

  ‘If you don’t like it,’ says Leo, edging past the teas, ‘I’m sure you’ll find some humane way of catching it. But you might want to do that before the health inspectors turn up. Pretty sure rats are against code.’

  Health inspectors?

  He salutes me, turns and hurries outside, ignoring my very colourful request to come back and take his stinking rat with him.

  In the sudden silence I hear my ragged breath, my thudding heartbeat and – worse – a rat scratching under the counter.

  The woman is staring open-mouthed at me from the chips aisle.

  ‘He’s a butcher,’ I tell her. ‘I’m a vegan. We don’t like each other.’

  She lowers her half-full basket to the ground and leaves the shop, passing Mum and Pip as they walk in. ‘Enter at your own risk,’ she says.

  Mum frowns. ‘What’s her problem?’

  ‘We have a rat,’ I shout, but literally no one rushes off to fetch a flamethrower so I shout it again. ‘A RAT!’ Still no flamethrower. Instead, Pip’s eyes light up and Mum says, ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ I say and tell them about the rat and how hairy it is and how big it is and how sharp its teeth are and then I ask if there are such things as vampire rats because this one had an air of the evil undead about it. I point under the counter.

  ‘Poor thing. He’s probably terrified,’ Mum says, getting down on all fours to dig under the counter. After a lot of huffing and tongue clicks and ‘Come here, sweetie’s, she pulls out what is actually a very placid rat.

  ‘He’s someone’s pet for sure,’ she says, as the fugly little beast cuddles into her arms. ‘He’s so friendly.’

  ‘He’s hideous.’

  ‘He’s ours!’ says Pip, jiggling up and down, Leia buns wobbling on the sides of his head. He scoops the rat out of Mum’s arms, and I can’t believe she’s letting her youngest-born touch a possibly diseased feral animal. Worst mum of the year award!

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘There’s no way we’re keeping it.’

  ‘Of course not. He must belong to another family,’ says Mum. She runs a finger across the rat’s head, bumping hands with Pip. ‘They’ll be missing him.’

  I’m not sure why but I don’t tell them the rat came from Leo and that he probably bought it from a pet store. I also don’t tell them that he’s probably called the health inspectors.

  ‘We’ll put up posters,’ says Pip, ‘and when no one contacts us we get to keep him, right?’

  Mum smiles as she watches Pip petting the rat. I can see her melting. ‘Why not?’ she says finally. ‘We’ve always wanted a pet.’

  Why not?

  Why not?!

  I try to convince Mum that with my low immunity this is a Bad Choice. ‘I’ll get the plague. There are lesions forming on my skin as we speak.’

  She laughs at me.

  ‘His name is Brutus,’ says Pip.

  The only consolation is that the health inspectors don’t come as promised so Leo’s revenge actually turns out surprisingly well for the majority of my family.

  Just not for me.

  I walk into second period English and look for Zan. She’s been off school for ages. I’m worried she’s fallen and can’t get up and the rest of her family have gone on holiday so it’s just her and five cats and she can’t reach the phone and she can’t feed the cats so the cats eat her.

  As I hover in the doorway, trying to decide where to sit, Eddie Oro sidles up to me. ‘Hey,’ he says and grins. He’s got one of those mouths that’s too full of teeth. And he’s far too close to me. ‘You need someone to hold your hand?’

  Ugh.

  I make to walk away but he grabs my arm.

  You know those nature documentaries where there’s a hyena hiding in the brush, watching a delicate little gazelle nibble on grass like she’s got all the time in the world and there’s nothing for her to worry about and you feel like screaming, ‘Run, Bambi! Run!’ at the TV because it’s inevitable – the gazelle is going to get carved up for Sunday brunch and you are going to cry because nature is cruel and unfair.

  Eddie: hyena. Marlowe: gazelle.

  ‘I have to go.’ I tug my arm, but his grip is jaw-around-a-gazelle’s-neck tight.

  ‘No you don’t, freak,’ he says. ‘Your lesbo mate isn’t even here. I want to know what you’re wearing to school sports tomorrow. We can coordinate. Matching scars and everything.’

  He fakes a shudder as he looks me up and down, but I manage to pull away just as Zan ap
pears and steps between us.

  ‘Move it,’ Zan tells Eddie. ‘Get your ugly face and your shit attitude out of our way.’

  Eddie jumps a bit, but then he laughs. He crosses the room and sits between two of the Cerberus, looking pleased with himself.

  Zan leads me away. ‘Ignore him,’ she says to me. ‘He’s proof evolution can go backwards.’ She dumps her books on the table and I flop down beside her.

  ‘Thank you.’ I infuse every ounce of feeling I have into those two words.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘No, seriously. You’re my hero.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I’m Lois Lane. You’re Superman. I heart you forever.’

  She rolls her eyes but there’s a crack in her disinterested stare.

  ‘Hats off in class.’ Mr Laidlaw powers into the room, flipping Zan’s hat off her head on the way past. ‘This ain’t da hood.’

  ‘Oh good,’ says Zan. ‘Racial stereotypes. My favourite way to start the day.’

  Laidlaw ignores her. He slams his stuff on the front desk.

  ‘This term we will be studying Frankenstein by Mary Shelley,’ he says. ‘I assume you already know the basic story. You’ve probably seen the film.’ He stomps around the class, handing out the class sets.

  I look down at my book and take a deep breath. On the cover is a black-and-white drawing – the film-version monster, you know the one, with the square head and bolts sticking out of his neck and the patchwork of scars all over his face.

  A whole term spent on a book about a monster made up of other people? I close my eyes slowly. I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I’m not here.

  My cheeks catch fire. I burn from the inside out. I am actually on fire. And it’s not anger this time, it’s that feeling of being a bug under a spyglass.

  The fire department will have to come hose me down. But I’ll have burnt to a crisp before they even think about sliding down their poles.

  ‘In preparation for reading, I want you to create a dialogue between Dr Frankenstein and his monster. I know you haven’t read it yet but I’m passing around a synopsis and I want you to imagine what kind of relationship these two characters are going to have. Is it good? Bad? How is it problematic? What issues will they have? Don’t just stare at me; books out. Pens. Wake up, it’s time to expand your tiny minds.’