Tin Heart

by Shivaun Plozza

  Mum grows rigid. Her fingertips squeeze into the flesh of my shoulders. ‘Oh, honey,’ she says, and then her face collapses. ‘Oh, honey.’

  I lean into her, wrapping my arms around her waist and squeezing with everything I’ve got. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘I’m fine.’

  For the first time, it’s the truth.

  ________

  Mum’s tirade is epic in length, scope and sound. It’s amazing the police don’t turn up. The tirade is a three-pronged argument: 1. Fix things with Pip, 2. Never, never, never run off and scare me like that, and 3. Never see that murdering son of a butcher again.

  ‘Pip worships you,’ she says, ‘and you’ve been ignoring him. And then you said such a horrible thing to him and –’

  ‘I know,’ I tell her, gripping my cup of dandelion tea.

  ‘And a butcher,’ she says, leaning back in her chair. She laughs but there’s nothing amused in the sound. ‘Honey, if you brought home the president of the Young Liberals I’d be less disappointed.’

  ‘But you don’t know him.’ I lean across the table, holding out my hands for her to take. ‘He doesn’t even want to be a butcher.’ She shakes her head, teeth worrying her bottom lip. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. Her eyes are wet.

  ‘Mum.’ I stretch further across, and finally she slips her hands into mine. I grip them hard and draw her closer. ‘I will eat any amount of brussels sprout fritters you want and I will march in every protest and never buy anything that contains palm oil or wear leather or throw paper in the bin instead of the recycling, but you have to let me live my life. You can’t keep trying to live it for me. You have given me the best set of values but at some point you have to let me be the one to live by them.’

  ‘But a butcher?’ she says, and I squeeze her hands.

  ‘Mum.’

  And, finally, a smile. A tired, crooked, tentative smile, but I grab it and hold it and I’ll never forget it.

  ‘Just drink your tea before it gets cold,’ she says. ‘It’s good for you.’

  I laugh and take a sip. It doesn’t taste like disappointment this time, but it sure as hell still tastes like feet.

  I look up and she’s watching me, worry and love and hurt and fear all wrapped into one.

  ‘Do you think you can ever forgive me?’ I ask her.

  ‘For the butcher?’

  ‘For everything.’

  Mum cups my cheek in her hand. ‘That’s what mums are for,’ she tells me. ‘You have a lifetime of guaranteed forgiveness. But . . .’ Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. ‘I’m not sure about brothers, Marlowe. You’ve hurt him so much.’

  I look down into my tea.

  Mum squeezes my hand.

  I don’t know either. But I have to try.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘But it scares me more than anything so I’ll need your help.’

  ________

  Leo is slouched beside me as I hyperventilate outside the school gates. He’s here for moral support. And by moral support I mean ‘trying not to laugh at me’ because that’s all he’s done so far.

  Right now I think this might be the worst idea ever. In The History of Ideas: A Guide to the Worst Ideas of All Time, this is a whole chapter and would rate higher than Adam and Eve deciding to add more fruit to their diet. It’s even dumber than accepting as a gift a giant wooden horse large enough to fit the Greek army.

  It’s bad for a number of reasons. The first would be the costume.

  At least no one else is around. The bell went ages ago and everyone’s inside the hall for whole school assembly, including Pip. Mum walked him to school early; I peeked through the crack in my door and he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. My heart sank.

  So that’s why I’m wearing a Tin Man costume.

  Tin ‘If I Only had a Heart’ Man.

  I’m not as talented at the whole costume construction thing as Pip is – even with Mum and Leo’s help – but it’s not bad. The things you can do with cardboard and spray paint and a glue gun.

  ‘Are you really going in?’ Leo asks with that messy smile I seem to love so much, even now when it’s laughing at me.

  I love it even more than usual because he was brave enough to come around yesterday to help.

  ‘If you even think about touching my daughter I’ll have your head cut off and nailed to the front door as a warning to other boys,’ Mum told him. ‘And if you do touch her, I’ll cut something else off.’

  She settled down a bit after that.

  A bit.

  Leo pokes me in the ribs. Well, he tries to. There’s a fair amount of cardboard blocking him. ‘Having second thoughts?’

  ‘Of course I am. Have you seen this?’ I wave a hand up and down my length. ‘But I’m going to do it.’

  I hold out my hand; Leo takes it.

  ‘I knew I had quirky tastes but I didn’t think they were this quirky,’ says Leo as we walk through the gates, towards the hall. My thighs make the rup, rup, rup, rup sound of cardboard rubbing against cardboard as I walk.

  I squeeze his hand a little too hard and he laughs.

  ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘I liked you in that sandwich board thing and I like you in this. It’s very you.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  If my face weren’t painted silver and black it would be white with stomach-churning fear. I remind myself why I’m doing this and count my breaths. In: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three. I hope Leo doesn’t mind how clammy my hands are. I look across and he’s grinning; he loves this. God, he has so much more in common with my mum than he realises.

  Rup, rup, rup.

  The closer we get to the hall the louder we hear Mrs Friendly Ear inside talking. We pause at the door. Leo turns me to face him, both hands on my shoulders.

  ‘You’re my hero,’ he says.

  ‘You shouldn’t watch this.’ My heart is thudding.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it. Not if you paid me.’

  ‘I have three-hundred and fifty-nine dollars and twenty-three cents in savings.’

  He grins. Crooked. ‘Go get ’em tiger.’

  Imagine this: you are a cripplingly shy girl dressed in the most outrageous costume you can think of. You are about to walk into a crowded school hall filled with just over four hundred students. You will walk straight up to the front where you will take the microphone out of the principal’s hand and, despite your total inability to carry a note, you will sing a song you made up about your beautiful baby brother because you hurt his feelings and the only way you can think to make him feel better is to orchestrate the biggest, boldest, bravest act of public humiliation you can.

  I don’t have to imagine it. Because that’s me. That’s exactly what I’m about to do.

  ‘I’m going to throw up.’

  ‘Not on me, you’re not,’ says Leo and turns me to face the door. Before I know what’s happening he’s opened it and I’m pushed inside.

  Holy flaming spitballs of crap.

  Ever had four hundred people turn to look at you at the same time? While you’re wearing a Tin Man costume?

  Breathe. Just. Breathe.

  The laughter ripples, sweeping through the room, growing louder and bolder and meaner. Giggles. Disbelief. Pointing. I stare straight ahead and rup, rup, rup towards Mrs Friendly Ear. I can’t look at any of the faces in the crowd. If I do, I’ll run. Rup, rup, rup.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Mrs Friendly Ear stares at me, open-mouthed. ‘Is that . . . Marlowe?’

  My heart is a rollercoaster and someone set it to ‘high speed’. I hold out a shaking hand for the microphone. ‘You said I could talk to the school,’ I say. I can see all of her fillings and more tongue than I’d like.

  She stutters a laugh. ‘Oh. Yes. I didn’t think –’

  But she hands me the microphone. ‘All yours,’ she says, bemused more than anything.

  And it’s proof that this school has been ‘nurturing creative minds since 1972’ because
I’m not sure many principals would let a girl dressed as Tin Man take over their assembly.

  She gathers herself and then tells the hall to be quiet. She tells them five times before they listen. I can’t look out at them, not yet.

  I’m shaking so hard you can hear it over the microphone.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  I hold the mic to my mouth. ‘My name is Marlowe Jensen,’ I say, voice cracking. I don’t look at the crowd – I stare at a spot on the wood floor, a stain that looks like Alan Rickman’s face. ‘And as you can see I’m dressed as the Tin Man.’

  Laughter.

  Giggles and whispers and pointing.

  ‘Marlowe,’ says Mrs Friendly Ear beside me. ‘Does this have a point?’

  I swallow. ‘The point is. Well, the point is . . .’

  I look up.

  Four hundred people look back.

  My knees liquefy.

  There’s a tornado in my stomach.

  My muscles quiver.

  There’s a howling wind in my head where the words should be.

  I search the crowd and there are four faces not looking at me like I’m the biggest loser that ever lived.

  Leo’s leaning against the door; he gives me a thumbs up.

  My knees solidify.

  Zan’s right up the back, her cap pushed back off her face. The brick wall is in place but in her eyes there’s a smile.

  The tornado in my stomach dies down.

  Mum’s in the back corner looking proud. Like I just got elected as Prime Minister and my first action is to ban eating meat.

  My muscles steady.

  And Pip, the most important face of all, is up the front, knees hugged to his chest. His eyes are wide and he can’t believe it. He’s grinning like it’s Christmas morning and Santa’s left a life-sized Bowie doll under the tree.

  The wind dies down and my mind clears and I remember what I came here to do.

  And then I sing.

  I am very crap at singing. When I sing, small children cry and birds fall out of the sky, dead. Some of the more unsavoury governments have been in secret contact with me hoping to use my singing as their most diabolic form of torture.

  But I sing. I sing a stupid made-up song about how much I love my brother, how brave he is, and how if only I had a heart like his then maybe I wouldn’t be so scared all the time. I sing about what I jerk I was. And then, because I am my mother’s daughter, I finish off with a line about why everyone should be vegan.

  And, I mean, the song is shit. In the most epic, blockbuster sense of the word. And I’m still terrified and I will most definitely burst into tears the second I leave the hall.

  But I am happy. In this moment, I am delirious.

  Because Pip is smiling.

  In the movie of my life it would be really silent and people would look back and forth at each other because they don’t know what to do. Then someone would start a slow clap and before you know it everyone would be standing and clapping, and they would lift me on their shoulders and crowd-surf me out of there, and suddenly I would be the most popular girl in school and everything would be sunshine and rainbows.

  But that’s not how real life goes. No. The laughter is instantaneous. And by god is it mean.

  And I don’t care.

  I hand the microphone to a bemused-looking Mrs Friendly Ear and walk straight to my brother. He stands up, running his hands up and down the front of his jeans and suddenly looking shy.

  ‘Will you be my Dorothy?’ I say, and I think I hear Eddie Oro shout ‘Loser!’ somewhere up the back. But not even Eddie – especially not Eddie – can stop me.

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll be a Dorothy who was waylaid in 1970s Britain where she met a dashing young gentleman by the name of David Bowie and they hit it off and he gave her a makeover before the cyclone took her to Oz. What do you think?’

  I hold out my hand and wait. Pip looks at my costume, at my badly applied Tin Man face-paint and then, finally, at my hand. I wait and hope.

  ‘Dorothy Stardust?’ he asks.

  Perfect.

  Pip is wearing the cyborg Rob Roy costume. It is epic.

  On the bus ride here he did the ‘you’ll never take away my freedom’ speech in a robotic Scottish accent (which, yes, is actually from Braveheart, but give the kid a break). People stared but they were smiling too.

  ‘You made my day, kid,’ said an old lady, stepping off the bus at the stop before us. I watched her for as long as I could, until the bus drove away. The smile never left her face.

  Now we’re standing outside the Collingwood Town Hall, me, Zan, Leo, Mum and cyborg Rob Roy. We’re here for something called the Service of Remembrance. It runs every year to honour the lives of donors, their families and recipients.

  If only I had the courage to actually walk inside.

  ‘So,’ says Leo. ‘Do we just wander in or . . .?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Zan, folding her arms, ‘but instead of a gold coin, you donate one of your eyes.’

  Leo grins. ‘Well, if I’d known that . . .’

  I put my hand up to stop him. ‘Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Just no.’

  Mum sighs long and loud. ‘A butcher, for crying out loud. A butcher.’

  ‘Behave. All of you.’ I frown as group after group make their way into the Town Hall. How many people are there going to be in there?

  Zan nudges me with her boot. ‘He’s right, though. Are we going in?’

  Lucky for me, it didn’t take an outrageous act of public humiliation for Zan to forgive me. She walked straight up to me after my embarrassing display in assembly.

  ‘That was kind of brilliant,’ she’d said.

  ‘Apparently you can’t protest without causing a scene,’ I said. ‘Or so someone once told me.’

  Her mouth twitched. Just a bit. Just the tiniest bit.

  ‘I’ve got a song for you too,’ I said.

  She grabbed my arm, eyes wide. ‘Please, god, no.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ she said. ‘Just don’t be a jerk again.’

  The sun beats down on us and the cars roar up and down Hoddle Street. The Town Hall itself is gorgeous though. Big and old and grand and grey and with domes and a clock tower, and whoever designed it was super crazy about arches.

  Mum loops her arm through mine. ‘We don’t have to go in,’ she says. ‘It’s your choice.’

  ‘But then people won’t see my costume,’ Pip whines.

  Be brave, I tell myself. Be brave.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. Mum’s got her brow all knotted up with worry but I give her arm a squeeze and smile at Pip. ‘We’re going in.’

  ‘You will never take my freedom but you can take all my organs!’ shouts Pip. With that, he tears up the steps, brandishing his cardboard sword.

  We had a minor disagreement this morning about the ethics of bringing a sword – cardboard or otherwise – to an organ donation event, but I gave in. Seeing the way people smile at him makes me glad I did.

  Mum, Zan and Leo wait for me to take the lead. I’m in charge here.

  I slowly release a breath, feeling my body – and my tension – deflate as the air slides out. I can do this.

  I start walking.

  We head in, past the woman on the door who nods and smiles; inside it’s all art deco curves and creamy yellows and smooth polished floorboards and not a single arch to be found.

  A small choir are singing and four hundred or more people are standing in small groups eating sandwiches and cakes and no one turns to stare at us.

  I feel calm.

  I feel in control.

  There are more people than I expected, but it’s not over-whelming. Mum still has her arm through mine but I slip free and tell her to go check out the food situation. I know she’s dying to.

  ‘I told them we needed vegan catering, but you never know,’ she says.

  She heads to the food table, gathering Pip into a one-armed hug on t
he way past and she drags him along with her.

  I turn to Leo and Zan. Both of them are clearly waiting for me to say something without trying to look like they are. Both of them are terrible actors.

  ‘This is nice,’ I say.

  Leo nods. ‘It’s no Kill the Club gig, but it’s all right. I like the choir. I have four of their two albums.’

  I stick out my tongue at him and he pouts before pulling me in for a quick-while-your-mum-isn’t-here hug.

  ‘You’re cute,’ he says into my hair.

  There’s a ping and Zan looks down at her phone. She gets that look on her face, that dreamy-eyed, lovey-dovey look, and I feel pretty smug about how well Operation Get Zan and Kari Back Together worked out.

  The secret is in the grovelling. I dropped a letter through Kari’s mailbox, telling her that Zan had wanted me to tell the truth from the start but had been trying to be loyal by letting me be the one to come clean. I told her I hoped she would give Zan a second chance.

  She did.

  Maybe my letter writing has improved. I just hope the second letter I wrote and posted that day has the same winning effect.

  Zan waggles her phone in front of my face. ‘It’s Kari.’ She whips out her weapon of mass destruction, aka The Smile. ‘She says she’s here.’

  And I know she’s going to spend the day with Kari, but I won’t complain about Zan abandoning me because I’m trying to win my way back onto Kari’s bad side. I was never on her good side so I just need to get out of her seriously bad side and onto her regular bad side and I’ll be happy.

  Plus, I was the one who suggested she ask Kari to come.

  Kari is weaving through the circles of conversation in the most amazing high-waist yellow flares and lilac crop top.

  ‘Hey,’ says Zan shyly, stretching up to kiss her.

  But I hardly notice a thing because I am waiting. I am hoping.

  Hoping to catch sight of a girl with wavy brown hair. A girl with a nose ring and a scar between her brows and a tattoo that says ‘Luis’ with a love heart. I am waiting and hoping that she read my letter and listened when I said she should come.