Tanner Hamrick-Gough talks about her parents' yacht club all the time. She goes on as though it's really cool to be in a bar, and that all these guys hit on her all the time, but I wouldn't want any of these guys to hit on me.
It's not like I haven't been in a bar before. We go overseas and stay in a resort at least once a year, and they always have cocktail bars, but they do lame stuff like the macarena, or have talent quests, or play bingo. They pretty much do the same stuff in the bar as they do in the kids' club.
Along the opposite wall there's a bank of televisions each showing races – mostly horses, a few dogs, and highlights from a boxing match.
In the far corner there's a betting booth. Another older woman sits inside it, staring into space. There's a board above her with red pixelated text and numbers scrolling across it, like the session times at the movies, except I don't understand what any of it means.
On the other wall there's a set of fold-out doors that open onto a lawn area. A few men stand out there smoking. The lawn slopes away and beyond a fence is the track itself.
Nobody notices me at all.
Bryce Cole buys me a hot dog and a soft drink, and a beer for himself, and then he perches on a stool in the middle of the room, flicking through his race guide. He jots some notes in a small pad he pulled from his breast pocket.
I eat my hot dog, sip my drink and wait. So far he hasn't spoken a single word, other than 'hey' when I got in the passenger side of his car, but it's not as though I'm in trouble. It's more as if he's thinking about something else. I would have thought that he'd at least ask if I was sick, or why I was being sent home, but I don't think he cares. It's almost as though he's forgotten I'm here.
I wonder what's happening at school – whether everyone is talking about me being kicked out. People must get kicked out for not paying all the time, except I can't remember seeing it.
Last year a girl in the year below us left the school abruptly. She was whisked off in the middle of the day and two nights later they said on the news that her father had embezzled millions and fled the country. A few years ago, before I started at Finsbury, a girl left because her dad was the minister for education and the media went nuts about him not supporting public schools. There were photographers at the gates taking pictures of her being picked up in a government car.
Another girl turned out to be some daggy 1980s popstar's love child, not that it had anything to do with leaving the school, but people did talk about it, and it was in the newspaper. There are plenty of daughters of famous people at Finsbury.
My family doesn't rate gossip at that level. We're not even having a spectacular meltdown – just a slow leak, which we're all pretending isn't happening – but that isn't going to shield me from Finsbury narkiness.
After an hour has passed Bryce Cole slaps the race guide on the table in front of me.
'Who do you like in race one?'
I pick up the guide, flick to the page entitled 'Race One', and then read the list of names. It seems to me that there are three types of horse names: if people want you to think their horse is going to win, they call it something like 'Ima Winner'; if they have more confidence that it'll win despite the name, they put together a random selection of words; and in the last category they're so confident, or have so many horses, that they just shove together a series of letters in any order.
Makybe Diva. Phar Lap.
I select one that looks like random words.
'Esca's Foxtrotter.'
'How much?' he asks.
We stare at each other.
'How much money do you want to put on her?' he qualifies.
'Ten dollars?'
'On the nose?'
Then I nod, because I have no idea what that means and he's staring at me as though it should be obvious.
Bryce Cole stands at the door for a moment, hands on hips, taking in the fresh air, and then heads over to the betting booth. When he comes back he hands me a slip of paper with my horse's name on it.
By some secret signal, all the blokes move across to a spot in the corner where they can see the racetrack and the telly simultaneously. There's a click through the speakers mounted on the wall as a microphone is switched on. In the distance I can see the horses loading into the starting gates. It's much clearer on the television. A few men bundle one of the stragglers in. Then the race caller starts through the speakers, just like they do on the television.
'Set. Racing. My Delight is slow out of the gates, but Pageantry makes a solid start. Esca's Foxtrotter moves out wide. Berry Blessing stretches into the lead early, followed by Hidylow. Talking Magic is back on the rail. They're peeling off – Pageantry about mid-field. Berry Blessing drops back, followed by My Delight, and Esca's Foxtrotter is two lengths behind.'
The room has been silent, and then the man with ears like jug handles who's standing next to me yells, 'Go, you bastard!'
'Round the bend Pageantry, the showy chestnut, takes the lead, followed by My Delight and Esca's Foxtrotter.'
'Run, you bastard!' from Jughandles.
'. . . Berry Blessing bursts out wide and she's too good for them. Berry Blessing followed by Pageantry. My Delight and then Esca's Foxtrotter comes in fourth.'
I don't think you get any money for fourth.
Bryce Cole heads back to the booth, and when he turns away he stuffs a roll of notes into his breast pocket. Everything returns to quiet. The blokes shuffle papers. The barmaid wipes down the beer taps. Other fellows step outside for another smoke.
Maybe Jasmina or Tanner will ring me tonight to tell me what happened. I don't think so though, since they've been freezing me out like they did with Sapph.
Unless I turn out to be someone's love child. That would be tops. It would also explain why my dad left. Who was really big in 1994? Maybe Tex Perkins. That would be cool. It would be great if he had a studio in the house, and then all these famous musicians would come to our place all the time. John Mayer would be over one day and fall completely in love with me, and keep pestering me to marry him, and I would be like, John, just back off will you? You know Daniel Johns and I only just broke up.
Except Tex isn't really my mum's style. That guy who plays Niles Crane on Frasier would be more her cup of tea, but I think I read somewhere that he was gay. Actually, Declan's dad reminds me of Niles Crane a little bit.
I watch a harness race on the television. On another screen two presenters are talking about a drug scandal in Hong Kong. They introduce a vet who talks forever about different hormones and how long they last in the bloodstream. Bryce Cole seems to care. He's made a note in his little book.
'Who do you like in race two?' he asks me.
I peruse the list. Thinking of Berry Blessing, I'm looking for one that sounds like a yoghurt. There are none, so I pick one that sounds as though it should win.
'Mr Perfect.' How can I lose?
'Ten dollars on the nose?' he asks.
I nod again.
Mr Perfect comes in sixth of nine horses. There's another long interval where there's much talking on the television about the Hong Kong horse and the hormones. One of the presenters describes it as a 'tragedy', although from what I can gather the horse is still alive. It's not even sick – it's just not allowed to run in the race today. I guess tragedies are relative.
Races three and four, I lose again.
'Who do you like in race five?' Bryce Cole asks me.
I study the race guide for a moment and then I hand it back to him. 'Who would you pick?'
He rubs his chin. 'I'd put my money on Luxury Kasten. Or maybe Travlin.'
'Why?'
He points to the page. 'This figure here shows you how many starts the horse has had, how many wins and places. You can see he's had six wins from eight starts, but that's not enough, because he might have beaten a goat in someone's backyard, so we look at this number, which shows how much money they've won. You can see he's won some dollars. Here are the track conditions in which he's won. Horse
s favour different conditions. There's the trainer's name. You get to know who's who after a while. Then you look at who's riding him. Luxury Kasten has won more races in the past, but this guy riding Travlin is a very experienced jockey.'
I nod, feeling stupid for having only looked at their names before.
'So we've picked number three and number five. Now we go and have a look at them.' Bryce Cole leads me across to the lawn, where we can see the horses parading at the front of the building. 'Have a good hard look at them and tell me which horse wants to run today.'
I stare at them. They're all brown, skinny and leggy.
'They all look the same.'
'Are you sure?' he asks me.
I narrow my eyes, staring at them. I'm waiting for one of them to call me telepathically – to say, 'Pick me! Pick me!' They don't, but then Travlin turns his head my way. He's not looking at me exactly, but it's a sign.
'Number five,' I say decisively.
'On the nose?' Bryce Cole asks.
'What does that mean?'
'That means you're betting that it will win.'
I chew on my lip. 'You mean you can bet that they'll lose?'
Bryce Cole laughs. 'No, you can bet that they'll either win or get a place, or you can bet that they'll get a place, but not win. Then there are quinellas, exactas, or trifectas, but . . . How about you bet win or place? That's anywhere in the top three.'
'Okay,' I say.
'Rightio.' Bryce Cole leaves me on the lawn. As the horses canter towards the starting gates I go back inside. Bryce Cole buys me another drink, and I hear him order a plate of chips for us to share.
Perhaps Sapph will ring me, now that I'm the new outcast. I'm sure she'll have heard it in the corridors. She won't ring me, though. I should have made more of an effort with her after the fundraiser incident. I don't even know why I didn't. I never had a problem with her working. Besides, I bet she would have had the chance to meet lots of cool people at all those A-list parties.
'Why do I even care about any of those girls?' I say out loud. 'Finsbury is so completely over.'
Bryce Cole glances across the table at me, but he doesn't ask. He stares at the television again.
All the blokes move over to the magic spot.
'How do they know to do that?' I ask.
Bryce Cole points to the red scrolling sign above the betting booth. It blinks:
Race 5 <1 minute
Soon they're racing and I lean forward, watching the television with new interest. Jughandles is bellowing again, but Bryce Cole stays in his seat calmly eating his chips.
'Waugh's Pride is well back there. Travlin hugs the rail, and Scouts Honour is beside him. Kara Spear is wider, Luxury Kasten a narrow leader. Great finish coming up, it's Luxury Kasten and Travlin – but Travlin leads them. It's number five, Travlin.'
'We won!' I say, jumping up and down. I'm tugging on Bryce Cole's sleeve. 'We won!'
Bryce Cole is grinning at me. He wanders over to the booth and when he comes back he peeks over his shoulder and then hands me two twenty-dollar notes.
'I won forty bucks?' I ask, slipping it into my uniform pocket.
'You won eighty, but you owed me forty for the first four races.'
'Really? That's fantastic!' I'm smiling so much my face is going to crack. 'How much did you win?'
'About seven hundred,' he says, popping in another chip.
My jaw drops. 'No kidding! How much have you won all up today?'
He shrugs. 'Maybe four thousand.'
Of course, what I didn't ask was how much he'd lost.
4
THE
C-WORD
We're having another garage sale. Declan is sitting on a lawn chair next to me with his hat over his face. The lawn chairs are for sale. I'm under a market umbrella – also for sale.
I had no idea just how much stuff we had until we started putting it out on the lawn for people to pore over. The cupboard in the hallway was packed with things I didn't even know we owned. Mostly bits and pieces Mum bought on sale – linen, kitchen appliances, stationery – all still in their boxes. The kitchen cupboards were full of knick-knacks – scented candles, coasters, vases, jigsaw puzzles, picture frames – the sort of stuff you receive as gifts, but never use, or buy for other people but never get around to giving. Selling that stuff was easy. In fact, after the first garage sale I thought our house was better – lighter, fresher.
Then with the second garage sale I chose stuff that I liked, but probably wouldn't use again. Books that I'd had for ages but hadn't read, equipment for sports I'd attempted and then abandoned, clothes that didn't really suit me, computer games that we don't play any more. Mum put out all the prints she had on the walls, old pots and pans, and our pool toys.
The third one was harder. Mum made me put out all my books, all my bears except for Albert, and all our toys that had been in boxes in the garage.
Mum sold the indoor plants and put out all of her CDs. She'd already sold the stereo on eBay, along with Will's Wii, Dad's squash racquets and our iPods. She can't sell stuff on eBay any more because our ISP has been cancelled.
I miss email, but mostly I miss Messenger. Facebook too. That was my standard thing when I got home from school. I would fire up my lappy and just lie on my bed and chat, or look at people's photos, and in the background I would flick through the channels on my telly, which lived on a shelf in my wardrobe. Mostly I would just leave it on E or Fashion TV.
Mum's already swapped the bar fridge for a secondhand cot. It stands there in the middle of one of the spare rooms – just a cot by itself. When I looked at it closely I could see little teeth marks on the rails.
It's so weird to think there'll be a baby. I don't think I've ever seen one up close. I hope she doesn't expect me to babysit.
Mum put most of Dad's clothes out too, and what didn't sell in the first garage sale she took to Vinnies. I didn't like the way she did that – kind of unspoken and discreet, as though he's dead. I managed to keep one of his t-shirts – an old, daggy one with holes around the collar and cuffs that he used to wear when he was working in the backyard. I stuffed it in the back of my cupboard.
This time we've put out just about everything we can't eat, or aren't wearing right at this second. It's as if we're living in this bizarre limbo-land, like when you're moving house and you don't know where anything is and you're camping in your own house, except I do know where all my stuff is. It's at other people's places. I realise I should be upset about it, but I keep expecting that at any minute Mum will take us shopping and we can get new stuff.
We used to do that a lot. Mum and I would head into the city and shop while Dad and Will went out skydiving or making rafts by weaving reeds and earnestness together, or whatever Will's latest survival project was.
She also used to take me to her day spa, where we'd have a hot stone massage, a facial and a manicure. We haven't done that for a long time. Come to think of it, Mum hasn't been around much – even on weekends. She's always working, and when she's home she's selling things, or ignoring the piles of bills on the kitchen bench. Sometimes she cries.
There are two couples here already, arms folded, picking their way through our stuff. One fellow is flicking through the box of CDs. A lady drives up our street and slows as she rounds the cul de sac, deciding if our bits and pieces are worth getting out of the car to look at. Apparently not.
Girl Next Door Page 3